Wildfire (Fire 3)

Chapter Eighteen

Mal dragged the boat as high onto the sand as he could make it before he collapsed, coughing up water. The rain had stopped, but the wind had picked up again, fierce in its determination to wipe him off the face of the earth, and he’d barely managed to reach shore. There had been the broken pieces of other small boats and even the occasional body floating in the raging waters, and it had taken all his skill and more to avoid them. His skill, and Archer’s.

Archer was sitting in the sand on the other side of the wrecked boat, a little winded but not even coughing. Somehow he’d managed not to swallow any water, and they’d made it back to Isla Mordita just as the first fitful rays of dawn were appearing on the horizon.

Mal rolled over on his back, looking up. The sky was still dark and angry, despite the early light, and the storm was far from over. He’d thought he was never coming back here—he had every intention of finishing with Archer and his scientist while they were gone and sending someone else in to rescue Sophie. It would be so much simpler if he never had to see her again.

He couldn’t stop thinking about her, and that was far too dangerous in his line of work. She was a distraction, she made him vulnerable, and therefore he had to get rid of her. He’d make the Committee treat her well—it hadn’t been her fault that she’d been flung into such a tough situation before she was ready—but he still had no intention of ever going near her again. She was like a drug, and he couldn’t get enough of her. The only thing to do was never have another taste.

“You all right, Gunnison?” Archer called over the rough wind.

“Just peachy,” he growled. He’d had no choice. When the yacht had foundered off the gulf coast, Archer had abandoned the men who’d survived, stolen the first boat he could find, and headed back to Isla Mordita, and he’d turned the gun he’d used to kill the older couple who’d owned the boat on Mal.

“Afraid I’m going to need you,

old man,” he’d said affably. “None of my men are any good on a boat, and you know what you’re doing. Besides, I think you’re far too interested in getting back to my wife, aren’t you? Get on board. Now.”

Mal lost his own gun when the boat had broken up, and killing Archer while they were out on the rough ocean would have been too fucking dangerous. He wouldn’t have made it without Archer, though he hated like hell to admit it. Then again, Archer had needed him to survive, so that wiped out the debt.

Mal pushed himself into a sitting position. The remains of a small cabin cruiser were smashed against the rocks at the bottom of the cliff, and there was a dead body lying on the sand. It was hard to be certain, but he didn’t recognize the man or the boat. “Who’s that?” he said, tipping his chin in the direction of the corpse.

“Beats me,” Archer said, bored. “Someone who got caught in the storm and didn’t have our expertise, I’d guess. That, or you’ve got some competition when it comes to my little Sophie.”

“Your little Sophie is about five foot eight,” he snapped. He couldn’t wait to kill the bastard.

“How would you know? Did you measure her lying down?” Archer said lazily, and Mal, already cold from his plunge into the gulf, froze.

How could he have made such a mistake? He knew Sophie’s height because he knew where she came up against his own six foot two when she’d pressed up against him in the boathouse.

He recovered quickly. “I’m an observant man,” he drawled, “and I can figure things out. She’s got long legs.”

“So she has,” Archer said pleasantly. “Too bad they don’t work. You ready to tackle the cliff?”

They’d landed on the western beach, just under the bluff of land that held the old sugar mill. A rickety set of stairs, so many flights he didn’t want to count them, led up to the promontory, and that was the only way they would get back to the house. The steps were so flimsy they didn’t look like they could hold a butterfly, and they were going to have to hold both his and Archer’s bulk. There was no way Archer would wait until Mal reached the top to head up there, no way Mal would let Archer have a chance to reach Sophie before he did.

He shrugged. “Now’s as good a time as any.” If the steps collapsed, then so be it—at least Archer would be wiped out. Mal rose to his feet, steady despite the last few harrowing hours. His jeans and shirt were soaked with salt water, and he felt bone weary. He was going to have to make this up as he went along. One thing he knew for sure: Archer wasn’t going to make it back to the house alive.

The stairs were in worse shape than he’d suspected, cracking beneath Archer’s heavy, muscular weight. He’d gone first, of course, leaving Mal no choice but to follow, and he kept pace, even as the wood creaked and splintered beneath his soaked deck shoes, watching every move Archer made above him. Archer was talking, of course—he never shut his fucking yap. How he managed to bound up the wooden steps and still talk was beyond Mal’s comprehension, but then Archer wasn’t your normal, everyday megalomaniac billionaire. He always seemed to be on some form of speed, though Mal suspected it was just his own hyper nature that drove him. In years and years of intel, there’d never been a hint of drug use—Archer was just high on himself.

The sky was growing a little lighter, and the cold breeze biting through his wet clothes seemed to grow a little softer. He wasn’t shivering—that was easy enough to control, but he was so damned cold he probably had icicles coming off his dick. He needed to break Archer’s neck and get someplace warm.

The bird came from out of nowhere, a gull, shrieking, startling him for one impossible moment, long enough for Archer to kick downward with his foot, knocking Mal off the stairs.

Mal grabbed at him, catching his ankle, as the wooden structure collapsed beneath them, with only the final flight clinging to the top of the cliff. Beneath them he heard the wood shatter on the rocks below, and he looked up at Archer grinning down at him.

“Might as well let go, old man,” Archer said jovially. “I don’t need you—I’ve got plenty of customers for Pixiedust, and I think my wife likes you a little too much.”

Mal was swinging loose over the sand, only his iron grip on Archer’s ankle keeping him from falling to his death. “After all we’ve been to each other, Archer?” Mal called up. “I saved your life out there.”

“And I saved yours. Which makes us even, don’t you think? I like you, Mal, I really do, but you’ve outworn your usefulness. I can sell the stuff directly to your boss and cut out the middleman.” He shook his leg, trying to break free of Mal’s hold, but it did no good—Mal had no intention of letting go. “You’re annoying me,” Archer shouted over the increasing wind. “I’m cold and tired and I want to get back to my wife. Just let go, won’t you? You’re never going to make it up here, and I haven’t got all day.”

Mal laughed breathlessly. “Why don’t you pull me up, and we can talk about it man to man?” He was strong, but he’d used up a lot of his strength in their battle against the sea, and he wasn’t certain how long he could last. Long enough, he told himself, his fingers digging into Archer’s leg as he slid his other hand inside his pants. The custom sleeve that rested beside his junk had kept the knife in place despite all the tossing of the boat, and he pulled at it, careful not to let Archer see what he was doing.

“I’d love to, but you disapprove of the way I handle my marriage, I know you do, and I really dislike disapproval. Besides, my wife was supposed to feel degraded by your attentions—she wasn’t supposed to actually like it. I’m afraid you’ve worn out your welcome . . .”

Mal swung himself upward with a huge lunge, stabbing the knife into Archer’s foot as he grabbed for the bottom step of the stairs.

Archer’s scream howled through the night. He kicked wildly, trying to free himself, when his hold on the stairs broke and a moment later he was gone, falling head over heels down the cliff to disappear into the darkness below.