Wildfire (Fire 3)

Chekowsky and Mal had halted as well, blocking her view, and she had a hard time looking around them. Archer was leaning against the sofa, looking like death warmed over. He was soaking wet, bruised and bloody, with the same insanely affable smile on his face, a gun in his hand. He was no longer so aristocratic looking—the storm had taken its toll on his patrician good looks. He was missing one of his impressive front teeth, and a trail of bloody footprints led from a set of French doors. She looked down and saw that one of his feet was soaked in red.

Archer pushed away from the sofa, moving across the room with a painful limp. Casually he put the gun under one arm as he poured himself a drink, much as Mal had done just a few minutes earlier. He took a sip, then beamed at them, repositioning the gun.

She was holding her breath, Sophie realized absently, and released it silently. She felt numb with shock, and she wanted to pinch herself to make certain she was awake, but she couldn’t move. Of course he wasn’t dead—hadn’t she known it, deep inside? It was never going to be

that easy. He was still alive, and if she were extremely lucky, he would kill her instead of inflicting more psychological and physical torture.

But he’d kill Mal as well, and suddenly her frozen muscles moved, and she edged into the room. She wasn’t giving up.

“It takes a lot to kill me, baby,” Archer said. “Do any of you have weapons on you, hmm? I really don’t think we want a firefight in the living room, now do we? I’m already going to have to spend a fortune cleaning this place up from the storm damage. No? Excellent.”

Sophie glanced over at the sofa, just out of reach. Her gun was still tucked in the cushions, and she wondered whether she’d have a chance in hell of getting to it before Archer put a bullet between her eyes. Who would he try to kill first, her or Mal? Probably whichever would cause the most pain, but she couldn’t begin to guess at the way Archer’s mind worked.

“What are you doing back there, Sophie?” her husband crooned, trying to peer behind the two men. “Come on out and let me see you. I hadn’t realized there’d been a miraculous recovery.”

Maybe it was going to be her. She started to move, but Mal immediately blocked her way. “I don’t think you can kill us all, Archer,” he said in a cold voice. “Not before one of us gets to you.”

Archer laughed softly. “I must say, Malcolm, you did have me fooled, old man. I really believed your story—I’m impressed. I haven’t been particularly trusting since my sweet wife betrayed me. But right now I’m more interested in what my esteemed colleague is doing here. I told you that we were coming to you, Dr. Chekowsky. Did you have a reason for disobeying my instructions?”

“I’m not your servant!” the man snapped. “The Chekowsky Solution was finished and ready to go, and I got tired of waiting for you. Don’t worry, I brought everything with me.”

“The Chekowsky Solution?” Archer echoed. “Oh, dear me, no.” Before Sophie could realize what he was doing, he’d raised the gun and pulled the trigger. The doctor’s head exploded, splattering her as the man went down, twitching in an ever-widening pool of blood until he finally went still. Part of his skull had been blown away, and Sophie’s nausea increased. She jerked her eyes upward.

“Get back in the kitchen,” Mal murmured beneath his breath. “Go out the back and run like hell.”

“Oh, I really don’t think so.” Archer limped forward, coming closer to inspect the dead body. He looked back at her. “I suppose I shouldn’t have killed the man—he still could have been of use, but I’ve had a trying day. As for you, baby, you lied to me, many times over. You don’t think I’m going to let you get away with that, now do you?”

“You can’t kill us both,” Mal said, moving into the room. One hand was behind his back, signaling her to run, but that was the last thing she was going to do. Perhaps literally. She wasn’t going to escape while Archer shot Malcolm.

She stayed with him, trying to move in front of him, but Mal simply caught her arm and shoved her behind him. “Stay put, damn you,” he muttered.

“Oh, she never does what she’s told—hadn’t you realized that by now?” Archer said, having lost interest in the doctor’s corpse. “And while she deserves to be punished for her duplicity, I’m thinking there are sides to her I have yet to explore. I might bring her back into the fold—Rachel didn’t survive our unfortunate trip to the mainland, and I do like variety.”

“You’re not touching her,” Mal said.

Archer was surveying the gun in his hand like it was a new toy, sniffing at the barrel, checking it from every angle. And then he turned his beatific smile on both of them. “What’s it to you, old man? She’s just part of the job. I’m still willing to discuss business with you, despite our little setback on the sea stairs, but we certainly can’t let Sophie come between us.”

“You’re a sick fuck.”

“Yes, I am,” he said cheerfully. “I’m giving you a choice. I’ve got to kill one of you if I’m to keep my self-respect, but I’m perfectly willing to keep one of you alive. You for business, Sophie for pleasure, but I can’t have it both ways. You decide.”

Sophie stared at her husband from behind Mal’s back. She needed to get to the sofa, find the Beretta. No one had to die but Archer, and damn did he have to die!

“You’re not touching her,” Mal said again.

“Well, there’s our problem. If you’re dead, you can’t protect her from my villainous clutches. If she’s dead, there’s nothing to protect. I think you’ve solved the conundrum for me. Step out from behind him, Sophie. I’m afraid you drew the short straw. Move, or I’ll shoot you through him. You saw what one of those bullets did to the good doctor’s substantial brain—it won’t have any problem going through his body to get to yours.”

“Don’t move,” Mal said furiously, but Sophie was no longer listening. If she could buy them a few more moments, then Mal could take him, even without a gun. She didn’t doubt for one moment that Archer would do exactly as he threatened, and he could make his move at any moment. Before Mal could stop her she darted out from behind him, moving toward the sofa on the off chance that Archer would miss.

For a nanosecond all was still. Archer was smiling at her, his mad, bulbous eyes red-rimmed and gleeful, and he brought the gun up, pointing it straight at her chest. She heard the click as he cocked it, and she couldn’t move, frozen like a deer in the headlights.

“Sophie!” Mal screamed, throwing himself in front of her just as the gun went off.

She went down hard beneath his body, and she wondered whether he’d knocked her down or if Archer had done as he promised and shot them both with one bullet. She could feel the hot wetness pouring over her, and she realized Mal had been hit. He was so heavy she couldn’t budge him, couldn’t even move.

She could hear Archer’s laugh. “What a hero!” he said in a mocking voice. “That poor fool must have really loved you.” He was coming toward them—she could see his bloody foot dragging along the floor. “I’m afraid I did mislead him. There’s no way I could allow either of you to live.”

She was helpless, frozen, and too numb to care. His blood was wet and sticky, soaking into her clothes. He was dying, because of her.