Wildfire (Fire 3)

She dumped her umbrella in the eighteenth-century umbrella stand, shook the excess water from her hair, and took her seat behind the computer. A moment later she was busy at her day’s occupation, killing everything she came across in Dark Souls Three, the most brutal video game she could find. The body count rose, and Sophie smiled grimly.

“You about ready to get to work?” Madsen said as he slid behind the table at Malcolm Gunnison’s favorite pub near the Committee’s offices in London.

Mal shrugged, then cursed at the dull pain slicing through his shoulder. Archer’s bullet had made a mess of it, and three surgeries later it was as close to normal as it was going to be. He was never going to enjoy a pickup game of basketball again, but all things considered, it could have been a lot worse. “I told you, I’m quitting.”

“Yes, you told me. I didn’t believe you.”

Mal reached for his beer. “Why not? Don’t you think someone can get burned out by all this? I want to quit before I lose my soul and become nothing more than a ghost wandering through life. Like you,” he added with deceptive humor. In fact, the hardest decision in his life had ended up being a no-brainer. Something was dead inside him, and had been since they’d flown him off that fucking island, and nothing seemed to matter anymore. Staying in the business with an attitude like that was a short trip to failure and death. Not that he currently gave a shit about his own life, but he wasn’t going to let his mistakes take down anyone else.

Madsen laughed. “My kids would disagree with you. They’d like it a hell of a lot better if I were a little less involved with them.”

“Your fault for having so many goddamned children. You need to stop picking up strays wherever you go.”

Madsen shrugged. “What can I say? Genny and I like our brood.” He took a sip of his scotch. “So what can I do to talk you into staying? A raise?”

“I’ve got more money than I need and you know it,” Mal said. “I need a break. I was thinking of going to the States for a while.”

He didn’t like Madsen’s smug smile. “Heading down to New Orleans, are you?”

“Of course not,” he said stiffly. “Sophie thinks I’m dead, and that’s the best way to leave it. She’s building herself a new life—she doesn’t need reminders of the past.” It had been another easy decision, he thought, showing nothing on his face. He was no good for her—he was well past the time that he could let himself care for anyone else, and Sophie needed someone to love her as she needed to be loved. Deserved to be loved. When he looked back at his life, he knew he didn’t deserve shit.

Madsen laughed. “You’re such a pathetic bastard. Sophie’s wandering around like a lost soul, and you’re moping over here. Why don’t you grow a pair and admit it?”

“Admit what?” he said icily.

But Madsen wasn’t about to come right out and say it. “If you haven’t figured it out yet, then far be it from me to tell you. Next thing you know we’ll be having sleepovers and you’ll be fixing my hair.”

Mal gave an unexpected bark of laughter. “I don’t think so. Besides, I was thinking of heading up north. Maybe Montana.”

“Full of survivalists and wackos. You could find plenty to do there.”

Mal growled. “I’ve quit, remember. Starting today.”

“I took you off the payroll last week,” Madsen admitted. “I never really thought you’d change your mind, but I figured it was worth a try, and I promised Genny that I would.”

Mal drained his beer. “Give her my love. She deserves better than a mangy old bastard like you.”

Madsen grinned. “So she does. And give Sophie my best. She didn’t think very highly of me when she woke up back in New Orleans and I told her you were dead, but I imagine she’ll figure out where the blame falls.”

“I’m not going to New Orleans.”

“Have some crawfish étouffée for me.”

Malcolm growled.

“This is the wrong city to live in if you don’t like parades, cher,” Remy said, leaning against the kitchen counter.

Sophie made a noncommittal noise as she waited for her coffee to squirt through the complicated machine. She couldn’t believe all the changes in technology in such a short time, but this coffee machine was a definite improvement over the old way. “I’m just not in a festive mood

.”

“Nobody who lives in New Orleans can stay gloomy during Mardi Gras,” Remy protested.

She gave him a withering glance. Remy was born and bred in New Orleans, full of sly charm and devilish wit, and he was so insanely gorgeous that any normal, red-blooded female would respond with a little mild flirtation. She couldn’t even manage that much. “I’m not going to be in New Orleans for much longer,” she said. “I’m moving to Oregon.”

“I thought it was going to be Montana?”

“Bishop told me it was full of survivalists,” she said gloomily.