Chapter 6 #2
When she straightened, she caught his lingering gaze. A charge passed between them, an awareness that was both unwelcome and undeniable. Her eyes, usually so quick to deflect, held his for a fraction too long with a flicker of emotion in their depths before a ghost of a smirk touched her lips.
She tossed a banana to him. “Sorry,” she said, “I haven’t been shopping in a while. It’s that or nothing.”
“Thanks.” The word came out rougher than he intended.
She made black coffee, and they ate their bananas in weighted silence until he asked, “You live here alone?”
“Yeah, why?” Her chin lifted. “Don’t think a woman can handle a remote shack like this?”
The defensive edge in her voice was as familiar now as the way she held herself coiled and ready. Everything about her was a contradiction: fierce yet vulnerable, guarded yet captivating, tiny but damn strong.
He drained his mug and placed it into the empty sink. “Gender is irrelevant, but isolation takes its toll. Gets lonely.”
The sadness that crossed her face was both deep and raw, before vanishing behind her carefully constructed walls.
“I love the peace and quiet.” She shrugged, adding her coffee mug to his.
He turned to the kitchen window where morning sun caught the river’s surface, transforming muddy water into liquid bronze.
Dancing light reflected off the slow current, peaceful and deceptive.
His cabin had a similar view, yet he was still trying to get used to the peace.
Then again, the damn frogs and insects made enough noise most nights to drown out a motor engine.
“Must be quite a shift from your working life on the rig.”
“Ah.” She jabbed a finger at his chest, her eyes narrowing. “I see what you’re doing, Prince Charming. Trying to extract intel with that smooth talk. Not happening. Not until you explain those electronic signatures and what they mean for my rig.”
“Your rig,” he repeated, one eyebrow lifting.
The look she shot him could have frozen hell.
A flicker of movement through the window snagged his attention. A boat sliced through the water, and its wake was a white scar against the murky surface.
The boat was approaching way too fast for a casual visitor.
“Shit, they’re here.” He grabbed Frankie’s arm, yanking her down below the level of the windowsill.
He risked a glance out the window as a boat with four armed men pulled into the jetty.
“We need to move,” he hissed. He raced to the front door and bolted it shut. “Is there a back way out?”
“Yes. This way.” She snatched her battered backpack from the floor and sprinted down the hallway toward the back of the shack, presumably to a bedroom.
He was right behind her as she wrestled open a crude window, revealing a rough-hewn wooden ladder leading down to the muddy ground below.
She tossed her bag out and it landed with a soft thud.
“Go. Go now!” he said, his eyes scanning the tree line and dense undergrowth at the rear of the house, searching for immediate threats.
She leaned on the windowsill then stopped. The blood drained from her face. She twisted out of his grip on her arm and bolted out the bedroom door.
“Frankie! What in the hell are you doing?” he hissed, his mind racing as frustration and fear coiled in his gut.
He chased after her as she skidded into a second, smaller room.
The signs of recent male occupancy were stark: a pair of worn men’s work boots tucked in a corner, faded jeans slung carelessly over a cheap wooden chair.
“Frankie! We have to go!” he repeated, his voice a low growl as boots thundered along her jetty.
With frantic hands, she heaved up the thin mattress and grabbed a small, leather-bound book.
“There’s no time for that!” he snarled, every instinct screaming at the delay. Footsteps pounded up the front steps. “They’re at the door!”
Clutching the book to her chest, she sprinted past him, back to the open window. He followed, ready to shove her out if necessary.
She practically threw herself onto the ladder and scrambled down, favoring her injured ankle.
The front door splintered in a massive thundering crack.
Stone chased Frankie down the ladder until his boots hit the mud.
Thundering footsteps pounded across the floorboards above them.
Frankie grabbed her bag, and as they sprinted away from the house, he positioned her in front of him. At a cluster of cypress trees, Stone pulled her behind the thickest trunk, and as they crouched in the mud, they peered through the bushes toward her stilt house.
Crashes of timber splintering and shattering glass echoed from inside. A massive pot smashed through the kitchen window. Two of Frankie’s sculptures followed, landing in the mud below.
“Jesus, they’re wrecking my place.” She tried to pull away.
He locked her in a restraining embrace. “Don’t.”
“Let me go!” She wrestled against him, trying to break free.
“No. Listen to me. You go in there, and you’re dead.” It took everything he had to hold her against his chest.
“But it’s my home.” Her voice was wobbly.
A thunderous crack boomed from the building, and he pictured them tossing the coffee table through the television.
A broken sob tore from her throat, and it seemed to surprise her as much as it surprised him. “I’m gonna kill them. I’m gonna rip their fucking heads off.”
The acrid stench of smoke drifted to them.
Tendrils of black smoke poured from the kitchen window, followed by greedy orange flames licking up the weathered walls.
“No. No. No. No!” She slumped in his arms, her fight all gone.
“Oh jeez, Frankie. I’m sorry.”
The men appeared again on the jetty, striding like machines as thick black smoke spewed from every window and door.
“Fuckers,” he hissed. “We’ll get them, Frankie. I promise. They will pay for this.”
The biggest man of the four pumped bullets into his jon boat, and Stone shuddered with anger. Not because of the boat, that could be replaced, but now he and Frankie couldn’t chase after them.
“Oh God,” she whispered, her words broken and small. “What am I going to do?”
The house fire spread with unnatural speed, fueled by something very flammable.
Those men didn’t just come here to search for Frankie.
They came to erase her.