Chapter Twenty-Five
“SUMMER,” M?RTEN SCREAMED at the top of his voice. He was still one-hundred meters away when he saw the first bright lick of flame. She looked up at her name, confusion and then relief flashing across her face, but she lowered her gaze and went back to trying to put out the growing blaze.
Fuck. Fuck Fuck. His aim had been true. He’d killed the guy, that was for sure, but it hadn’t stopped Tyrone’s lighter from igniting a flame as he fell.
M?rten had taken the opportunity as soon as Summer had dropped to the ground and was no longer in the way.
The arsonist had been a couple of meters away from Summer when M?rten shot him, at a far enough distance not to have set the grass on fire.
Or so M?rten hoped. But Tyrone must’ve accidentally splashed fuel on the dirt around his own feet as well, and when he’d fallen, the lighter had set that fuel blazing.
M?rten put on an extra spurt of speed, running faster than he’d ever run before, the broken earth and piles of dirt hampering his effort. His stab wound pierced him with excruciating pain at every step, but he ignored it. Nothing was more important than getting to Summer.
Summer was trying to flick sand over the encroaching fire with her hands, but it wasn’t working.
The puddles of liquid had well and truly caught now, and the flames were spreading fast toward her.
He couldn’t understand why she wasn’t getting up and running away?
Was she hurt or injured somehow? When he’d first arrived, creeping through the forest like a wraith, hoping against hope that he wasn’t too late, he could see her standing with her hands tied behind her back, bound to a metal structure, and he’d moaned in frustration.
He’d watched Tyrone speak to Summer almost as if he was on a stage giving a sermon, and M?rten had waited—his gun trained on his target—for exactly the right moment.
The other man by Tyrone’s side was a complication, and he was another reason M?rten waited.
Jacob had assured him backup was on the way. If they arrived in time, then he wouldn’t need to take down two targets simultaneously.
He’d watched with relief as Tyrone sent the other man back out through the fence, leaving him unguarded and a single, clear mark.
But then the terrorist had splashed gas around Summer’s feet, he knew he had to act.
Summer had begun gesticulating at Tyrone with both her hands, so she must’ve freed herself somehow.
She’d been so magnificent, shimmering like a goddess in her silver dress, long hair flying about her face as she snarled at him like a wildcat.
He’d never seen anything more beautiful, and he’d never wanted a woman more than in that moment.
In that second, he’d understood completely that she was the one for him.
He was in love with her, and he’d been stupid to let her go. Now, he might lose her all over again.
Summer had suddenly fallen to the ground, and she was no longer in danger if his bullet missed its mark. So he took his shot. And his aim had been true, because Tyrone had dropped like a stone.
But if she’d been free, why hadn’t she taken her first opportunity to flee from the encroaching flames? Instead, she was trying in vain to dampen the fire with handfuls of sand.
Then he understood; her legs must be bound. “Untie your feet,” he yelled frantically. “You need to free your feet.”
Summer didn’t look up at him this time, but she must’ve heard, because she stopped flicking dirt over the blaze and curled her body toward the metal contraption.
M?rten’s breath rasped in his ears, and his chest pounded so hard as his legs pumped up and down, up and down, carrying him ever closer to Summer.
Even though he was doing the best he could to ignore the pain in his side, he knew it was slowing him down some.
As he got closer, so did the flames. Now, it was no longer a small lick of light; the fire was growing quickly, racing from one clump of grass to the next, all of which had been soaked in the highly combustible fuel.
M?rten weighed up possible scenarios in his head as he ran, trying not to stumble; if he fell now he would never get to her in time.
Finally, he reached the fire, skidding in the dirt as he came to a stop.
But the smoke was billowing so thick he could barely make out Summer as she lay on the ground just beyond the conflagration, still clawing at the ropes around her ankles.
He began kicking dirt over the burning grass, trying to put it out with his boots.
But it soon became obvious that he needed to get between Summer and the flames to give her any chance of untying herself.
Leaping over the wall of fire, he landed near Summer’s head.
“I’m here,” he shouted. A ring of flames had virtually enveloped her now, and he could feel the searing heat even through his jeans and shirt.
Summer’s bare shoulders and arms must be sizzling from the radiant intensity of the fire.
Oily smoke roiled around them, forming a thick black cloud that made it hard to breathe, and even harder to see.
Using the side of his boot as a makeshift shovel, he dragged it through the broken ground, trying to make a sort of firebreak around her to stop the flames spreading.
It seemed to work for a moment, but he couldn’t circumnavigate her body fast enough, and the blaze spread past the back of the metal tower before he could stop it.
Soon they would be encircled, with no way to get out.
“I can’t get them free,” she wailed. “M?rten, I can’t get free.”
Shit. M?rten left his futile attempt to divert the flames and instead dived toward Summer’s feet, landing in the dirt on his knees, his fingers fumbling with hers as they both attempted to untie the knots.
He could feel the encroaching heat on the back of his neck.
That’s when he saw she’d nearly done it.
There was just one more knot to go, but it was tight and her hands were shaking uncontrollably.
He worked at it feverishly with his strong fingers, tugging, pulling.
“I got it,” he crowed, flinging the rope aside and lifting her feet—which he now noticed were bare—up and away from the metal.
Summer sat up, and then he helped her to stand, wanting to hug her to him and never let her go.
But Summer sagged against him, as if all her strength was now gone.
The heat was almost unbearable. A ring of flames surrounded them.
The only thing stopping the fire from overtaking them was the small break he’d dug in the ground with his foot.
They’d have to jump over the conflagration to escape.
And she wouldn’t be able to run through the fire, not without shoes on.
Without a second thought, he picked her up, grunting as he took her weight and she put pressure on his wounded side.
Her arms wound instinctively around his neck, and she buried her face in his chest. The smell of gas assaulted his nostrils; she must be covered in the stuff, that fucking bastard.
She wasn’t heavy, but this maneuver would still be dicey.
“Hang on,” he called. “I’m going to jump through it.”
She said nothing, merely buried her head deeper against his chest. She was traumatized; her whole body was trembling like a leaf, all her energy spent. It was up to him now. She’d saved his life back at the farmhouse, so it was his time to return the favor.
He took two steps backward, surveyed the spot where he thought the flames were lowest, held his breath, and ran.
One. Two. Three steps, and he was through to the other side. But the heat had been almost unimaginable, singeing the hairs on the backs of his hands, his eyelashes, the tips of his hair.
Then Summer screamed, and he looked down to see the hem of her dress had caught fire, and it flared hot and bright. He hadn’t been quick enough after all, and because her dress was splashed with lighter fluid, it’d ignited as they passed through.
The only way to put out the flames was to smother them.
Stop, drop, and roll. So that’s what he did.
He dropped to his knees and placed Summer on the ground, then he leaped on top of her, covering her body with his.
Using his body as a shield, he rolled them over and over, beating at the fire with his bare hands.
He needed to stop the sparks from reaching her upper body.
Fuel also soaked her hair. If the flames caught in her hair…
he didn’t even want to think of the consequences.
At first, Summer tried to fight him, but then she realized what he was doing, and she went with him as they rolled together.
Eventually, he could see only smoke, as the last remnants of the flames were doused.
The bottom third of her dress was gone, the edges of the fabric singed and blackened.
But he didn’t let her go; couldn’t let her go.
He held her to his heaving chest, not wanting to give the sparks even the smallest chance of reigniting.
The last thing Jacob had told him before M?rten had put away his phone and lined Tyrone up in his gun sight was that a Seattle police unit had arrived and parked behind the taxi, with two more on the way, and they should be heading in his direction at any moment.
It was a five-minute run from the car park down the secluded path to the clay pits.
So where were they? Why weren’t they here already?
As if in answer to his thoughts, a few moments later, someone dropped a piece of heavy clothing over the top of them and began wrapping them in it, making sure all the flames were indeed out. M?rten glanced up and saw a uniformed cop using his police-issue jacket as a fire blanket.
“Stay on the ground,” the cop ordered. “We need to make sure it’s completely out.
” Another cop was making his way across the clearing, removing his coat as he came.
The first officer took the jacket and said, “Tell Harman and Tarismin to bring as much water as they can find. Then, call in the paramedics. I’ll check on the other guy.
” M?rten assumed the cop meant Tyrone, but they would find him dead. He knew his aim had been true.
Summer whimpered and pushed him away. “It’s okay, baby,” he soothed.
“Just lay still. We’ll get you some help as soon as we can.
” M?rten knew he hadn’t been able to protect her completely, and now he needed to check how badly she’d been burned.
He braced himself and gently rolled her onto her back, using the police jacket to keep her off the earth.
First, he checked her feet and her lower legs, which were most affected by the burning dress.
He winced, but forced himself not to look away.
All of her lower limbs were an angry lobster-red, with some blistering around her ankles, but none of the skin was broken or blackened.
He was no doctor, but these looked like second-degree burns at worst, and he drew in a deep breath of relief.
They were bad, and she would need hospitalization, but it could’ve been a lot worse.
Working his way up her body, he lifted what was left of her charred dress at around mid-thigh to check that the burns didn’t extend further up her torso.
Then he checked her bare arms, which were singed and red, but the skin wasn’t even blistered here.
He wasn’t proud of himself—he hadn’t been able to protect her absolutely like he’d wanted to—but she was alive and she would make it through, hopefully without too much trauma and scarring.
Finally, he let himself look at her face, smoothing the hair away from her brows, and brushing the dirt from her tear-stained cheeks with his thumb.
He stared deep into her eyes. God, she was beautiful. Alive and beautiful.
“You came,” she said simply. “You’re supposed to be on another continent, and yet when I needed you…” More tears brimmed in her eyes. “She sat up and threw her arms around his neck. He didn’t know what to say, so he just held her.
A few moments later, an officer arrived with bottles of water and began fussing over Summer’s legs, pushing M?rten out of the way.
“I’m Constable Harman,” she said. “We need to get these burns cooled,” she added matter-of-factly, as if treating someone who’d been set on fire by a madman in the middle of a national park was an everyday occurrence. “Paramedics will be here soon.”
“Oh, M?rten, your hands.” Summer’s exclamation took him by surprise, and he glanced down at his palms, astonished to find they were red, raw and blistered.
He hadn’t even noticed he’d been burned, had felt no pain at all, because he’d been so worried about Summer.
It must’ve happened when he’d beaten the flames out around her legs.
“Looks like you’re going to need treatment too, sir,” Constable Harman said, opening another bottle of water and handing it to the first cop to pour over his palms. He knew he’d also need treatment for his stab wound; it felt like the stitches had busted open as he leaped over the flames, but that could wait.
He wasn’t going to traumatize Summer again by lifting his shirt and letting her see the blood that was certain to be there.
Instead, M?rten sat back and let the police officer administer to him, locking his gaze with Summer over the top of Harman’s head.
There was relief, and gratitude, and something else in her dark brown eyes.
There was so much he wanted to convey to her. So many things he wanted to explain. But he had time now. Tyrone was no longer a threat, and M?rten was determined he was staying in America until Summer heard what he had to say. Heard him and, hopefully, felt the same way.