Crash and Burn Read Online Free PDF Page A

the Humvee.
    She oriented herself, getting her bearings
with her handheld compass. There . Three clicks north and
she’d be back on the road. She’d have to hope the road was still
open to traffic, but she’d cross that bridge when she made it
back.
    Hurrying was the important part.
    Fifteen minutes into her run-hike, a man’s
voice calling her name reached her from the other side of a heavily
forested ridge. Still far off but closing on her position, those
steady, deep tones didn’t belong to anyone on her team.
    Run faster . . .
    Adrenaline pounded through her, her pulse
spiking. Oh, hell. Holm Arthurs was a possibility she had to
consider. Still, her tango shouldn’t have known her name.
    Shouldn’t didn’t mean couldn’t and
she’d worried that the man had been monitoring the airwaves—where
he could have picked up intel. Panic wouldn’t help now, though, so
she sucked in a deep breath and reminded herself that she’d trained
for this. The FBI academy had honed her skills in defensive
tactics. She’d practiced an arsenal of control holds and she damned
certain wasn’t afraid to hit back.
    What she needed was a good spot to wait her
pursuer out. Whoever it was moved straight for her. Had she left
tracks? She considered the possibility and had to admit she
probably had. She was FBI. Not a recon and surveillance scout.
    The man yelled her name again. And was that a goddamn it she heard?
    Closer . She dropped down, sliding
beneath a particularly thick manzanita bush and inched forward on
her belly as she palmed her firearm. Tracking 101 to the
rescue.
    The man emerging from the trees ate up the
ground with a sure, confident prowl. He was definitely far too
large to be her tango. That big body of his put him at well over
six feet, and there was no missing so much as an inch of him. The
bright yellow jacket he wore unbuttoned painted an unmistakable
target on his shoulders and back. The baseball cap pulled low over
his forehead shaded his face and eyes from her gaze. He’d pulled a
bandana over his mouth because the air was growing thicker and
smokier with each passing moment. Definitely not her tango, but she
didn’t know why he was dogging her ass, either.
    Keep on walking, buddy.
    Work boots drew level with her hiding spot
and she got a finger on the gun’s trigger. Before she could sight,
however, he dropped fast to one knee, a big, gloved hand reaching
for her.
    “Come on out,” he growled.
    Made . Adrenaline hit her hard and she
bucked against his grip.
    If this man got his hands on her good, she’d
be going nowhere. He swore and she slammed her shoulder up,
connecting with a rock-hard abdomen. He was too big, too fast.
Before she could blink, he’d pinned her, one arm wrapping around
her middle and dragging her up against his body. His other arm came
down and grabbed her wrist. She didn’t drop the gun, but the air
left her lungs in a fast, hard rush as he squeezed. He had to
outweigh her by sixty pounds.
    Hotshot . That was the first word that
came to mind. The fire she’d spotted over the eastern ridge had the
area crawling with the elite wildland firefighters and this one
looked fresh from the field. He sported the obligatory Nomex
fashion statement, bottle-green work pants and a bright yellow work
shirt. He’d unbuttoned the cuffs, rolling the fireproof fabric up
to reveal strong, tanned forearms.
    Unexpectedly drool worthy.
    No . She bucked hard, aiming for his
forehead, and followed with a hip check. He flowed with her,
off-balance but not letting go. When he finally went down, another
gritty curse exploded from his mouth as he took her with him. Onto
him, as he shouldered the brunt of the impact. Splayed on his
chest, her wrists pinned against the ground and face-to-face with
her attacker, she was looking at a whole new kind of trouble.
    Sam Clayton.
    He’d been beautiful the summer they first
met, young and broad-shouldered with a wardrobe of faded cotton
T-shirts that clung to each