Page 20 of Beach Reads: Three Summer Scorchers

I grip the arms of my backpack and heave myself up the slope, lungs burning.

On my left side, the jungle bristles with life, with bird cries and monkey screams bouncing through the trees.

Where the slope falls away on my right, molten rock creeps across an ashy lava field, moving at a slow walking pace.

The air up here is hot enough to cook my eyelashes. I’m frying.

Adjusting my grip on the backpack, I cough to clear my parched throat. In the distance, lava drips over the sea cliff into the water, steam hissing into the blue sky.

“Um, is anybody listening? Come—come in?”

The wire they put on me tickles my sweaty skin, threaded beneath my tank top. It’s a constant reminder that they’re listening. Listening, watching, wondering whether I’m useful after all. And probably whether they should bother bringing me home, because I know too much now, right?

When my earpiece buzzes to life, I get a tiny electric shock. “What is it, Miss Hale?”

The man I only know as Echo sounds bored. Tired of my shit.

Well, I’ve spent the last three days tramping around this godforsaken island all alone with no company but his cranky voice, so the feeling is mutual, buddy.

“He’s definitely here? Somewhere near the lava?”

A pause, then a long sigh crackles in my ear. “That is our current best guess, Miss Hale. Agent Dawes is… elusive.”

He’s telling me.

“It’s hot,” I say, plucking the front of my tank top away from my stomach. White was a mistake. The fabric is mottled with yellow sweat stains after searching all morning, and streaked with god knows what from my hike through the jungle. Gross. “It’s really hot up here, Echo.”

“It’s lava,” he says, tone flat. “Of course it is.”

Lava. From a volcano. The one that rises up in the distance, red-hot rivulets streaking down its sides.

Huge clouds of black smoke belch into the air from its peak, and I keep freaking myself out thinking that the ground is shaking.

That it’s gonna erupt properly any minute, showering me in hot rock and choking ash.

This cannot be how I die. On a tropical island in the middle of the ocean—one that doesn’t even exist on most maps.

Dressed in army-issue boots and camouflage pants, with bug spray and sunscreen slathered an inch thick on my bare arms, when at this time on a Tuesday I should be checking the stock of paper cups in the cafe.

What am I doing here?

Is this a fever dream?

I pinch myself for the hundredth time since all this weirdness started. Nope, definitely awake. Awake, and pinned between a deadly jungle on one side and a lava field on the other, hunting a man who could snap me in two with his bare hands.

Agent Dawes.

Despite the heat, I fight a shiver.

“What if he doesn’t want to be found?” Shading my eyes, I peer between the trees. Though the sun blazes high overhead, the shadows are thick between the giant leaves, like the light can’t penetrate. He could be watching me right this second, and I’d have no clue.

“That is why you are here.”

I lick my lips. My sweat is salty. “As bait.”

“Correct. And when you bring Agent Dawes back to us, you will be rewarded for your trouble.”

Ha. Whatever. I’m not doing this for money, and Echo knows that firsthand—turns out it’s really hard to refuse a bunch of armed agents who turn up at your studio apartment in the middle of the night.

One look at the curved knives strapped to their thighs and I couldn’t offer them enough snacks, couldn’t be more polite, bustling back and forth in my crop top and ratty old sweatpants.

Would anybody like a coffee? I have decaf!

Little idiot. I cringe thinking of myself three days ago, but then, what else was I supposed to do? Slam the door on a bunch of secret agents? As if that would work.

“Climb higher,” Echo orders, his voice clipped in my ear. “You’re barely halfway up the slope.”

“I’m catching,” I grind out, stomping my way up the bare rock, “my freaking breath. I don’t hear you working up a sweat, mister.”

The tracker blinks up at me as I walk, secured to the side of my boot. I tried prying it off with the penknife from my backpack earlier, just to see if it would come off, and nope. That thing is stuck.

Of course, the boot comes off. But then I’d be in nothing but socks around all these snakes and spiders, on this rocky slope that’s cooking my rubber soles. And what then?

No point running. I’ve got nowhere to go. All I can do is find Agent Dawes, and hope that Echo and his cronies won’t vanish me for my trouble. Or that Dawes won’t see it as a terrible betrayal and snap my neck.

Why me? The thought circles through my brain with each aching step, each scorching hot breath dragged into my lungs. The higher I climb, the more of the island comes into view, stretching away toward a turquoise ocean on both sides. Why me? Why me?

Agent Dawes barely knows me. I served him coffee a few times, that’s all. Mostly.

Seriously. Why am I the rogue agent’s bait?

* * *

Three months ago

Customers at the cafe always come in waves.

Ten minutes can go by with no line, ten heavenly minutes when we can wipe down surfaces and chat and roll our stiff necks, sipping from the water bottles we stash below the counter.

Then bam. Five people burst through the doors all at once, all antsy for a caffeine fix.

They huff and puff while they wait in line, tapping their toes against the shiny tiles. They check watches and fold their arms.

Then as soon as they’re all served, the rush fades away just like that. We’re back to prettying up the cupcake display and people-watching from behind the cash register.

“First date,” Miriam says, jerking her chin toward a nearby table. A young couple sit stiffly, neither slumped in their chair, and the woman tears a napkin to shreds as they talk. Her thigh bounces under the table.

“Or a break up,” I say.

Miriam scoffs. Her black hair is tied in a topknot, and her lipstick is dark purple. “Where’s your optimism, girl? Our coffees don’t break people up. We’re out here brewing the elixir of love.”

Ha. If only. Wouldn’t mind a sip of that myself.

“And yet our tips are so crappy.”

She nudges me with a generous hip. “Preach.”

I like shifts with Miriam. We fall into an easy rhythm as we work, and the people-watching is always top notch. She can read people, sometimes from just the backs of their heads, and tons of her predictions turn out to be right.

She says it’s because her mama’s got the gift, and a little taste of it rubbed off on her. She even keeps stacks of her mom’s psychic hot line business cards, right by the glass jars of biscotti. It’s been months, and the boss still hasn’t noticed.

“Think your mom could tell my future?” I ask, leaning over to pluck up a card and turn it around in my hands. I’m half joking, but honestly, I’d totally pay for Mrs Toutant to read my tea leaves or whatever. I’m tired of month after month of living the same day, over and over.

Come to work at the cafe. Serve coffees, check stock. Wipe down tables and mop the floor. Then book club, or my running group by the river, and back home to my tiny apartment. Rinse and repeat.

I’m in a rut. Need something big to shake me loose. But Miriam gives me this look , pursing her lips, and my stomach twists.

“No one is gonna tell your future, Betty. That shit’s messed up.” The bell above the door rings as someone walks in, and she sighs and shakes her head. “Here it comes.”

‘It’ is a man in his late thirties, dressed in gray jeans, boots, and a black t-shirt. His face is weathered and tan, his dark hair cropped short and lighter at the temples. Though his clothes are casual, his posture is not.

This is a man who’s always on alert. The sort of man who never, ever gets jumped in an alley—not if the muggers know what’s good for them.

I straighten behind the counter, my heartbeat picking up speed.

Maybe it’s an animal reaction. Instinct, you know? My lizard brain whispering: danger.

Except I’m not scared as he approaches the counter, his dark eyes sliding briefly to the cupcakes then settling back on me. I’m not tensed to run.

It’s weird. I’m… exhilarated.

This is the feeling I used to get as a kid, thrown about by the waves at the beach.

The feeling I got from running as fast as I could, sneakers slapping against the sidewalk, the wind streaming against my face.

That same thrill. A single look from this man and I’m sparking back to life, my body humming as it comes back online after months on the fritz. Danger, danger.

“All yours,” Miriam murmurs, drifting away to the stock cupboard.

The man stops in front of the counter. I peel my tongue off the roof of my mouth. “Um. Hi. What can I get for you?”

His eyes are intense. So brown they’re nearly black. The man doesn’t smile when he looks at me, but something sparks behind those eyes. Some secret interest, like he’s never seen anything like me before.

Ha. Blonde, tattooed baristas with rumpled aprons? We’re on every block. The city is lousy with us.

“Coffee,” he says. “Black.”

“Like your soul?” I say, teasing before my survival instincts kick in.

The man’s eyes glitter. “Something like that.”

I make his coffee, steam hissing, beans grinding. I’m wearing a goofy smile the whole time.

When he walks away with his drink, I’m sad to see him go—until my eyes widen at the tip jar. When did he slide a hundred dollar bill in there? And why ? I’m not that funny.

“Miriam,” I call, “get your ass out here right now. You need to see this.”

And we’re so caught up with his giant tip, laughing and prodding at the jar, that I forget what we were talking about before.

I forget Miriam’s warnings about my future.

* * *

You’d think the higher I climb above the lava, the less intense the heat should be. But no—as I reach the top of the slope, the air is so hot it shimmers. I sway in my leather boots, dizzy from hiking for hours. My running group did not prepare me for this.

“What happens if it erupts?”

Silence. I wave away a bug.

“Echo. What happens if the volcano erupts?” The peak still seems like miles away, and if you looked at it fast, you’d think it was a snowy mountain top. But nope: that’s ash, streaked with fiery lava.

“You must have studied Geography in school.” The agent sounds bored in my ear. “Or watched the news a few times. What do you think happens, Miss Hale?”

I think I die. I die a horrible, gruesome death, and assuming Agent Dawes survives, these jerks move on to plan B without losing a wink of sleep. Tried that, moving on.

“I’ll haunt your ass,” I grumble, trudging closer to the trees. “Don’t think I won’t.” Obviously, compared to an eruption, the trees are no shelter at all—but it still makes me feel better. Less exposed.

“Just don’t wander onto the lava field.” Echo says it like I have exactly one brain cell, and no spares. “Stay near the jungle, and look for signs of Agent Dawes. We didn’t bring you here for a vacation. Get on with it.”

The unfairness, no, the audacity of this man lecturing me from his comfy tent back at base camp—equipped with a generator and no less than three electric fans—makes me want to swan dive into the lava after all.

He’s the secret agent! They all trained for this, they get paid for this, and they have the skills, the equipment, the freaking cardio.

Meanwhile, I’m in borrowed boots and pinned with a tracker, left to fumble my way through this nightmare. I should be dusting cappuccinos with chocolate powder right now, not wiping sweat from my eyes in the middle of the ocean.

Stomping alongside the jungle, I’ve never felt more helpless. Swept up in the grand scheme of events, and forced to play a role that I don’t understand.

Bait .

For a man I barely know.

A man who probably couldn’t pick me out of a line up. And what happens when Agent Dawes doesn’t nibble?