Page 25 of Beach Reads: Three Summer Scorchers

I t’s my plan, but it still feels so damn wrong to slip back into Betty’s tent and sit on the edge of her cot, the metal legs creaking. It grates on every instinct I have to stay put, Betty trembling in my arms, waiting to be discovered.

Hours pass, the sky lightening through the tent canvas, until the sounds of waking mercenaries fill the base camp. Muffled yawns and low mutters break the silence.

“It’s okay,” I tell her under my breath, over and over. “It’s going to be okay.”

But can I really promise that? Can anyone?

Betty goes tenser than a plank whenever boots thud past her tent, her breaths coming in panicked little puffs against my neck. But it still takes them what feels like a lifetime to finally come and investigate what’s keeping their bait so long.

“Wakey, wakey,” one of the men calls, stomping over and shoving the tent flap aside without knocking. She could have been half dressed! Asshole. It’s the youngest one, the redhead—the one with a crush on Betty.

He splutters when he finds us in a clinch. Freezes in the doorway, eyes wide. I could have escaped a dozen different ways before he finally yells out, “Hey!”

Boots slam against the dirt, four pairs running toward Betty’s tent.

Finally. Must I do all the work in my own capture?

Pressing one final kiss to her temple, I set Betty away from me and stand up, moving into the center of the tent.

Five men. Five idiots.

And one girl I can’t bear to see hurt. If she weren’t here, if I only had my own skin to worry about, I’d fight my way out and be damned. But the situation has changed. The stakes are higher than I ever dreamed.

It’s not enough to finish these lowlifes. We need the agency off our backs forever.

“Move,” the one called Echo says, shoving the redhead aside. He peers into the shadowed tent, eyes glittering behind his glasses. “Huh.”

Betty backs up a step. Though this guy is smaller and leaner than the others, he’s the one she’s most afraid of. Filing that tidbit away for later, I let my arms hang loose by my side.

“Got tired of playing hide and seek, Agent Dawes?” Echo’s gaze flicks to Betty, then back to me. The other men crowd around the doorway, blocking out the pale dawn light. Nearby, someone’s toast is burning.

I shrug. “Something like that.”

Echo steps aside and jerks his chin. “Bind his hands.”

Yeah, it’s easy to bark orders like that when you’re not the one risking his hide.

I’ve had plenty of commanders like this guy—but not for long.

And there are some huffs, some sideways glances, that say there’s plenty of resentment in this ragtag crew.

No one here would risk their neck for their noble leader.

No one will go out of his way to watch the guy’s back.

That’s good. Any weakness can be exploited.

The redhead wanders away, his movements loud in the echoing camp as he rummages through boxes and rattles tins in another tent. He comes back a minute later, holding a roll of industrial tape.

Good, that’s good. Tape can stretch and twist; it gets slippery with sweat. Zip ties could have been a problem, but tape I can work with. As the mercenary steps inside the tent, I stretch my wrists forward, calm and helpful.

No such luck.

“Bind them behind his back, Tango.” The leader sighs, long-suffering, as the redhead flushes and snatches the tape back, then gestures for me to turn around. “Is this your first fucking day on the job? Always behind the back. Always.”

I join my wrists at the base of my spine, but I let Tango walk around me, refusing to turn. Not about to lose my eyelines, not with Betty at stake.

“Be careful,” she blurts, when the tape wraps so tight it cuts off my circulation. The tips of my fingers tingle, and I roll my shoulders back, forcing myself to stay calm. I won’t be bound for long, but numb hands won’t help.

“Tape her mouth, too,” Echo says.

You know what? Forget calm.

“If you gag her, I’ll tear out your spinal cord and floss with it.”

I smile, and I let my polite mask slip for a split second. Just long enough for them to see I mean it. I really, really mean it.

Tango stumbles back, and even Betty looks shocked. My gut twists at that, but there’s no time to reassure her. And Echo scoffs, but I notice he doesn’t step forward to do it himself.

“Amateurs,” he mutters, turning away. “Bind her wrists at least, then load them on the boat. Let’s get off this piece of shit island already.”

* * *

“You missed my best plans.” Echo’s having way too much fun holding court on deck as we rumble away from the island, waves churning all around us.

Tango disappeared to pilot the boat; the others stand at Echo’s shoulders like cartoon henchmen as he gloats.

Betty and I kneel in the center of the deck, hands bound and jaws tight.

I won’t forget that they bound her. At least Tango was gentler with Betty, looping the tape carefully around her slender wrists. His ridiculous crush makes me want to roar and beat my chest, but in this case it’s been useful. Her fingertips are pink and healthy.

“I was going to dangle her in a net over the lava field,” Echo says with a broad grin. “Cook her slowly, you know? Watch you lose your damn mind.”

Slow breath in… slow breath out.

He’s trying to rattle me.

It’s working.

The hard deck digs into my knees, and the hot sun beats down. The engine rumbles beneath us, and each time the boat rocks over a wave, the standing mercenaries fight for their balance.

They’re not nearly as safe as they think they are.

“What would you hang the net from?” I ask, twisting my wrists slowly behind my back. I’ve been working the tape loose since they loaded us on deck—pour one out for my wrist hairs. The salt spray is helping things along, but my skin is raw.

Echo frowns. There’s a muffled laugh, turned quickly into a cough, and the others drift away to other parts of the deck, his admiring audience gone.

Betty ducks her head, shoulders trembling against a fit of the giggles. A seabird cackles overhead, wheeling through the blue sky, and as cool spray mists my face, suddenly I’m a thousand times lighter.

She’s not scared. She’s laughing.

Betty has faith in me. In our plan.

And you know what? The earth will crack open and swallow me whole before I disappoint this woman another single time. Tipping my head back, I draw in a chestful of fresh, salty air. It’s a beautiful day.

“What are you doing?” Echo demands.

I catch his eye and grin. “Breathing.”

“Well, stop it—”

I explode off my knees, wrists tearing apart, and slam Echo’s face against the boat rail.

He crumples to my feet, glasses shattered, but I’m already running for the next closest man.

He’s gazing out to sea, dolphin-watching or some shit, and he barely has time to turn around with a yell before I’ve wrenched his arm from his socket and tossed him overboard.

That’s the pattern. A crippling injury, maybe a broken bone, then splash.

Splash. Splash. The last guy pulls a knife on me, so he goes overboard with a blade buried in his gut.

He started it. Our whole fight lasts less than three minutes, and the boat rumbles in a steady line, no sign that Tango’s noticed his colleagues thrashing in the foam.

I turn back to Echo’s limp body, breathing hard through my nose.

This is the problem with taking down amateurs. There’s no satisfaction to it, no real release. Like swatting a bunch of annoying flies. I rehearsed this moment over and over in my head all night, fretting about my girl, and when it comes down to it, there’s not a mark on either of us.

Except my bald wrists, I guess. The true casualties.

Betty gapes from where she kneels on deck. She’s paler than a few minutes ago, and locks of her hair have slipped loose from her ponytail, streaming in the wind.

Can she sense the blood lust still pounding in my veins? The desperate urge to tear out Echo’s jugular with my teeth?

Maybe if she wasn’t here, I’d do it. I’ve done a lot of things to survive in my time, things I’m not proud of exactly, but that I don’t regret either.

But Betty will never see me like that. We’re starting a new life, damn it, and I’m not freaking her out now.

“You were scared of this guy,” I say, squatting behind her and gently slicing her duct tape loose. They even left my knife on my belt. No, there’s no pride in this victory, just exhaustion.

“I was scared of all of them.” Betty shakes out her fingers and circles her wrists.

“But especially him.”

Betty snorts. “Well I’m not now .”

True. It’s hard to be scared of a glorified, passed-out office worker playing dress up. His forehead’s all cut up from his lenses shattering, and there are shards of glass in his mustache. This asshole doesn’t even know he’s beaten yet, but he will.

“Well, you decide what we do to him.”

Some guys might bring her flowers, but I’ll do them one better. I’ll bring her the helpless body of any man who threatens her. That’s romantic, right? I think so.

“What we… what we do to him?” Betty stares at Echo’s unconscious frown. Even passed out, he’s a pissy little jackass. “What do you mean?”

“Well, we could kill him.” I say it casually, like we’re discussing the merits of a picnic vs a restaurant dinner. “Fast or slow, either works. Or we could throw him overboard and let fate decide.”

That might be easier for her. More psychologically comfortable. Hitting the water might wake him up; it might not. The blood on his forehead might attract sharks; it might not. Tossing Echo overboard would give him a better chance than he’d ever face with me alone.

Cook her slowly above the lava field.

Prick.

“I—I don’t want to decide that,” Betty says, fumbling her words and shaking her head. “Don’t make me decide that.”

No problem. One swift kick, and there’s a slither of limbs across the deck, then one final splash.

“Done,” I tell her, helping her up. “I decided. That’s on me, okay? You never have to think about those guys ever again.”

Betty wobbles as she stands, and she looks queasy. “P-please don’t kill Tango,” she says. “He was the nicest to me.”

I suck in a deep, salty breath, trying with all my heart to ignore the wave of jealousy and bitterness that crashes through my body.

I save her life, and now I’m the one she’s scared of?

He’s the one she protects? The urge to march to the bridge and tear his freckled head off is strong, but I squash it down. That won’t help.

Betty relaxes when I nod, and her fingers tangle with mine. The roaring beast in my chest settles down, grumbling.

She just doesn’t want more violence. That’s fine. That’s fair.

I have other plans for the redhead, anyway.