The investigator is on his knees, bleeding, and Iris is on the ground beside him, scrambling backward on her hands and knees.
“Ilay, please—”
“Shut up, my love.” I kick the investigator’s gun away, and it skids across the dirt, coming to a stop a few feet from where Iris is crouched. Instead of going for the gun, she scrambles to her feet and positions herself in front of the investigator, spreading her arms wide, shielding him with her body A-FUCKING-AGAIN while the smoke billows around us.
“Don’t.” Her voice shakes, but it’s firm. “Please, Ilay. Don’t do this.”
I stare at her standing there protecting him. “Smell that, angel? That’s your escape route burning.”
“Move, baby.”
“No.” She plants her feet, lifting her chin. “You’ll have to go through me.”
“Don’t test me, angel.”
“I mean it.” Her voice cracks but she doesn’t move. “If you want to hurt him, you’ll have to hurt me first.”
The smoke is getting thicker, the fire spreading fast through the dry brush with flames crackling closer. I take a step forward, and she reaches back with one hand, placing it on the investigator’s shoulder, and that simple touch, her hand on another man, has me wanting to convulse.
“Take your hand off the filth, angel,” I say quietly.
“No.”
“Iris, sweetheart.” I take another step closer while the heat from the fire builds around us. “Move your hand. Now.”
“Or what?” Tears stream down her face, mixing with the soot, but her hand stays planted on his shoulder.
“You’ll kill me too?”
“The smoke’s only going to get worse. Your choice.”
The investigator behind her has collapsed completely, barely conscious from blood loss and smoke inhalation.
“You care about him?” I ask, raising my gun, aiming it at her chest. “Do you care about him, my love?”
“He’s got nothing to do with our twisted relationship,” she whispers, her voice hoarse from the smoke. “He doesn’t deserve to die.”
“That’s not what I asked, princess.” I cock the gun. “Do you care about him?”
“Yes.” Her voice cracks. “Yes, I care about him. He risked his life to save me.”
I lower the gun, and walk toward her until I’m close enough to see the tears on her face, and that annoying hand on his. “Move, baby,” I say softly. “Or I’ll shoot through you to get to him.”
Her breath hitches. “You wouldn’t.”
“Try me, angel.” I raise the gun again, aim it at the space between her ribs. “Move. Now.” She stays where she is. Crying. While keeping her Hand still on his shoulder. “Last chance, sweetheart. Move, or I pull this trigger and you both die.”
“Then do it,” she whispers. I stare at her for a long moment, then lower the gun, aiming it at the ground beside the investigator.
“Pick up the gun, princess.”
She looks at the gun lying in the dirt, then back at me. “No.”
I fire a shot into the investigator’s leg.
He flinches, and Iris screams.
“Pick up the gun, baby.” She doesn’t move. I fire another shot at his other exposed leg. “Angel, pick up the gun, or the next one goes in his thigh.” She finally breaks, stumbling forward, her hand leaving his shoulder as she bends down and wraps trembling fingers around the grip. She stands slowly, picking up the gun. “That’s my good girl,” I say gently. “Now shoot him, princess.”
