Page 94 of Safari Murder Party
Rick’s first bullet sliced past them as the jungle clamped its teeth around them. Instantly, saturation faded, shadows thickened. Tangled branches and wide, waxy leaves blotted out the sunlight she’d grown used to in the kapok clearing.
On foot, the rainforest’s gnarled landscape was cumbersome, but on four wheels? Nightmare fuel. Fletcher drastically overestimated their speed. The extra horsepower couldn’t compensate for claggy soil, spined thickets, and root-choked paths. Each jolt rattled Fletcher’s bones.
As they sloshed through a mud slick, Waylon cupped his hands over her death grip on the handlebars. “Cut through here.”
A quick jerk to the side narrowly avoided a web of needle palms.
Unfortunately, the sudden movement put them in Rick’s direct line of sight.
Hobbling after them, Asshole Rick ranted about howhehad given everything he had to Cartwright Media, andhedeserved to inherit the Cartwright wealth, becausehehadn’t been able to take a trip to Ibiza with the boys last year and evidently it was a great inconvenience to him that required a multibillion-dollar reparation.
Fletcher didn’t have the heart to turn back and tell him the blood loss would likely kill him long before he ever made it back to Manhattan.
Electrocution only hardened his resolve. Errant bullets spewed from Rick’s shotgun, his aim expectedly worse than before. He’d more likely hit them by accident than on purpose.
Only then did Fletcher realize his aim trailed too low, a little too wide. Not aiming for them at all.
No sooner did she think it than one of the bullets hit its mark. The ATV’s back tire popped. Rubber everywhere. Lurching forward, Fletcher and Waylon were bucked off the saddle. The world blurred. Fletcher clamped her eyes shut against the landing. She didn’t need to see the impact to feel it.
“Get up.” Waylon’s voice floated over her.
“All of my bones are broken.” Talking hurt. Everything hurt.
“If Rick the Zombie can run, so can you.” His hands slid beneath her arms, peeling her upright despite her groaning protests. Fletcher wiped the dirt off her lips, her eyes, shaking the ache out of her limbs. Not broken, but sore.
Another round of shotgun shells spurred them into motion. Fletcher’s too-big pants slid down her hips with every step, and she kept a finger through the front belt loop to keep from mooning anyone.
Arms pumping, lungs chafing. Rick’s advances didn’t slow—he’d never known when to take no for an answer. That kind of determination worked as well in the Sales bullpen as it did in the throng of wilderness. A few close calls had Fletcher gritting her teeth, ears ringing as his blasts got closer. Seriously,howwas this guy still chasing them? His brain had to be entirely endorphins at this point.
Around them, the jungle sifted away slowly, trees thinning, brush clearing, until the island transformed into an expanse of sprinkler-fed green, smooth and manicured.
A…golf course.
No, an entire country club. Eighteen holes, tennis courts, swimming pool—the whole kit and caboodle. A sleek glass-and-steel building rose in the distance, and beyond it: a patch of fluffy white sand and a blue horizon with an enormous yacht bobbing at the docks.
Fletcher should have been watching her step instead of salivating at the thought of salvation because her foot slipped on the edge of a sand trap, and she tumbled into its banks. Grit coated her lips, her eyelids.
Another body slid down next to her. Fletcher was too busy scraping sand off her eyeballs and debating dunking her head in the nearest water hazard to dispute when Waylon hoisted her over his shoulder and hauled her back to the sod.
“I know everything,” Rick shouted. “I heard them talking.”
Fletcher cracked an eye open, ignoring the way the sand stung. From this angle, the world looked as off-axis as it felt. The salesman stood on a slant of green, and behind him, the jungle bowed and shook, something inside as angry as Rick looked.
“Jackie’s little Faustian deal. The reason we’re doing this whole fucking charade.” Asshole Rick’s bloodshot gaze shot toward Fletcher, where she dangled upside down. “You know exactly what I’m talking about, don’t you?”
“No, Rick, I—” An engine rumbled. Close enough that Fletcher smelled gasoline on the breeze. Her hands beat against Waylon’s back until he lowered her back to solid ground.
Weaving her fingers through Waylon’s, she yanked him backward as a pair of high beams cut through the underbrush. A truck plowed out of the jungle and onto the fairway. Forward, forward, forward…
And right into Rick.
A horriblesnapprefaced an equally horriblewheeze. Fletcher didn’t have to look closely to know Rick’s deep-fried tendons couldn’t handle the hit. His body splayed disgustingly limp beneath the Jeep’s monster truck tires, pitching it up unevenly. Blood seeped from his pile of loosely attached limbs, and Jackie stepped right into it. Unbothered by the red on her Louboutins.
“Look who it is,” Jackie said by way of greeting. As if she hadn’t just manslaughtered their colleague.
At some point, Jackie had commandeered a golf bag that now teetered in the back seat, clubs sticking out over the bumper. That thought alone ramped Fletcher’s nerves up another notch. It meant Jackie had circled back. Looking for them.
“What are you doing here?” The words left Fletcher’s lips with a bite. They had a deal. This wasn’t part of it.
