Free Night Eyes (The Detective Temeke Crime Series Book 2) by Claire Stibbe

it was as if the man it belonged to had already died once and come back to life. His hands were wrapped around the polished stock of a rifle that glinted red in a flash of firelight. He cowered over that gun like he was coughing, or loading it, or something. And then he looked up at the flames and scuttled off sideways like a crab into the darkness.
    It wasn’t Ramsey. Too old for that.
    Even though Adam’s senses were jumbled, his gut reaction told him to stay down and watch, tried to steel himself to remember what was at stake. From where he was lying, he could see the back of the house. There should have been fire fighters swarming towards it and police cars drifting in along that chalk white track. Nothing. Except the sound of a bellow. A war cry.
    Adam stayed where he was, rain peppering his back, cheek pressed against wet leaves. He couldn’t think, couldn’t move. It seemed like minutes before he crawled to the ridge of that slope and that was because he was cold. Peering over the summit, he squinted at a ball of fire in the scrubland several yards from the house, rotors poking out of the wreckage and the terrible smell of gas.
    A flicker of movement to the left and a man powered through boulder and brush like a wild animal, limbs pumping with exceptional grace. He stooped and hooked something large over his shoulder before sprinting back the way he had come.
    Ramsey.
    Despite the risk Adam took in keeping his head up, he knew he was safe in the darkness, clothes melding with the gray-green leaves. Even Ramsey stood like a frozen figurine about ten yards to his left, studying the fire through lifeless eyes.
    Adam stretched out his legs, muscles trembling. If only trees didn’t shed twigs and other noisy things he could have crept through the patio doors to the back of the house without being heard. He felt tired, unusually sleepy, as if all the energy had seeped from his body. You’re just hungry that’s all. Should have eaten that bowl of soup. It wasn’t poisoned. It wasn’t drugged. It was good. Solid. Food.
    He thought he heard something then. Voices. Perhaps it was just the rain. He lifted himself a little higher, knees pressed into the ground. Measuring the distance between him and Ramsey, he reckoned he could make a run for it without being shot, reckoned he would be swallowed up in that smoky light. Just as he lifted one knee, he saw the sudden tilt of Ramsey’s head. 
    He was hunkered down over there, elbows resting on his knees and mouth slightly open as if he was tasting the smoke. The eerie sound of flames crackled over the wind and a burning branch crashed onto the forest floor. He turned at the sound, seeming to weigh it up in his mind before slipping back into the shadows.
    Adam drew a deep breath. This was his chance. There was no sense in waiting. Not now that Ramsey was nowhere to be seen. Energized by hope, he took a running step, twigs snapping underfoot. He would have shouted loudly if it hadn’t been for the foul taste of a rolled up bandana in his open mouth and the tight cinching behind his head. He didn’t have to turn around. He knew who it was.
    “Don’t move!” Ramsey squeezed that gag for all it was worth and, gripping Adam by the shoulders, he swiveled him around. It was a raised finger that told Adam to be quiet, the other was clamped around his wrists.
    Ramsey’s hair was tied in short ponytail and his face was streaked with mud, eyes glaring in the rusty glow of the fire. The hump of a backpack peeked over one shoulder and a small axe hung from a shockcord.
    “Someone out there,” he said, looking over at the wreckage. “Sooner have the contraband on board that chopper than save the dumbass flying it. If you shout, he’ll kill us.”
    Adam looked down at a gallon jug tied to the backpack bouncing against Ramsey’s thigh. He could hear the slop of water in it and he swallowed.
    “Moonshine,” Ramsey said with a grin. “Want some?”
    Adam shook his head, eyes