Ride the Fire (12 page)

“Does a camel shit in the desert?” He said it like a joke, and that’s how everyone took it.

Everyone but Sean. A cheer sounded among their buddies, but Sean managed only a hint of a smile as they lined up in front of the helicopter for a picture. God, he missed Blair and his son. What the fuck was he doing here?

“Get me a copy of that pic, will ya, Wilson?” Jesse said, slapping the man on the back. It was more of an order than a question.

“Sure thing, Jess.”

Sean never did get around to asking Wilson for the same favor.

Lester Byrd had been deliriously happy the day he’d dropped by a few weeks ago to tell Amelia the news that not only did he have a buyer willing to pay the asking price, but he’d paid in cash. And Amelia had been happy for Lester and Beatrice, but who in the world had that sort of cash handy in this economy? When she’d posed the question to Lester, his eyes had clouded.

I don’t know, Amelia, but Bea and I ain’t gettin’ any younger. Best not to look that gift horse too close in the mouth.

Well, after days of listening to that racket, Amelia had no such compunction. Curiosity might not kill the cat if the cat showed up bearing apple pie and a neighborly smile. Humming, she covered the pie with foil, then grabbed her purse and keys. Using pot holders, she carried the pie to the car, placed it in the passenger’s seat, and headed in the direction of the Byrds’ old place.

On the way, her mind drifted toward her only child. Something had been going on with Eve for a while now, not that her daughter would let on. Eve had always been the light of her life, and she couldn’t fool her mother. A mother knows when something is wrong in her child’s world, and Eve’s had been about two inches off its axis for months. Longer, maybe.

Before she could think on it more, she reached the Byrds’ driveway and turned. Until she had a new name to put with the place, she’d always think of it as belonging to Lester and Bea. Perhaps she always would even after being introduced to the new owner.

As she parked, the first thing she noticed was . . . stillness. Almost as if the land itself held its breath, waiting for the other shoe to drop. How odd, after all the noise of the trucks traversing up and down the road. When the Byrds had lived here, the property had bustled with life. Chickens, cows bellowing, a couple of hired hands always around doing some chore. She opened the car door and there was simply nothing in the way of life. Not even a dog came out to bark and greet her.

Around the side of the house was a squat, square vehicle she thought was a Range Rover. About fifty yards out, next to the barn, something heavier. One of those half-ton pickups? A Dually? She didn’t know a lot about trucks.

Gathering the pie, she made her way to the house, up the porch steps, and knocked on the door. Movement could be heard inside, a shuffling of footsteps on creaky boards. Then the door swung open and she found herself face-to-face with a good-looking man with long, dark blond hair pulled back into a ponytail. She normally didn’t care for long hair and tattoos on a man, but on this one, the look fit him.

Not to say she approved, because she didn’t. There was a difference.

The long hair and tattoo suited the man’s deceptively loose stance, like a cougar preparing to pounce. An air of nonconformity, rebelliousness, settled about his shoulders like a black cloak he wore well and never removed. Perhaps that image was perpetuated by the tilt of his chin, the way his smile of greeting came nowhere close to those cold, dead eyes.

“Ma’am?”

Remembering the purpose of her visit, she shook off the impressions and hefted the pie. “I’m Amelia Marshall, your neighbor. I thought I’d welcome you to the area, and what better way to do that than with homemade apple pie?”

“Homemade?” The man whistled through his teeth. “Yes ma’am, that’ll do it. Why don’t you come in?”

Said the spider to the fly.

Her smile faltered, but she shoved aside her misgivings. The man didn’t look like any of her friends and neighbors, but one could hardly hold that against him. Her Eve knew better than most how it hurt to be judged on appearance.

He stepped aside to let her in, and she studied the interior of the Byrds’ former home, noting the changes. Before, the house had looked like a home, complete with well-loved furniture, pillows, doilies, and photos of family parked on every surface. Now the inside was . . . barren. Desolate. Only a minimal amount of furnishings graced the living room, and what she could see was cheap, functional. There were no personal touches, no photos.

Save one.

“Can I take that, put it in the kitchen?”

“What? Oh, yes! Here you go. Enjoy.” She handed over the pie and her host disappeared into the kitchen to put the dessert away. Immediately, her gaze homed in on the one concession to any sort of nostalgia. She walked over to the scarred coffee table and picked up the framed picture, a close-up snapshot of a group of soldiers in combat fatigues, smiling for the camera.

She easily identified one man by the tattoo on his neck—her host, who’d answered the door. Former military. Much, much younger, his hair buzzed in a high-and-tight, but there was no mistaking him. Well, that would certainly explain the utilitarian feel of the Byrds’ old home, him being military and all.

What arrested her was her host’s open, carefree expression. In the picture, his arm was around the shoulders of another young man, one with a rugged but handsome face, brown hair and brilliant green eyes shining in the sun. The closeness between the two was unmistakable, and so at odds with the man who’d answered the door.

“Desert Storm, 1991.”

Startled, she jumped, clutching the frame guiltily. Wasn’t like she was snooping, exactly, since the picture was in plain sight, but those cool eyes left her trembling. “I’m sorry. It’s just that this photo caught my eye. Such handsome young men you were, and you looked so close.”

“That we were.”

No emotion. Strange.

“Anyway, where are my manners?” He offered his hand. “I’m George Sparks. I bought this place from the Byrds, but I guess you already know that. I’m not much for keeping animals like they did, but I prefer my space.”

Was there a warning in that statement? If so, she couldn’t detect it as she shook his hand.

“What do you do, Mr. Sparks?”

“George, please. I dabble in electronics, computers, video games, and such. I’m developing a game now called
Total Annihilation
.” He smiled.

“Oh! How . . . interesting.”

“I enjoy what I do, though it’s hard to break into gaming. Very competitive. How about you, Amelia?” On his lips, her name sounded like an intimate caress, one she didn’t care for.

“I work in downtown Nashville as an executive assistant. Really that just means I’m a glorified gofer, but it will pay the bills until I retire.”

“Retirement,” he mused. “What a concept. I don’t think I’ll ever see that day, but it’s a nice idea.”

She laughed. “You’re awful young to be talking like that! You’ll need time to relax one day, spend lazy days with your family.”

An odd look entered his eyes, quickly masked. “Family. Sure. One day, maybe, when I have the time.”

What on earth did that mean? It seemed to her then that this man didn’t have the foggiest concept of family, or warmth of any sort. “Oh. So you live alone?”

“I have a few buddies in and out, helping me with a couple of projects on the place, but it’s just me for the most part.”

“That must be some project, what with the trucks going in and out.” She was only prodding him out of curiosity, hoping he’d reveal more. But she earned a hard stare instead.

“Yes, it is. Sorry about the noise, ma’am.” But he didn’t sound sorry in the least. His jaw tightened, and if she didn’t know better, she’d believe he was considering putting his hands around her throat. Silly, but . . .

Some sixth sense urged her to find a graceful way to bid good-bye to George Sparks.

“No problem. Well, I won’t intrude on your day any longer,” she said with false brightness. “I just wanted to introduce myself and let you know if you need anything, don’t hesitate to call on me. Let me leave my number.”

The same inner voice warned her not to let this man know exactly which house was hers, though he could learn the information without too much trouble. Instead, she wrote her cell phone number on a Post-it he retrieved from the kitchen, and made as graceful an exit as she could muster.

“Enjoy the pie, George.”

“Oh, I surely will, Amelia.” His lips curved upward, cold eyes glittering. “Apple is the fruit of temptation, after all. Have a good day, now.”

He closed the door after her and she stared at it a moment, heart thudding in her chest.

Apple. The fruit Eve gave to Adam, leading him astray to fall from grace.

The man couldn’t have meant anything by the remark.

Amelia hurried off the porch and to her car. Fired it up and drove away as sedately as possible. One thing was certain—she wasn’t coming back here.

Ever.

Fear flashed in the other man’s eyes, quickly masked. “I feel ya. We’re good.”

Jesse gave the man an “affectionate” pat on the cheek, hard, and released him. “I’ve got a job for you.”

“Shoot.”

When he finished, Grimes was shaking his head. “This deviates from the master plan, Jesse. Never a good thing and you know it.”

“I know I’m in charge and you’ll do what I tell you,” he stated coldly. “I’ve waited a lifetime to pay back that fucker for what he did to me, and I’m going to love every single second of pain he suffers.”

“You’re the boss.”

“Don’t forget it.”

Grimes walked out, and Jesse picked up the framed photo, peering into the face of the man who’d been his friend, protector, brother.

His downfall.

The man he was going to rip apart. Piece by agonizing piece.

He was in for a surprise, however, when he found himself alone with Zack that afternoon and the man remained silent as they watched some mindless talk show on TV. About twenty minutes in, he couldn’t take the suspense anymore.

“Aren’t you going to give me the third degree?”

Zack, feet propped on a table, scratched his stomach and looked at Sean. “Believe me, I’d love nothing more. But Eve made me promise to lay off.”

He didn’t know whether to be irritated or grateful. “I can fight my own battles.”

“Which is why you’ve been avoiding me like I have the flu.”

“Hey, I don’t
want
to argue with you, but I’m fully capable of taking whatever you need to dish out. Just prefer it’s done in private.”

“Not a courtesy you gave me, not so long ago.”

The words shamed him deeply. “You don’t know how much I regret that,” he said sincerely. “I know it’s not an excuse, but I wasn’t myself. The man I really am would never have unloaded on you in front of the team.”

“Yeah, I know.” He sighed. “Look, the truth is I saw this thing with you and Eve coming a mile off, even if you didn’t. The attraction has been there, building for months, and anyone with eyes can see the explosion was inevitable. I don’t have to like it, but that’s reality.”

Sean didn’t know how to respond. He’d become the guy his own friends would warn women away from, and it stung. Damned bad, though it was his own fault.

“I don’t want Eve to end up with her heart pulverized,” Zack went on. “She deserves better than to be your booty call on the road to self-betterment.”

Anger churned in his gut. And a bit of guilt. “Eve is nobody’s
booty call
, especially mine. You aren’t giving her enough credit. She’s a strong person who values herself more than that.”

“In every respect except when it comes to you.” Zack paused, lowered his voice. “You didn’t hold her while she sobbed her heart out over that lame-assed ‘Great fuck but we’re still friends’ bullshit you pulled, but Cori and I did. I know you don’t want my advice, but tough shit, you’re going to get it—if you’re not playing for keeps, keep your dick away from Eve.”

“His what? I think somebody better rewind and fill me in.”

Sean turned his head toward the doorway to their television room, and groaned. “Now I’m gonna get double-teamed. Fan-fucking-tastic. Somebody shoot me now.”

Six-Pack strode in and lowered himself into a chair, concerned brown eyes bouncing between him and Zack before setting on Sean. “This have anything to do with Saturday night?”

“Yeah.”

“Tell me it didn’t get as far as it sounded when I walked in.”

Sean didn’t have to say a word—his pained expression said enough. Howard pinched the bridge of his nose and laid his head against the back of the chair.

“Christ, man. You had to finally go there? You couldn’t give yourself a few more weeks to get back on even ground before getting involved?”

“Wow, guys. Really, don’t worry about my self-esteem or anything. It’s not like I have any illusions that I’m a great catch.” He was going for angry sarcasm. Instead, he just sounded hurt.

“Cut the crap,” Six-Pack grumbled, sitting up straight. “We’re just worried about both of you. Your sobriety is like five minutes old—and you’re doing great—but I hate to see either of you rush into something that’s gonna put too much stress on you and end up being too much to handle.”

“I appreciate your concern, but it’s my problem, and Eve’s,” he said firmly.

Zack cut in. “If word gets out, it’s going to be
everybody’s
problem. Our guys will be worried, like us, but they’ll do their best to keep it in the family. However, people have eyes, and once the news spreads, there are those in the department who’ll be less than thrilled about two firefighters on the same team developing a romantic relationship, or whatever it is, especially between a ranking officer and a subordinate. Tell me I’m wrong.”

He couldn’t. And that pissed him off. But even more so that Zack’s assessment made it sound so dirty. He wasn’t sure what he and Eve had going yet, but while it wasn’t advisable to throw their newfound relationship in everyone’s faces—and yes, he could be reprimanded for crossing the line—he wasn’t in any way ashamed of it. “What would you have me do? Give up what could be a very good thing for both of us to make everyone else more comfortable? Fuck that.”

“Nobody’s suggesting anything of the kind,” Six-Pack said, shaking his head. “Just be sure what you have is worth fighting for, and if so? Don’t let any fool stand in your way.”

“I wouldn’t.”

“Don’t mess with her head. If you’re simply scratching an itch, go find another post, because Eve deserves more. Things would be strained for a while, but she’d get over it.”

His best friend’s lecture echoed Zack’s, but he was wrong about one point—he didn’t know Eve was so upset she’d been planning to transfer. Zack probably knew, but it wasn’t something Sean wanted to get into, especially since he’d never let it happen.

He’d leave the department first. It wasn’t as if he needed the money.

But he did need a reason to get up every morning, stay sober one more day. A reason not to reach for the sleeping pills and succeed where he’d failed once before.

“I get it.” Sean pushed to his feet. “Well, if we’re done with this little heart-to-heart, I’ve got work to do in the office.”

They were probably talking about him after he left the room, but he didn’t care. The office he shared with Six-Pack as captain and lieutenant was the one place he could remain relatively undisturbed, unless one of his team had a problem to discuss, or dispatch relayed a call.

As if he’d conjured the loud tones on the intercom, they sounded three times the second he entered the office. With a soft curse, he strode back the way he’d come, toward the bay. So much for an hour of peace and quiet. The others were quickly bunking out in their gear, moving like a well-oiled machine while listening to the computerized female voice.

A three-alarm structure fire. An explosion in a restaurant at the strip mall east of downtown Sugarland, the flames rapidly spreading from the original site to the connecting businesses. Multiple injuries.

This was going to be a bad one. His gut never lied.

“Gas leak?” he speculated as he and Zack jumped into the cab of the quint. Clay and Julian climbed in back, the lieutenant and Eve in the ambulance.

“Could be, since it’s a restaurant.” Zack fired up his baby and led them out of the bay, hitting the lights and sirens.

Despite his previous hopes for some quiet office time, Sean would be lying if he said that sound, the roar of the engine, didn’t shoot a rush of pure adrenaline through his veins. Ever since he was a boy, the wail of sirens had made him equal parts sad and excited: sad for whoever was in trouble, excited that maybe he’d be grown-up enough one day to jump into the action, help people.

He wasn’t sure whom they’d be able to help today; the scene looked even worse than described. People were running around, some still spilling out of the businesses from the mall into the parking lot. A few were lying on the pavement a fair distance from the inferno, being treated by firefighter-paramedics. As Zack pulled into the parking lot, Clay voiced everyone’s thoughts.

“Holy shee-it, boys, we’ve got a raging bitch on our hands! Hope y’all are ready to rumble.”

Ready as they’d ever be. They’d practiced this drill, performed the real deal more times than he could count. No two fires were alike, however, and they had to stay sharp. The last time they’d worked a fire this involved, he had a meltdown, fucked up, and Tommy had almost been killed.

The memory had him breaking into a cold sweat as they jumped out.
Focus.

Captain Lance Holliday from Station Two jogged over to give him the rundown. Sean hadn’t seen the man since the day of the boat accident, but there was no time for pleasantries.

“Tanner,” Holliday said loudly, to be heard over the crackle and roar of the blaze. “We’ve got four businesses involved. Started with an explosion in China Fang.” He pointed to the restaurant, which was belching flame and smoke.

“Point of origin?”

“Witnesses swear it came from the restrooms.”

“Say
what
?”

“Yeah,” the captain said grimly. “We’ve already called the police and the bomb experts are on the way, along with Arson. In the meantime, we’ve got two known missing persons from the restaurant. A woman and an eleven-year-old boy. My guys have made one sweep so far and found some others with a variety of injuries, but haven’t found the woman or the boy.”

“We’re on it. What else?”

“Fire spread to the video store on the end to the right, and then to the shoe and computer stores on the left. Our guys and Captain Reynolds from Station Three are trying to get it contained and search for victims inside. Video place is clear.”

“That leaves a lot of area to cover. I’ll fan out my team and we’ll keep looking for the woman and the boy.” Sean frowned at the blaze. “We’ll still be spread too thin. I think we need to call in another engine company.”

“I agree. I’ll call the battalion chief and we’ll get it rolling.” Holliday loped over to Reynolds to confer with the older captain.

Sean turned to find Zack already finished with the preconnected hoses and climbing on top of the quint to man the high-powered gun. He’d use it to hose down the roofs of the buildings that had the all clear—because of the water pressure, it was too dangerous for firefighters or anyone else to be inside during this procedure.

The rest of the team was quickly shrugging on their Air-Pak tanks over their heavy coats and donning the black face masks of their SCBAs, or self-contained breathing apparatuses. These tanks were supposed to be good for thirty minutes of air, but they varied depending on the individual. A low-air alarm would sound when it was time for a firefighter to get the hell out to safety. He spared a glance at Eve and forced himself to tamp down the fear and let her do her job. She’d been pulling her weight for years and she deserved a better shake than he’d given her lately.

He stepped up to his four firefighters and gave his orders. “Eve, you and Clay help scour the restaurant. We’ve got a missing woman and an eleven-year-old boy in there and time is wasting.”

“Yes, sir.” Given the situation, Clay’s natural exuberance was dampened. He and Eve fastened their masks and jogged for the building. The urge to call her back was almost unbearable.

She’ll be fine. Get a grip and let the woman do her job.

“You two man the hose and let’s see if we can slay the dragon,” he said to Julian and Six-Pack.

After signaling Zack the go-ahead to hose down the roof of the video store, Sean eyed the inferno and considered whether to don his own Air-Pak and SCBA. As captain, he rarely had to leave his post—he could count on one hand the number of times that had ever been necessary—but every man must be prepared.

He decided to wait. His equipment was close at hand, on the quint, and more firefighters would arrive soon.

Every muscle tense, he practically vibrated in place as he watched the firefighters work in almost choreographed precision. Two in, two out. Repeat procedure. Trust your superiors to bring you out if the situation turns. More than that, trust
yourself
. Know where every comrade is at all times; leave no one behind. Find the victims, bring them out.

Stay alive.

The men were having a tough time subduing the blaze at the left end of the row of stores. Two firefighters from Station Three, Jones and Blackwell, stumbled from the shoe store, Blackwell’s arm around Jones’ shoulders. Captain Reynolds met the men halfway, assisted Jones in getting Blackwell to an ambulance, where he collapsed onto the ground. Sean wanted nothing more than to go over and check on the man, but that would have to wait.

Where the fuck was the fourth engine company?

They were taking too damned long. The teams were battling the blaze with everything they had, but the tide was turning too slowly. Black smoke belched and flame shot from every broken window, cutting precious minutes short for whoever was still inside. The familiar, terrible helplessness crept through his veins like poison, whispered into his ear that he was as ineffectual as he’d been twice before. Damned to do nothing while the world burned to ash and fell around him, dragging his soul to hell.

He paced, rising panic at war with logic and respect for proper procedure. Every instinct screamed at him to get in there, find the woman and boy, help his team. Something. Anything but stand here and watch them burn. Watch them—

His thoughts ground to a halt as his gaze passed over the crowd of displaced shoppers and diners. His attention was caught by a tall man striding away, long dirty blond hair flowing down his back, and his heart skipped a beat. Blood froze. Then the man was gone, swallowed in the chaos.

“No. It couldn’t have been.”

That
man was probably rotting in prison somewhere. Or dead.

A shout pulled him back to the situation at hand and he spun to see Eve emerge from the restaurant, a person in jeans slung over her shoulder in a fireman’s carry. Clay followed on her heels, limping badly and holding a rip in his coat sleeve, blood streaming between his fingers.