Trial by Fire (19 page)

“Not always, boys.” And definitely not after Paxton’s beloved team got a load of what he planned for the next go-round. A thrill of anticipation bolted down his spine. To annihilate the lieutenant’s comrades was to deliver a crippling blow to the big sonofabitch.

Wait for it. Savor the moment.

Then cut Paxton off at the knees.

Until then, he had a task to perform. Keeping his head low and away from the windows, he tugged his pistol from the waistband of his jeans and made a cautious sweep through the living quarters and kitchen area. No one was supposed to be left behind on a call, but you never knew. Anyone remaining here would discover this was the unluckiest fucking day of his life—right before Frank’s bullet plowed between his eyes.

The front rooms, however, were empty. A single lamp had been left on in the living area, and in the kitchen, a dim bulb over the stove cut the gloom. The whole building felt deserted, but he kept the pistol at the ready, tightening his grip on the bag in his other hand.

Another hallway off the kitchen led to the office, which housed a desk, computer, phone, and a charger stand for two walkie-talkies, one missing. The usual crap.

Farther down the corridor, lights in four rooms had been switched on. These would be the bunks in use on this shift, he guessed. Hit the lights, dress in a hurry. Made sense, and made his mission easier.

The room closest to the office he figured was the captain’s. Simple reasoning, with inspection yielding no solid proof, except that one bed hadn’t been slept in. Whoever was staying in this room didn’t share, which seemed consistent with the highest rank. A small framed photo beside the bed showed a brown-haired man, a gorgeous broad, and two equally good-looking brats. Not the lieutenant’s digs, then.

The next room held two occupants—but which two? Damn, the space was tidy to the point of sterility. On each small bedside table were three framed photos, an assortment of different families, lovers, a couple of dogs. Yeah, he should’ve realized each of the three shifts shared the bunks, so they didn’t have room for a lot of personal memorabilia.

His eyes found a shelf above one bed, a football trophy perched there. Moving closer, he read aloud. “Thomas Skyler, Varsity MVP, Broadmore High School.” Dated five years ago. This was one of Paxton’s team. He’d seen the name in reflective lettering on the guy’s coat when he’d stumbled from the burning house and puked his guts out. He laughed. “Fuckin’ rookie.”

The other bed was anyone’s guess, the photos revealing no clues. Frank moved on, aware of the minutes slipping by. He needed to get this done, get the hell out of here. A sense of urgency tensed his shoulders, stealing some of the fun from snooping. That pissed him off.

The third room wasn’t quite as bare. One table boasted a pic of a hot Mexican babe, among others. This one might belong to the man named Salvatore. And the other—

Pay dirt. Staring Frank in the face was a photo of Fire Chief Mitchell and his scrawny bird of a wife. His gun hand clenched hard around the pistol’s handle. His head swam with sudden, consuming rage. A volcanic maelstrom of hate so deep and explosive, he thought he might die from the sheer force of it. A blinding hurricane that
must
have a more satisfying outlet than his pathetic efforts so far.

Concentrate, dammit. They’ll return soon.

Tucking the gun in the waistband of his jeans, he emptied two small items from the bag onto the lieutenant’s bed. Shook his head to clear the shrieking storm. There. Another move on the game board, perfectly executed. He only wished he could hang around to see high-and-mighty Paxton’s face when he discovered his present.

Tried for the most unforgivable sin.

Sentenced to suffer in prolonged agony, desperately seeking the truth.

And finally, to whisper my name with his last bloody, goddamned breath.

The interior of the small white A-frame house was well on its way to becoming fully involved with flames by the time they rolled to a stop out front. Howard grimaced. Anyone still inside had to be rescued
now
. The place was about to go up like a tinder-box.

As he, Julian, and Tommy slapped the masks over their faces and turned on their Air-Paks, he worked to maintain his calm focus. A routine call, nothing more. Get in, search for survivors, get out fast.

At a glance, Howard noted Zack already at his post beside the engine, connecting the hose, manning the pump, and pulling gauges. Readying the small handheld thermal imaging camera that used heat to “see” in a dark, smoked-filled structure, Howard raced for the front door. Julian and Tommy were on his heels, carrying the hose.

Sean, Zack, and Eve would remain outside as this shift’s RIC—or rapid intervention crew—readied to form a rescue if their teammates inside got into a tight spot. Sean barked into his radio to the battalion chief, indicating that his men were executing a primary search of the premises. Once again, the engine companies from stations Three and Four were en route.

One fact became readily apparent. No hysterical family had come running to greet them, screaming for their belongings or another family member to be saved. Which meant the people were trapped inside, or they weren’t home.

And if the residents weren’t here, there was a very real chance the team had just inherited a repeat of last Saturday night.
No, don’t think that. Not yet.

On the porch, he and Julian positioned themselves on either side of the door. At Howard’s nod they slammed booted feet into the area around the lock. Once. Twice. The flimsy mechanism gave on the third blow. Immediately, the men leapt aside as a wall of searing heat and flame exploded from the opening.

“Shit!” Julian gestured with a gloved hand, yelling to be heard over the noise. “Let’s try around back!”

The three of them jogged to the entrance on the back porch, unhampered by a fence or a snarling dog. Howard had a bad feeling that was about all they had going their way.

Flames dancing in a corner window to their right illuminated the yard and the porch where they stood. He’d lay money that was a bedroom, and if so, he dreaded knowing what awaited them. Like he had a choice.

Julian and Tommy dispatched the lock with ease, kicked in the door. Smoke billowed outward, black and thick, but no flames issued forth to bar the way. Howard stepped inside holding the thermal camera, leading them into hell.

A boiling furnace of heat seemed to melt his skin right through his protective clothing. Orange fire licked along the walls and ceiling of the living room and down a hallway to their right, like an angry dragon’s fiery breath. A beast, roaring its challenge, daring them to meet her wrath and escape unscathed.

Forging through the murk, they made a quick sweep of the kitchen and living area. Finding no one, they moved down the hallway single file, Julian in the lead. In succession, they checked the first bedroom they came to, then the next.

Howard searched with the camera around the beds and underneath, inside the tiny closets. Anywhere a frightened person might’ve taken refuge, especially a child. Nothing. He peered through the murk at his partners, shook his head.

“Empty!” The crackling inferno was almost too loud for communication, the heat nearly unbearable.

“Let’s hurry, man.” Julian went on toward the last bedroom, where the blaze appeared to be concentrated.

Howard searched a shotgun bathroom off the hallway, moving straight toward the shower curtain, and flinging it back. His relief to find no one there was fleeting.

“Lieutenant!”

Julian’s hoarse shout brought him at a run. In the three years he’d known Salvatore, he’d never heard that note of horror in the man’s voice. The awful sound electrified every nerve ending, and he swallowed the bitter tang of fear, intent on getting to his comrade.

He skidded to a halt just inside the doorway to the main bedroom, where Julian and Tommy were desperately spraying the bed, dousing a wall of flames.

And on the burning bed were the remains of a person, handcuffed to a post. Charred to a crisp.

“Motherfucker.” Tommy groaned, averting his gaze. “Not again.”

For two heartbeats, he allowed himself to process the terrible reality of what he saw. The metal links of the cuff that had bound this poor soul to a gruesome death. The blackened flesh, split and peeling away from prone limbs and the grinning skull.

Sweet merciful God. He needed to vomit. Instead, he grabbed Julian’s arm, dragging him backward. “Fire’s out! There’s nothing else we can do!”

Julian whirled, dark eyes wild. Hesitating only a second, he and Tommy stumbled after Howard, who glanced behind him to make sure his partners were keeping up. When they made the living room, the blaze in the entry was out, the exit clear, courtesy of the other companies who’d arrived.

Outside, Julian stripped off his mask and was bent over heaving, hands on his knees, obviously battling the urge to be violently sick. The discarded hose lay at his booted feet. Nearby, Tommy appeared shaken but okay. Then again, he’d gotten a load of this the last round. Next to him, a grim-faced Sean barked into his handheld, requesting the police.

Howard yanked off his own mask and gulped in a few deep breaths to steady himself. Meeting Sean’s gaze, he wheezed, “Have them contact Detective Shane Ford.” Howard braced himself.

“Julian said there was a body.
Another goddamned body
. You’re telling me this is related to—”

“Yes.”

Sean’s mouth tightened. “You have to tell the team what’s going on, Howard. Tonight.” He let out a ragged breath, scanning the fire, which was pretty much out. “Every call is a risk, but this is different. Out of our league. Fuck.”

Julian, who’d managed to collect himself, straightened, his attention bouncing between both men. “Tell us what?”

“Later,” Howard said. “When we hand off this mess to the cops and get back to the station. We’ll meet in the TV room.”

“A meeting? In the middle of the frigging night?” Julian snorted. “Must be some shit,
amigo.
”

Howard’s voice was as hollow as he felt. “Yeah, my friend. It’s some bad shit.”

Two hours later, Howard paced the station’s television room as his friends trudged in, filthy and exhausted. A headache built at his temples, borne of anger and bone weariness. He hated that the others were being dragged into this insanity. He’d love to meet whomever was responsible, tear his head from his neck, and ask questions later.

“Dude, what can’t wait until after we get some shut-eye?” Tommy grouched, swiping an arm across his dirt- and sweat-streaked face. “Or at least a shower?”

A rumble of agreement echoed through the room as the rest plopped in various states of undress onto the sofa and chairs. All except the normally quiet Zack, who surprised them by snapping, “Shut up, assholes. Can’t you see the lieutenant is serious?”

Everyone shut up, whether out of sheer surprise at the uncharacteristic thread of steel in Zack’s tone or out of dawning realization that something heavy was taking place, Howard couldn’t guess. Either way, he was grateful, and shot Knight a look of approval before beginning.

“This won’t take long, but it’s an issue that’s affecting the whole group.” Issue. What an understatement. He hesitated, chewing on the right words. “I have a problem involving the two arson murders, if that’s technically what they are, and it’s putting you all at risk.”

“Six-Pack, what’s wrong?” Eve asked softly, dark brows furrowed in concern.

“Seems that for whatever twisted reason, the killer has decided it would be fun to include me in his sick game. He left an obscene photo of the first victim on my front porch, taken before she was murdered.” A round of colorful curses greeted this news. “The police confirmed the woman’s identity.”

Eve clapped a hand over her mouth, eyes wide. Julian leapt to his feet and let fly a string of Spanish expletives that needed no translation. Tommy said “dude” about twelve times, and Sean, who’d already known, still clenched his fists like he wanted to hit something. Or someone. Only Zack appeared to keep his cool, his laser-blue gaze studying Howard calmly.

“I’m glad you told us, Lieutenant,” he said. “But no matter who sets the fires or why, it’s our job to put them out. Period. This isn’t your fault.”

In his head, Howard knew he had no control over the killer’s actions, but it hadn’t stopped him from feeling somehow responsible. Zack’s vocal support, quickly echoed by the rest of the group, lifted some of the burden off his shoulders.

Eve folded her arms over her chest. “You don’t have any idea who this pervert is or what his grudge is against you?”

Grudge. The word freeze-dried him inside. Not once had he entertained the notion that this was some kind of revenge directed at him personally. Who hated him with enough passion to drag him into this nightmare? He had Bentley and Georgie, a few good friends, and led a mostly solitary life. Well, before Kat.

“This came straight out of left field. Total
Twilight Zone
material. I’ve got zilch.” He sighed. “If anyone wants to swap shifts with the B or C team until this goes away, I’ll understand.”

“Bullshit.”

“Fuck that.”

A chorus of loud protests ensued, peppered with colorful descriptions of the ass-whooping the perpetrator would receive if any of them got their hands on him.

Grateful, Howard ended the meeting with a wave of his hand. “Thanks, guys. Now go get showered and try to catch a couple hours’ sleep before shift change.”