Page 3 of Unseen Danger

Branson Aaberg dashed through another hallway, the fastest route from the security center to the main stage.

The image he’d seen on the camera feed burned in his mind—flames engulfing Kicker. Branson prayed someone would reach the man and help him before it was too late.

Chatter from the PowerSource security team sounded in his earpiece. He listened for a second longer to verify they’d called for paramedics and police backup. Their leader also gave instructions for evacuating the massive audience.

He switched his coms to channel six as he braked at a fire extinguisher housed in a case attached to the wall. His security team should’ve switched to that channel as soon as the fire started. “D2, this is D1. Give me status.”

Branson whipped his Glock 19 from its holster and smashed the grip into the glass. Knocking away the jagged edges that remained, he snatched the fire extinguisher and took off.

“D1, package en route to exit.” Darren Tremblay didn’t have D-Chop out of the building yet. He wasn’t secure.

Branson sprinted past the door that would’ve led him to the stage. Every instinct screamed at him to go put out the fire, to save Kicker. But his priority always had to be the principal. Always.

He grit his teeth as he headed for the rear exit. “D3, status.”

“D1, this is D3. With package.” Louis Kursko was with D-Chop, too. Maybe Branson could turn back.

Two PowerSource security guards in black uniforms jogged past him, going the opposite direction as their radios sputtered with chatter.

“D1, this is D2.” Darren’s disgruntled tone sounded in Branson’s ear.

“Go.”

“The package wants you to stay behind and see the band members are safe.”

The image of Kicker on fire seared Branson’s memory. He’d like nothing better than to help the guy. But he had to prioritize…

“D2, what’s your status?”

“D1, we’re in the pocket. Ready to leave.”

The tension in Branson’s chest eased at the code name for D-Chop’s private limo. “D2, go ahead. I’ll check on the others.”

“Roger, D1.”

Branson spun around and ran hard in the opposite direction. Would he be too late to help Kicker? He hoped someone else already had or the guy wouldn’t have a prayer.

The lighting and décor grew darker as he wove through the final hallways just before the stage access. He dashed past the dressing rooms and veered into the metal stage door, slamming it open to dart around the black, sound-absorbing walls and curtains that had been put up for this concert.

He had to dodge scrambling crew members that were beating a quick exit instead of going onstage to help fight the disaster.

Ty Leeman, the keyboardist too new to have come up with a unique monicker yet, jogged past. Going the wrong way, but at least he was one D-Chop band member accounted for.

Branson hit the stage, rapidly taking in the scene. No sign of Kicker or anyone on fire.

Thank you, Lord.

A loud whoosh jerked his gaze to two men in PowerSource security uniforms who stood by a backdrop that was lit with flames. One of them sprayed a fire extinguisher at the blaze.

The orange menace climbed higher than the short guy seemed able to reach. It spread horizontally across the backdrop above the extinguisher’s spray.

Branson rushed over to attack the fire on the far left. He sprayed the extinguisher he’d brought with him in a sweeping motion at the base of the flames that climbed vertically and then slanted right at about six feet and kept crawling.

He blasted the highest licks of fire with the extinguisher, his tension easing as they weakened, flickered, and petered out.

“Call it in?” He glanced at the security guard closest to him. The man nodded and started his report over coms as Branson turned to check on the band members.

JipJag looked okay, standing about twenty feet away from the backdrop examining the electric guitar Branson theorized the man slept with.

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