Page 104 of The Night Belongs To Fireman

“I have a possible arson and assault out at the San Gabriel Refuge for Injured Wildlife on Mountain Way. I may need backup.”

“That could be tough, Breen. I have two collapsed overpasses and a fire at a shoe factory. And that’s two minutes into this thing.”

“Got it.” He was on his own. “Where do you want me after this?”

“Hey. I didn’t say no. You check it out and see how bad it is. You got your gear?”

“Enough.” He had work gloves and steel-toed boots, and that would have to do.

“Good luck.” And the man clicked off.

He drove on. Every block brought a new vista of destruction. Downed power lines, a few automobile collisions, a tree that had fallen onto a house. While he wanted to stop and help, his growing panic wouldn’t let him. One-handed, he tried texting Rachel again, but again got nothing.

His eye lingered on her last message. I love you. Even though it was just a text, he could picture her saying the words. Her eyes would be wide and serious, her heart shining through. Rachel didn’t let many people get close. But once someone won her trust and made their way past her shields, the most tender, passionate, softhearted, fierce-willed person awaited. I’m coming, Rachel. Hang on.

He also knew she must have been very, very frightened, or she wouldn’t have put “I love you” in a text. That’s what scared him the most.

Incendiary fury made every muscle clench. He was going to take that man apart. Just please, God, let him have the chance.

As he approached the Refuge, he saw the orange flicker of fire between the cypress trees. Sweet Jesus, the man had already started a fire. The Refuge verged on wilderness, and if this blaze really got going, it could build into a brushfire threatening scores of homes in the area. As horrified as he was, Fred forced himself to stay calm and remember his training. One thing at a time. First step: GYST. Get yourself together. Think, plan, then act. Size up the situation, make an action plan based on strategy and tactics, keep your fucking head.

The gate was open, and animals were pouring out in a melee of milling, bleating beasts. He spotted a few goats and an alpaca. Their panicky cries mingled with the determined crackle of flames eating through dry vegetation. Had Rachel left the gate open when she came in? Or managed to open it later? Or maybe the kidnapper had opened it to make his own escape after fucking over everyone else.

As he rattled up the drive, he saw that the usual security lights were off, and the only illumination came from the flames licking along the fence that surrounded the corral. At this point it could still be contained, but he needed to get some retardant on it, fast. Scanning the rest of the compound, it looked as if two of the compound’s older buildings had collapsed, Rachel’s office and the guard shack. If Rachel was in one of those …

He didn’t see any people at all. The absence of human activity was not only eerie, but terrifying.

He stopped next to the corral fence. If Rachel’s attacker was still here, wouldn’t he have appeared at the sight of Fred’s truck? Or would he shoot at Fred from the bushes?

Whatever the risks, he had to find Rachel.

“Rachel,” he shouted out the window.

No answer.

He jumped out of his truck, then grabbed the fire extinguisher from the backseat. After pulling on some work gloves, he stuck a flashlight in his back pocket. He wished he had a gun, but this would have to do. He glanced around again, scanning for signs of life … or ambush.

He tried again. “Rachel! If you can hear me, make some kind of sound.”

Nothing.

Sick dread filled him. He checked his phone, realized he had no service out here. The nearest tower must be out. Damn damn damn. With no idea where Rachel was, he didn’t know where to start. Put out the fire or check her office? Her last text hadn’t said, but his gut told him she’d been in her office. But what if he was wrong, and she’d holed herself up in the guard’s building, with the flames beginning to feed on themselves, dance and roar and …

Shoving that thought aside, he ran to the fence line and activated the fire extinguisher. He sprayed the foam until the canister was empty, then kicked dirt on the remaining flames. The stench of gasoline prickled his nose. The asshole had poured accelerant around the property, the sick bastard. Why had he stopped? Where had he gone? Had the earthquake interrupted him?

When he reached the bungalow, he stopped cursing the man, because what was left of him lay splayed next to the building’s shattered wall. His neck was bent at a repulsive angle, his face set in lines of horror, one side smashed to a pulp, the other intact. A chunk of roof tile lay next to him, and crumbled bits of plaster covered him like gruesome confetti. A spark had caught the lower part of his pants leg, which smoldered and released a gagging, burnt-flesh stench.

Fred kicked a big rooster tail of dirt over him to put out the fire. He knelt next to the man and felt his pulse. Definitely dead, though his skin was still warm, either from the fire he’d started, or from the dying embers of his life’s breath.

“You had it coming,” Fred muttered. “I’m just sorry I didn’t get a chance to kick your ass first. I will take your jacket, though.” He rolled the man onto his stomach and removed his jacket, then used it to smother the rest of the flames eating at the fence. He peered inside the darkness of the partially collapsed structure.

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