The Scorching

by William W. Johnstone; J. A. Johnstone

  “We’re getting you out of here.” Sarah said.

  “What happened? How come you’re here?” Norris said.

  Using as few words as possible, Sarah told him about using the brass knuckles to overpower the guard and finding the keys.

  “Cory Cantwell taught you well, Miss Milano,” Norris said.

  “Cory didn’t teach me how to kill a man with a knuckleduster,” Sarah said. “It’s just something you know or you don’t.”

  She tried the chains attached to the steel staple on the timber support beam and then the staple itself. “Maybe I can find a crowbar to loosen this,” she said.

  “No, it will take too long,” Norris said. “Azar and his boys could return at any time. Get out of here while you still can and then call the cops.”

  “No, not without you,” Sarah said. “If Azar gets back before the police arrive, he’ll kill you.”

  “There’s a quicker way.” Norris said. “We fight fire with fire.”

  “What do you mean?” Sarah said.

  He looked at the black woman. “You, what’s your name?”

  “I’m Mrs. Palmer.” And then with a touch of defiance in her voice, “A good Christian lady.”

  “Are there cans of gasoline stored in this place, Mrs. Palmer, good Christian lady?”

  “Yes, down in the garage. Two or three full cans, I think.”

  “Sarah, you and Mrs. Palmer bring a couple of those gas cans,” Norris said.

  “What are you going to do?” Sarah said.

  “I’m going to set this support beam alight and when it’s good and charred, I’ll pull the staple free,” Norris said. “That there is bone-dry wood, it will burn really fast.”

  Sarah shook her head. “No, it’s too dangerous. I’ll look for a crowbar or a metal rod or something.”

  “Damn it, woman, I’m a firefighter, remember.” Norris said. “I can start a controlled fire in the beam and be out of here before the rest of the place burns down. It’s a terrorist nest and needs to be burned to the ground.”

  “I don’t think . . .” Sarah began.

  “Do it, woman!” Norris yelled. “The more we talk about it, the greater the likelihood of Azar and his men returning to catch us here. Then we’ll both die and probably Mrs. Palmer as well.”

  “Lord help us,” the black woman said. “We’ll bring the gas cans.”

  * * *

  The cans of gasoline were in the garage area as Mrs. Palmer said. She and Sarah each grabbed a can, and Sarah found a hacksaw lying on a workbench and took that as well. Maybe Norris could saw through his chains.

  “Look at these shackles,” Mike Norris said, holding up his arms. “Each link a half inch of stainless steel. I’d be sawing all day and into the night. Fire is better and faster. Watch this.”

  Norris doused the support beam in gas to about half its height and picked up a red Bic lighter from the table by his cot. He thumbed the lighter into flame and said, “This is all it takes. I’ll be out of here in no time.” He waved a clanking hand. “Now you two leave and don’t look back.”

  Sarah said, “Mr. Norris . . .”

  “Mike.”

  “Mike. Don’t do this. Try the hacksaw,” Sarah said.

  “I told you, I don’t have the time. Azar could arrive at any minute. Now get out of here, both of you.” Norris seemed remarkably cheerful. “At first it will be a controlled burn, and I’ll be just fine.”

  Still Sarah was hesitant. “Mike, just stay where you are. When we get out of here, we’ll call the police.”

  “I don’t have a cell phone,” Mrs. Palmer said. “My pastor doesn’t hold with them.”

  “Then we’ll stop the first police car we see,” Sarah said. “Mike, it won’t be long until you get help.”

  “Go, both of you,” Norris said. “If the fire doesn’t work, I’ll wait for the law to rescue me.” He smiled. “Or Azar to kill me, whatever comes first.”

  “Mike . . .” Sarah said.

  “I’m about to light up this beam, so get the hell out of here,” Norris said. “Get as far away from the warehouse as you can.”

  Mrs. Palmer grabbed Sarah’s hand and dragged her from the room. “He means it!”

  Sarah turned her head and yelled, “We’ll send the police!”

  “Yes, do that,” Mike Norris said. “Tell them to hurry.”

  * * *

  Norris waited until the women were gone and then doused the entire room and his bedding with gasoline, emptying both cans. Then he lit a paper napkin from his breakfast tray and dropped it into the spilled gas. Flames flared immediately. Because of the use of synthetic materials, it can take as little as thirty seconds for a small blaze to become a major fire. Forty years ago, people had fourteen to seventeen minutes to escape a house fire. Today that time has been cut to two to three.

  After less than two minutes, the flames intensified, and the temperature in the room rose to 190 degrees. A hot cloud of gray and black smoke deepened below the ceiling and then reached open doorways and stairwells.

  Mike Norris’s skin began to blister, and he choked on cyanide and carbon monoxide fumes that had now reached 3,400 parts per million. He was beginning to die.

  The warehouse had a brick façade and a stone floor, but above that two wood floors separated the levels and helped spread the inferno by two paths . . . direct flame contact and auto-ignition when furnishings and other objects spontaneously burst into flame without being touched by fire. At three minutes and thirty seconds, a flashover occurred in Norris’s room. The temperature reached 1,400 degrees and everything in the room burst into flames, including the walls, ceiling . . . and Mike Norris.

  He had time to cry out, “Azar! I’ve won!” before he turned into a blazing human torch and his voice was stilled forever.

  Six minutes after Norris had first flicked his Bic, the entire warehouse was engulfed in flames, and all that remained of him was a cinder.

  Nasim Azar still an unseen threat, Sarah and Mrs. Palmer ran into the parking lot and drove away. They saw no police cruisers.

  CHAPTER 52

  Adelia Palmer drove Sarah Milano to her home, a small ranch house in the poorer part of town with a well-kept front lawn surrounding a magnolia tree. While she made tea for them both, Sarah used the woman’s landline phone to call the police and then Cory Cantwell.

  “My God, Sarah,” Cantwell said. “Are you all right?”

  “Yes, I’m fine.”

  “What happened?”

  And Sarah told him. Then, “I called the police. I hope they were in time to save Mike Norris.”

  There was a pause before Cantwell spoke. “Sarah, Mike is dead. He was a firefighter, and he knew that by the time the support beam was charred through enough to pull the chain free, the entire room would be blazing and him with it.”

  “Cory, but why?” Sarah said.

  “He’d sold his soul to the devil, and he realized there was no going back from that. Burning down the warehouse, he got his revenge on Nasim Azar. I’m sure the place is just a pile of blackened timbers by now.”

  “Then he was a hero,” Sarah said. “I mean, in the end.”

  “Yeah, maybe he was.” Cantwell said. “Where are you?” And when Sarah told him Mrs. Palmer’s address, he said, “I’ll grab a cab and pick you up.”

  “I’m not going anywhere,” Sarah said.

  While they drank tea and waited for Cantwell, Sarah said, “Now you’re out of a job, Mrs. Palmer.”

  “I didn’t like that job anyway,” the woman said. “Well, I did at first when all Mr. Azar did was sell his rugs. But after a while he changed and a lot of strange people used to visit. Not nice people. And he hired a bodyguard, that horrible Salman Assad, and then came Mr. Norris, who scared me.” Mrs. Palmer shook her head. “Miss Milano, I think murders were committed in that warehouse, but I was afraid to quit my job, because I’d seen too much and could’ve been next.”

  “What will you do now?” Sarah said, helping h
erself to a chocolate chip cookie.

  “There’s plenty of jobs in Portland for cleaning and cooking ladies,” Mrs. Palmer said. “I won’t starve.”

  “Before I leave, I’ll give you my phone number,” Sarah said. “Call me if you ever need help.” She read reluctance on the black woman’s face and said, “Mrs. Palmer, you saved my life. I’ll never forget that, or you.”

  “Then I will, Miss Milano. But I think you and I move in very different circles, so I won’t call often.” She smiled. “Do you know what you are? You’re a Bond girl, like that lovely Diana Rigg lady and all those others.”

  Sarah laughed and it felt good. “No one’s ever called me a Bond girl before.”

  “Well, you are,” Mrs. Palmer said. “And every bit as beautiful as any of them.”

  * * *

  Cory Cantwell asked the cabdriver to go past Azar’s warehouse. But the police had closed the road outside because of the fire engines and other emergency vehicles, and they were forced to take a detour.

  “From what I could see, looks like there’s not much of that place left,” the driver said.

  “Yeah, looks that way,” Cantwell said.

  Sarah Milano said nothing, but she seemed troubled, her killing of the guard and the terrible death of Mike Norris weighing on her, as though the shock of what had happened only now hit her.

  “I was really worried about you, Sarah,” Cantwell said as the cab threaded through the busy streets of downtown Portland.

  “I’m so glad you care,” Sarah said. Her hand sought his and she clasped it tightly. “Over the past forty-eight hours I thought about you, a lot . . . how I missed you.”

  Cantwell leaned over and kissed her. “We’ll never be separated again,” he said.

  Sarah smiled. “I hope not. Not ever.”

  * * *

  When they returned to the Hilton, Sarah said she should call Jacob Sensor and tell him she was still alive.

  “Sarah, I don’t want to rain on your parade, but the great man doesn’t give a damn,” Cantwell said. “He more or less told me you were expendable.”

  Sarah smiled. “I’ve always known that. When I first accepted his job offer, I was fully aware of his reputation in government circles. Jacob Sensor would sacrifice his own mother to secure an extra twenty votes in the Senate for one of his projects.”

  “He wants to be President,” Cantwell said.

  “And he probably will,” Sarah said.

  Cantwell then told her about the coming counterterrorism operation in the Willamette forest, and when he’d finished, he said, “He told me to sit this one out, but it’s the day after tomorrow, and I’ll be there.”

  “Sensor is leading the operation, of course?” Sarah said.

  “Of course. It’s all on him. We’re at the height of the tourist season before the fall weather sets in, and the man who saved hundreds of innocent people from fanatical Islamic terrorists . . . well, it’s a pretty solid credential for a politician running for the highest office in the land.”

  “So, should I call him or not?” Sarah said.

  “Yeah, call him,” Cantwell said. “If nothing else, you’ll take a load off his mind, a life-or-death decision he doesn’t have to make.”

  “My life or death,” Sarah said.

  “Exactly.”

  Jacob Sensor was overjoyed to hear that Sarah was alive and well, or so he said.

  “I’m sure Superintendent Cantwell has told you about the big anti-terrorist operation I’m launching on the eighth. I call it Operation Guts and Glory.” Then, a smile in his voice, “Do you like that?”

  “Very original, sir,” Sarah said.

  “Yes, I thought so,” Sensor said. “Now, Miss Milano, you make sure Superintendent Cantwell stays put in the hotel. Use all your feminine wiles to keep him there. He’s not yet fit for a combat assignment. But I’ll make sure a share of the glory is his.”

  “That’s very generous of you, sir,” Sarah said.

  “I think Cantwell deserves it for what he’s done in the past. Oh, I’m being called away. So glad you’re back with us safe and sound, Miss Milano.”

  * * *

  “Well, what did Sensor say?” Cory Cantwell said.

  “He says he’s glad to have me back. And he says his attack on the terrorists is called Operation Guts and Glory, and that some of the glory will be yours. Oh, and he told me to use my feminine wiles to keep you here.”

  “And will you?”

  “No. Because I’m going with you.”

  “Suppose I said you can’t?”

  “Suppose I said, just try and stop me.”

  “Then I’d suppose wrong and you’d suppose right.”

  “I suppose,” Sarah said. And she and Cantwell smiled.

  CHAPTER 53

  Nasim Azar was beside himself with rage.

  His warehouse was burned to the ground, a quarter of a million dollars’ worth of rare Persian rugs had gone up in smoke, an Islamic brother was missing, and his prisoners . . . he’d no idea if they were alive or dead.

  Azar sat in the living room of a safe house in the Lloyd district of downtown Portland with Ibrahim Rahman, the twenty-seven-year-old leader of the Jacks of All Trades terrorist cell. The Jacks were no mere collection of psychopaths, but a group with the clear ideology that they were an important part of the coming apocalypse that would destroy Western civilization, bring about the Caliphate, and return the Islamic world to the seventh century.

  “You suffered a grievous loss, my brother,” Rahman said. “Let us hope that the infidels died in the flames.”

  “That is my wish,” Azar said. “I’ve lost everything, all that I held dear.”

  “You will get your revenge in the Willamette forest,” Rahman said. “If Allah blesses you, you will die a martyr with the rest of the mujahideen.”

  “How many of your brothers are now here in Portland?” Azar said. A stained pizza box with a single piece of gnawed crust lay on the coffee table in front of him.

  “Fifty armed warriors. All are devout Islamic brethren who are willing to die to destroy the American devil.”

  “Allahu Akbar!” Azar said. Then, “You have made your plan, Ibrahim?”

  “Yes. I’ll show you,” Rahman said.

  He rose and took something from a desk drawer, swept the pizza box off the table, and spread out a hand-drawn map. “This plan was approved by the great Sheikh Jamari Qadir and his learned council. He said it needs no improvement because it was inspired by Allah. See here, Nasim. This is the Three Pools area of the forest where the infidel families gather.” Rahman pointed to an adjoining green patch. “My brothers will start infiltrating the Willamette tonight and tomorrow, and this forest is where we’ll gather. We will then attack through the trees and be on the infidels before they know what is happening to them.”

  “And my men?” Azar said. “Those who will add fire to your sword.”

  “How many will you bring?”

  “Eight, plus myself.”

  “Then you will set a diversionary fire to attract the forest rangers and keep them away from the three pools. Hopefully the flames will spread quickly and burn fleeing unbelievers.”

  “The Scorching will kill many, my brother,” Azar said. “Inshallah!”

  “And now, we will have coffee,” Rahman said, smiling.

  “Your hospitality knows no limits, Ibrahim,” Azar said. “But I must leave you for a while, and I will drink coffee with you and we’ll talk more on my return.”

  “Where will you go?” Rahman said.

  “To inspect the ruin of my warehouse,” Azar said.

  Rahman shook his head. “Nasim, my brother, your words bewilder me. You must put earthly concerns behind you and, as I am doing, prepare yourself for martyrdom. Come, we will pray together.”

  “When I return, brother,” Azar said. “I will pray with you then.”

  “So, I will await you,” Rahman said. “But Nasim, remember this . . . martyrdom is not an en
d . . . it is a beginning.”

  “Wise words, Ibrahim,” Azar said, as he made for the door.

  * * *

  Nasim Azar drove to the warehouse, a vast heap of ash and charred timbers behind the stone façade that still stood. Red and white-striped barricades and ribbons of yellow plastic with POLICE written on them at intervals had cordoned off the sidewalk and parking lot, probably because the firefighters feared the stonework might collapse. Azar parked at a distance, walked to the ruin, and stood outside the police barrier.

  Behind him a car passed and then silence. The air still smelled acrid of smoke.

  There was nothing to see except the complete destruction the fire had caused. Had any bodies been recovered? He had no way of knowing. If there had been, the firefighters would have swept up piles of gray ashes and shoveled them into cardboard boxes.

  Now Azar felt a deep sorrow. He had so many doubts. So many unanswered questions. But when he returned to his car, his anger flared again. Did the devil Cantwell rescue his woman and then set fire to the place? He dismissed the thought. He could never have found her. She probably died in the fire along with Norris and the guard he’d left in charge. Mrs. Palmer had no doubt already gone home and missed the whole thing. Well, now she was out of a job.

  Azar hated uncertainty, and he cursed Sarah Milano. Had the whore died? He wished Allah could lean down from paradise and tell him.

  His heart as heavy as an anvil, he had one more stop to make. He drove to the Hilton hotel on Southwest 6th Avenue and parked in the lot, facing the door. He had no intention of attacking the man, but he had a glimmering hope that he might catch a glimpse of Cantwell grieving for his kidnapped woman. Then an amusing thought. He could yell, “Hey, your whore burned to death!” And then drive away. The devil Cantwell would be left to grieve for the rest of his life without ever learning the truth.

  But Cory Cantwell did not appear, and after an hour Azar drove away. He had more important matters that needed his attention.

  CHAPTER 54

  “I didn’t authorize an attack on the Willamette National Forest in Oregon,” the President said. She was nearly fifty years old, but her fingernails were long and pointed and colored bright red, as though she’d just clawed a small animal to death. She was dumpy and angry, like the Queen of Hearts in Alice in Wonderland, and Jacob Sensor feared that she wanted his head.