“Okay.” It was more breath than word.
Forcing herself back to her feet, Laura gritted her teeth and fought back a powerful wave of dizziness. She couldn’t pass out now! God, please keep me conscious. Please!
The world steadied, the floor under her feet firmed, and she moved under the exposed ductwork. Tightening her grip on the metal support rod, she moistened her lips, lifted it, and . . . sniffed.
Was that . . . smoke?
She sniffed again.
Yes. The odor was faint, but definitely smoke.
Through the dim light, she peered up toward the ceiling. Were those vapory tendrils seeping in where she’d removed the piece of tile from the drop ceiling?
Yes.
“Laura . . . ?”
The tendrils grew more robust.
The smell got stronger.
“Laura . . . is that smoke?”
“Yes.” She limped to the door and pressed a palm against the flat surface. Jerked it back.
It was way too hot.
Her heart began to hammer.
Was Hamilton’s house on fire?
Whatever was happening, her plan suddenly took on a new urgency. They had to get out of here now!
“I don’t know where the smoke’s coming from, but get ready. I’m going to start banging.”
Repositioning herself under the duct, she began to hit the metal with the support rod.
One minute passed.
Two.
Three.
The smoke was black now. And thicker.
Lord help them, the house was on fire!
And Hamilton was either ignoring their banging or had already vacated the premises.
But someone outside would see or smell the smoke, wouldn’t they? Except . . . who would be outside at this hour of the night?
Dev!
He was out there, watching. He’d eventually notice the smoke and call 911. The fire department would respond, and if she kept banging, they’d hear her, wouldn’t they? Please, God, let them hear me!
Her eyes began to sting, and she started coughing.
Not good.
Smoke inhalation could kill faster than fire. She had to stave it off, buy herself some time.
Letting the metal rod drop to the floor, she limped to the bathroom, filled the sink with water, and soaked as many washcloths and towels as she could find.
“It’s getting hotter in here, Laura.” There was panic in Darcy’s voice.
“I know, sweetie.” After wringing out the towels, she joined her sister near the door. Fortunately, Hamilton’s soundproofing had sealed the room tight. No smoke was seeping around the door or under the walls. Most of it was coming in from the ceiling. But the temperature was several degrees warmer closer to the door. “I’m going to move you to the other side. Just lie still.”
She slipped her hands under Darcy’s arms and pulled her as gently as possible across the carpet—but not gently enough. Every one of Darcy’s moans was like another thrust of Hamilton’s knife.
Fighting back tears, she settled her sister near the far wall and placed a wet towel over her nose and mouth. “Keep this here, okay? It will help protect you from the smoke.”
No response.
Had Darcy passed out?
Her throat tightened, and she swallowed past her fear. In light of their dire situation, maybe that was for the best.
Laura wrapped a wet towel around the lower part of her own face, cringing as the weight rested on the bridge of her tender nose, then picked up the metal rod. Crouching as low as she could to avoid the smoke gathering near the ceiling, she resumed pounding.
If the house was on fire, emergency vehicles would arrive soon. The firefighters were trained to search for victims, so they’d be listening for evidence of life. The odds were strong they’d hear the banging and know someone was trapped below.
But could she escape the fire—and the effects of smoke inhalation—long enough for her message to be heard?
And even if she did . . . would they be able to reach her and Darcy through the fire that must be raging just outside the door?
28
Giving the front of Hamilton’s house his full attention, Dev punched in Connor’s number on speed dial. After covering the broken window with what looked like a blanket, Hamilton had turned on every light in the place. They’d been burning for twenty minutes now.
Weird.
“You rang?” As usual, a U2 song was playing in the background in Connor’s car.
“Anything going on from where you sit?”
“Nope. Quiet, as usual. Did you check in with Cal?”
“Yeah.” An odd glimmer of light darted around the edge of the blinds on an upstairs window, and he picked up the night vision binoculars. “Considering he’s got day shift here tomorrow, he’s probably regretting his offer to come down tonight. Maybe I’ll . . .” His voice trailed off as an amorphous shadow appeared on the blanket in the first-floor window. It wasn’t a person. It was wavering too much, shooting up and down. Like . . .
A surge of adrenaline kicked in and his heart skipped a beat.
“Get out your night visions. I think I’m seeing the shadows of flames behind the blanket over the broken window on the first floor.” Even as he spoke, he was scanning the rest of the house. Door, windows, rooflines . . . there! Was that smoke seeping out from under the eaves?
“I see smoke.” Connor’s confirmation was clipped and curt. “I’ll call 911 and let Cal know.”
“You take the back door. I’ll cover the front. Bring your ax.”
Before Connor could respond, Dev was out the door of the Explorer and charging to the back. The flame-retardant jumpsuit he’d lugged around since his ATF days—much to the amusement of his partners—might not be part of the standard equipment in Phoenix vehicles, but it was going to come in handy tonight.
In fifteen seconds, he’d shoved his legs and arms in, zipped it up, and grabbed the ax, a bottle of water, and the fire extinguisher from the supply box.
As he raced toward the house, Cal was sprinting from the other direction carrying similar equipment. The closer Dev got, the more the air smelled of smoke—and the more it became obvious there were dancing shadows behind all the windows.
The whole house was ablaze.
Even with a leg up, the broken window in front was too high above the ground to reach, so he homed in on the door. Dumping everything but the ax on the ground, he began hacking at the wood near the knob.
The door was solid—but it was no match for an ax and a strong set of determined arms. When the wood began to splinter, he backed off, angled sideways, and smashed his right heel below the lock. The door slammed back . . . and a bellow of heat surged out.
Lifting his arms to protect his face, he stared into Hamilton’s house.
It was a raging inferno—a man-made one, based on the distinctive smell of gasoline permeating the air.
An accelerant had been used.
Bad news.
He looked at Cal and read his partner’s thoughts.
No one could survive this.
But he wouldn’t accept that.
Couldn’t accept it.
If Laura and Darcy were inside, they might somehow be sheltered from the brunt of the fire. It was possible. Anything was possible.
He had to believe that.
Had to believe they could get to them in time.
Except there was no way in through the wall of flames blocking the doorway.
“Let’s try the back.” He grabbed the items he’d dropped and tore toward the rear of the house, Cal on his heels.
They arrived just as Connor delivered a kick to the back door. Like its counterpart in front, it crashed open.
There was better news back here. No fire and less smoke. He could get through this in his protective gear.
Dev ripped off his neck warmer, twisted the cap off the bottle of water, and soaked the material. “I’m going to take a—”
“Wait.” Connor cocked his ear. “Listen.”
A banging sound, faint but distinct, echoed in the silence.
Dev’s pulse surged. “It’s coming from the basement.”
“Someone’s down there.” Connor grabbed the bottle of water from him, doused the balaclava he yanked from his pocket, and tossed it to Cal. He used the remainder of the water on his own headgear. Then he picked up the fire extinguisher he’d set on the back stoop and gripped his ax. “Let’s do this. We can’t wait for the fire department.”
Cal pulled on the balaclava. “Fast. The smoke’s gonna do a number on us even if we stay low, and assuming the furnace is gas, it could blow any minute.”
“Listen . . . I can handle this.” Dev yanked the neck warmer over his head, covering his nose and mouth. His partners weren’t dressed for this—and Cal had a new bride. The risk was too high. “You guys don’t have to—”
“You’re wasting time.” Connor dived in.
“Move it.” Cal shoved him from behind.
Man, he loved these guys.
Ducking low to stay as close to the floor as possible, Connor advanced toward the open door on the left that was belching smoke, fire extinguisher in hand. Dev followed, his own ax and extinguisher at the ready. Cal took up the rear.
At the door, Dev eyed the steps, staying as much out of the path of the rising smoke as possible.
It looked like the descent into hell.
“Laura!”
His shout produced no response—but the banging continued. More muted with the basement door open, oddly enough. Was it coming from somewhere else?
“How come the sound isn’t . . . louder?” Cal began to cough, even though they were all crouched low, well under the cloud of smoke that hung in the top half of the room.
“I don’t know.” Connor wiped the back of his gloved hand across his watering eyes. “But it’s from ductwork. I think it’s coming from down there.”
The faint, keening wail of a siren penetrated the chaos.
Dev looked at his partners. Waiting for the pros to get here would be safer—for them.
But if Laura was caught in those flames, every second counted.
“I’m going down.”
Without giving them a chance to reply, he pointed his fire extinguisher at the flames on the steps and sucked in a lungful of air. At least he had two things going for him—the higher-end equipment capable of handling burning liquids that Phoenix had sprung for, and the ability he’d perfected to hold his breath for longer-than-usual periods, thanks to his summer job as a lifeguard in high school.
The smoke continued to roll upward as he took the steps as fast as he dared, one hand on the railing, eyes burning, tears streaming. At the bottom, the banging became more audible. It was coming from his left—from behind the door on the far wall.
Dodging the pockets of fire, continuing to hold his breath, he gauged how much time he had before the smoke got to him.
Not much.
And he couldn’t hold his breath forever.
In front of the smoldering door, he dropped as close to the floor as he could get. The air was clearer here, and he took a small breath.
“Laura!”
At his call, the banging stopped. A few seconds later he heard coughing—and a voice calling his name.
It was her.
Thank you, God!
“Back away from the door!”
Parsing out the air in his lungs, he rose to his knees and attacked the door with the ax, near the handle. It gave much more easily than he expected.
As he yanked it open and did a sweep of the room, one thing became immediately clear. While there was smoke inside, there wasn’t a lot of it. And there was no fire.
That was the only reason Laura was alive.
But she was a mess. One eye was black, her nose was swollen, and there was blood all over her clothes.
“Get Darcy . . . out.” She gestured to the figure huddled on the floor, under a blanket, her voice hoarse. “She has . . . an abdominal . . . stab wound.”
“I’ve got her.” Connor spoke behind him and shoved his way past.
As he reached for Laura’s hand, Dev hoped Cal had stayed topside. His third partner had neither the lifeguard nor scuba training that gave him and Connor a breathing edge in this situation. “Can you walk?”
Coughing, she nodded. But as she started forward, she swayed.
He caught her as she folded.
“Can you handle her?” Connor tipped his head as he passed, Darcy in his arms.
“Yeah.”
“Take a deep breath. The air’s better in here.”
Bending low, he took in some air, then crossed to the scorched stairs as fast as he could. Cal was waiting at the top, off to one side, crouched low. He sprayed the steps with the fire extinguisher as they ascended.
The last step cracked when Dev put his weight on it, and Cal grabbed his arm, hauling him up as the wood broke apart and fell into a pile of smoldering kindling.
Too close to even think about.
Doing his best to shelter Laura as much as possible, he sprinted through the kitchen and burst through the back door on Connor’s heels.
As he stumbled down the alley, sucking in lungfuls of the cold night air, firefighters streamed past him toward the burning structure, already activating the flame-suppressing foam in their hoses. The cops were out in force too, evacuating neighboring buildings and cordoning off the area.
Larson appeared out of the dark and took his arm, guiding him farther away from the house, toward the waiting paramedics. “I don’t think there’ll be any charges pressed for that rock-throwing incident.”
“Yeah.” He coughed again. “As far as I know, Hamilton’s still inside.”
“I’ll let the fire department know.”
The officer disappeared into the night as the paramedics converged on them. Two of the technicians lifted Laura from his arms. Another tried to lead him a different direction.
He shrugged the guy off. “No. I’m staying with her.”
“At least put this on.” The paramedic tugged an oxygen mask over his face.
Still hacking, he tried to shove it away. “I’m fine.”
“Humor me, okay?” The guy positioned it firmly in place. “You have any other damage besides too much smoke?”
“No.”
“You did better than your buddy, then.” He gestured over his shoulder to Connor, a few yards away. His partner had an oxygen mask on too, and a paramedic was cutting the bottom off one leg of his jeans. “Probably thanks to your jumpsuit.”
“What’s wrong with him?”
“Second-degree burns, from the fast look I got on my way to you. He wasn’t dressed to go traipsing through a fire.”
Yet he’d gone down to the basement, anyway.
Dev owed him for that. Big-time. He’d never have managed to get both Darcy and Laura out by himself before the steps collapsed or he succumbed to smoke inhalation.
“Dev?”
At Laura’s hoarse summons, he dropped to one knee beside the technician who was putting a pressure bandage on her leg. “I’m right here.”
Her oxygen mask obscured her vision, and she tried to push it aside. The paramedic on her right restrained her.
“We need you to keep that on, ma’am.”
She groped for his hand, and he folded her cold fingers in his. “How’s Darcy?”
The guy who’d pressed the oxygen mask on him rose. “I’ll find out.” He joined his colleagues a few feet away, where a hushed exchange took place.
That gave Dev a chance to focus on the woman whose hand was gripping his. Despite her battered and bloodied appearance, despite terms like airway edema and bronchodilator and CO toxicity the paramedics were bantering around, the strength in her fingers gave him hope. “You’re going to be okay.” She had to be. There was no other option.
“I’m more worried about Darcy. She’s been . . . through hell.”
They
both had, as far as he could tell.
The paramedic rejoined them. “Her BP is low and she’s in shock. Pulse is steady but weak. They’ll have to assess the stab wound at the hospital. Once the IV is in, they’re going to transport. The cold out here isn’t the best environment for treatment, and she’s stable enough to be moved.”
“I want to stay with her.” Laura tightened her hold on his hand, panic threading through her voice.
“We’re taking you both to the same trauma center.” The paramedic working on Laura taped her IV in place and looked at his partner, who was listening to her chest with a stethoscope. “Any problems?”
The other man shook his head.
“Then let’s get out of this cold.” He transferred his attention to the technician hovering beside Dev. “Does he need to be transported?”
“No.” Dev answered for him and took off the oxygen mask. “But I’m going to follow you there.” He leaned closer to Laura. “I’ll be right behind you. And I’ll stick close at the hospital, okay?”
“Okay.”
The paramedics shouldered him aside and whisked her toward the waiting ambulance.
“You want some company?”
At Cal’s question, Dev dragged his gaze away from the stretcher carrying Laura. Connor stood beside Cal. Both were covered in soot.
“Do I look as bad as you guys?”
“Worse.”
“That’s what I was afraid of. You getting that burn treated?” He gestured to Connor’s leg.
“Nah. It’s only a small area. I know how to deal with it. I’m just mad they ruined an almost-new pair of jeans.”
Dev thought about arguing. Decided against it. Connor was tough, but he didn’t take chances. He was also a whiz at first aid, thanks to his Secret Service training. If he needed medical attention, he’d get it.
“You guys go home. I could be awhile—and I’ll have company.” He gestured toward the stretcher being loaded into the waiting ambulance.
Cal regarded him through narrowed eyes for several beats, then nodded. “Okay. We’ll deal with the police. You need anything, call.”
“I will.” As the two of them started to turn away, Dev grabbed their arms. Both stopped and glanced back. “Listen—thanks for . . .” His voice choked as he searched for words to express his gratitude.
Trapped (Private Justice Book #2): A Novel Page 35
