by Jonas Saul
He let go of the oven door and stepped away. Maybe Eric found Tessa’s body and watched the tape. Then, whatever forced Tessa into the oven did the same to Eric.
It was time to leave. He’d found the missing couple. They’d been burned alive. The murderer was the house. He was sure of it. He wondered how that would look on the reports.
Heat rose through his boots. He’d forgotten to keep checking them. Clayton started walking and, with each step, he left behind pieces of rubber.
It was happening again.
The siren outside grew louder as the fire truck pulled up to the front.
He ran, stumbled once, but kept his balance and charged out the front door.
“Hank,” he shouted. “Cover this place with every hose you have,” he shouted.
Hank, the head firefighter in the area for the past dozen years or so looked back at him, his eyebrows knitted in confusion.
“Where’s the fire, Clayton? I can’t empty my trucks on a dry house.”
Clayton ran across the gravel driveway toward him. “Oh yes you can and you’re going to.”
“No, I’m not. I don’t see a fire. Show me the fire and I’ll put it out.”
The men stood around and watched their boss argue with Clayton. He could still feel the heat rising from his boots.
“Okay, give me one hose and I’ll show you the fire.”
Clayton waited in the awkward silence until Hank nodded to his men. They unhooked a hose and dragged it over to Clayton. He grabbed it and pulled it to the front porch. He struggled with the end of it for a moment and then water poured out.
After a look over his shoulder at Hank, Clayton aimed the nozzle and began shooting water in through the front door. A roar of steam billowed wherever the water hit the wooden floor, evaporating upon contact. In a weird way, it reminded him of placing a hot frying pan under the water in the kitchen sink.
“What’s causing that?” Hank asked over the sound of the rushing water.
“I don’t know, but what I can tell you is that this house is burning on the inside.”
Hank looked at him hard. “How’s that?”
“No idea—”
He was cut off by a shift in the house. Something moved behind the front wall.
“What the fuck was that?” Hank asked.
“Get more men up here,” Clayton said, completely ignoring Hank’s question. “I need more water.”
Hank waved at his men, and they grabbed hoses and hit valves.
Clayton saw it first. Flames lifted up in the living room. From where he stood on the front porch, he would swear the flames were walking. They edged along the front window and then disappeared on their way to the door.
Clayton stepped back two paces. Hank watched, mouth agape, as the flames filled the door.
The front doorway filled with an unnatural red flame, sections shooting out like sunspots off the sun. Hank’s hose didn’t have enough power to quench the flames. As the water hit the red flames, it seemed to fuel them as if throwing grease on a kitchen fire.
Clayton stepped back even farther, increasingly concerned if he’d leave the property alive. He knew Hank was too trained to turn away. He held a fireman’s hose now, shooting water onto a fire no bigger than a seven foot tall man.
The flames spun in a circle like the eye of a tornado and then rushed at the water. In that moment, Hank was consumed by flames, screaming and wailing as he fell to the ground. But stop, drop and roll wouldn’t slow the ferocity of the red flames.
The fire lifted from Hank’s blackened remains and shot across the gravel drive at the fire truck. Hank’s men scattered in all directions as their truck burned. Men shouted and ran for the trees. If Clayton’s car wasn’t trapped behind the firetruck, he would’ve run for his cruiser and raced out of there, but as it was, he would need to run past the red flames to get to safety. Instead, he could only watch as man after man was cut down and burned alive.
Clayton couldn’t believe what was happening. It defied all sense of reason. His eyes saw the spectacle, but his mind refused to accept it.
In less than a minute, the last man fell silent.
The red flames hovered near the front of the burning fire truck. It watched Clayton, studying him.
Then the length of conflagration moved forward, easing its way to Clayton. It stopped five feet from him.
Clayton felt the heat but didn’t retreat. He blinked to dislodge the sight — but the flames remained.
The heat burned his face like the middle of the day in the Sahara desert. Should he pull his weapon, turn and run, or simply wait to be burned alive?
The fire decided for him.
It backed away, made a wide circle around him, and moved to the front door of the house. Clayton watched as it moved by the living room window again.
Every man present was a fireman. All of them were dead, because he thought that the house needed to be dowsed in water.
Clayton turned and walked toward his car. It was time to deal with the burning. He got in, turned it on and started around the ruined fire truck. He glanced through the windshield toward the house. The flames had extinguished.
He stopped the car. Whatever that thing was, he couldn’t allow anyone else to enter. However it came to be didn’t matter to Clayton. What mattered was that Hank and all of his men were dead because of him.
He took his foot off the brake and hit the gas, the rear tires spinning in the gravel. The police cruiser raced at the house, hit the front steps and mounted them, without losing much speed. The front bumper hit the door and the wall to the right, stopping the car half in, half out of the chalet.
Instantly the flames resurrected themselves and raced at him.
Clayton hit the button to pop the trunk and dove from the car. He ran for the back and grabbed the e-match. The moving flames were almost on him.
Clayton ignited the e-match. “Fuck you.”
The flames hit him hard. The pain was intense. His mouth opened to scream. At that moment the e-match had done its job. Both boxes of gunpowder ignited simultaneously, knocking Clayton’s burning body away from the house with the shock wave. The car’s propane tank added to the explosion.
The last image his mind registered were the four walls of the house shattering as it collapsed, completely destroyed. He heard screaming and knew it wasn’t his.
He knew he would have to fight fire with fire.
Clayton knew the burning died with him.
The Hostage - A Preview
An excerpt from The Hostage, the fourth book in the Sarah Roberts series.
Chapter 1
Sarah Roberts wondered if intent mattered. Could murder be justified?
She rested her head back on the seat and contemplated what her life had become — debating the senseless murder of Drake Bellamy and thinking about her dead sister. What caused Vivian to stay in touch?
After she stopped Drake’s planned murder, would she be able to find out why Drake was targeted? All the key players were already dead. There had to be a reason other than just murder.
Turbulence snapped Sarah out of her thoughts as the KLM Boeing 747-400 shook. They dropped through the clouds as she rubbed her stomach. The plane’s in-flight meal hadn’t sat well.
The ground took shape below, Toronto sprawling to all points on the compass except where Lake Ontario touched its southern shore.
The lake had the look of an ocean due to its massive size. From where she sat, a few thousand feet in the air, the lake stopped at the horizon. The United States couldn’t be seen on the other side.
The lone male passenger beside her had slept most of the flight, but was waking now. She had the window seat in a row of three. An empty chair separated the man who had introduced himself as Dave when they’d first sat down. Heading home to a funeral, he’d said. How sad.
A commotion started in front of her seat. The couple in the next row were arguing. She looked at Dave and smiled at the tension in the seats ahead. Then she heard the woman gas
p. Sarah looked out the window again but only saw the sprawling city and the massive lake. She’d never been to Toronto, but she’d seen pictures, so she had an idea of what to expect. She scanned the downtown area, but for all her effort, she couldn’t locate the CN Tower, one of Toronto’s landmark tourist attractions.
Something’s wrong. That’s why they’re arguing.
Her stomach dropped.
What now?
She looked at the man beside her again. He seemed disinterested in the people ahead of them as they grew more and more animated.
A beep resounded throughout the aircraft, signaling everyone to fasten their seat belts. Sarah already had hers on. She looked out the window again as they got closer to the ground.
“This is your captain speaking. Good afternoon. We’ll be landing in Toronto to moderate winds, with a light cloud cover and a temperature of twenty-eight degrees Celsius. We’re slightly ahead of schedule as we had a tailwind. We’ll be landing fifteen minutes early. The cabin crew and myself would like to thank you for flying KLM flight 487B and wish you safe travels wherever your final destination may be. Cabin crew, take your seats for landing.”
Sarah stared out the window as the city drew closer. No CN Tower. Nothing recognizable. Weird.
Toronto’s big. Maybe it’s in another part.
The couple in the seats in front of her grew louder. The man pushed the flight attendant button.
Sarah tapped the back of their seat and leaned forward.
“Is everything okay?” she asked. “Now that we’re preparing to land, I don’t think any flight attendant’s will come.”
Both of them turned and looked at her through the gap in the seat.
“That’s not Toronto below us,” the male said. “Something’s wrong. We’re landing in Chicago. That lake down there is Lake Michigan, not Lake Ontario.”
“What?” Sarah couldn’t believe it. They had to be making a mistake. “Are you sure? The captain just announced that we were landing in Toronto.”
“I’m absolutely sure. I used to live there. This is Chicago. No doubt about it.”
“But why? There’s no layover booked there. Let me check my boarding pass.”
Sarah reached in her carryon bag and grabbed her boarding pass, already knowing she wouldn’t see the name Chicago on it. It said KLM, flight 487B, her seat number and the destination: Toronto. She had to be in Toronto by Wednesday to stop Drake Bellamy’s murder. If she was on the wrong flight, she had no idea how fast she could make new plans.
“What do your boarding passes say?” she asked.
“According to this we’re on a flight to Toronto. It doesn’t make any sense, because that’s Chicago below us.”
Sarah turned to her right. Dave, the man sitting one seat over, had a stupid smile on his face.
“Have you checked your boarding pass?”
He shook his head in the negative, but didn’t say anything.
“Why are you smiling?” Sarah asked. “Do you find something amusing?”
Dave opened the right side of his jacket far enough to show Sarah his weapon.
“I’m an air marshal. The penalties and jail time can be severe for cases of air rage, so I suggest you sit back and relax. Don’t do anything stupid. No more disturbing the other passengers. No more questions. There’s nowhere you can go, nothing you can do. Stay calm. Everything will be explained when we land.”
Sarah stared at him, open-mouthed. “Tell me you’re joking, please, because showing me your gun like that is what I consider to be a threat. I’ve done nothing wrong on this flight. I’ve not been arrested and I’m definitely not your prisoner. So, tell me you’re joking, because if you aren’t, we are going to have a problem. A serious fucking problem.”
The air marshal undid his seat belt and stood up in the aisle. He looked toward the back of the plane and nodded his head. He turned forward and repeated the same nod.
Two men walked toward Dave along the aisle.
Dave turned to the passengers watching him from their seats when his backup arrived.
“May I have your attention, please? My name is Dave Ingram. I am an air marshal. These men are also marshals. We have a temporary situation that you needn’t be alarmed with. This plane is landing in Chicago and then it will be heading to Toronto as planned. You may be a little late getting to your final destination and we’re sorry for that inconvenience, but we have a passenger here that needs to be detained. Stay calm. We’ll be on the ground in moments.”
What a nightmare. Who is orchestrating this?
People whispered among themselves. Sarah felt every face aimed toward her. She needed to think. They were close to the ground. The plane would touch down within a minute. She had to do something, but what?
Could Rod Howley be behind this? No way. He’s dead or seriously wounded back in Hungary.
She leaned her head back and closed her eyes as the wheels touched down.
Stay calm, Sarah, stay calm.
There was no use trying to fight three armed men. With the way air travel had changed, if she attacked the marshals, regular passengers would come to their aid.
What will Parkman think when he arrives in Toronto to pick her up at the airport and, not only is flight 487B late, but Sarah isn’t on it? He is going to be pissed. They were supposed to meet and go to a ball game tomorrow to see the stadium before Wednesday, the day Drake is to be killed. Parkman will be furious when he finds out who’s behind this.
I’m going to be furious when I find out who has fucked up my day.
The air brakes activated and the plane slowed, taxiing off the landing strip.
The three marshals wouldn’t take their eyes off of her. Whoever was behind this had informed these men who she was and that she was to be watched carefully. Do not underestimate her. Sarah is dangerous.
Good advice.
Sarah undid her belt. The plane stopped, still quite far from the terminal. In the distance a line of three black SUVs headed their way.
FBI?
The couple sitting ahead of her sneaked peeks backwards. She smiled at the woman, who jumped away as if bitten.
“Is all this really necessary?” Sarah asked.
Dave nodded.
“Who has the kind of power to change the flight plan of a major commercial airliner?” Sarah asked. “The U.S. government maybe? The Sophia Project guys? Am I getting closer?”
Dave didn’t respond this time. He bent down and looked out Sarah’s window at the approaching SUVs.
“They’re coming now,” he said to the two men on either side of him.
Obviously she wasn’t going to get anything out of Dave before whoever was coming got there. She crossed her arms, laid back and closed her eyes. This didn’t bother her. She wouldn’t allow it to. Whoever was behind it, whatever they wanted, she would fix it and move on. That was the way of things for her. It had always been that way and always will be.
“Where are your bags?” Dave asked.
“I don’t have any bags,” she said, keeping her eyes closed. “Only this carryon by my feet. I travel light.”
The door to the plane opened. She sat eight rows back from where she had boarded. Boots smacked down hard as several people entered the aircraft in unison. She opened her eyes and looked up, hoping to recognize someone who could answer her questions.
A line of military-type recruits in green camouflage stomped down the aisle toward Dave and his men, who moved away to give the newcomers more room. Within seconds, Sarah’s seat was surrounded by eight beefy men.
The tallest one stepped in close and asked in a deep John Wayne voice, “Are you Sarah Roberts?”
What was the right answer?
“Who’s asking?”
“Stand up,” he ordered. “Now.”
“Fuck you. First, tell me what this is all about. I bought a ticket to fly to Toronto. I’m an American citizen. I cannot be held without being charged and since I’ve done nothing wrong, tell me what this is
all about.”
“Sarah Roberts, you are under arrest for the murder of Joseph Singer. Stand up, or my men will drag you out. This will either be hard or easy, your choice, but we prefer hard.”
It felt like someone smacked her in the face. She had never heard the name Joseph Singer before. There had to be a mistake. Where did this kind of shit come from? Could life ever be normal or does it always have to be fucked? And how could they re-route a plane just to arrest one person? Wouldn’t they get the Canadian authorities to pick her up as she exited the plane in Toronto, and then extradite her through the normal legal process?
