Clear and cool. Gamble metered his breathing to accommodate his exhale of relief. “Go,” he said, gesturing her forward while he fell back in behind her. He’d kept his attention split on what lay ahead as well as what might creep up from the part of the path they’d already crossed—you could take a guy out of the Marines and all—but the fire seemed contained to the back alley. Given how fast and how hot things were cooking up out there, that wouldn’t last for long, though. They needed to get the hell out of the building and get the fire department here, ASAP.
Kennedy moved quickly through the dining room, her boots slapping against the floorboards as she dodged the handful of tall bistro tables dotted around the game room, then the pool table beyond. She had to stop to turn the deadbolt on the side door, but a second later, they were spilling onto the sidewalk, the cool night air prickling against Gamble’s face and bare arms.
“Keep moving,” he told her, squinting hard from both the smoke he’d been exposed to and the distinct lack of light out here on the side street. He pulled her to a stop at the corner, his eyes burning and watering and his lungs threatening to go on a complete labor strike.
“Are you okay? How badly did you get burned on the door handle?” Gamble resisted the urge—barely—to run his hands over her in a rapid trauma assessment, settling for a fast but thorough visual.
“I’m fine. It’s nothing,” Kennedy said, although the coughing fit that followed did damn little to reassure him. She’d taken a faceful of smoke, and, depending on what had been burning, the consequences could range from hey-that-sucks to hospital-here-we-come. Plus, he wasn’t convinced that hand she was now cradling was as fine as she’d claimed.
Airway first. “Take slow breaths. Count to five on each one,” he said. As tempting as it was, gulping down air was the best way to guarantee hyperventilating, or worse. He pulled his cell phone out of the back pocket of his jeans, tapping the emergency icon at the bottom and watching her carefully to be sure she remained upright.
“Nine-one-one, what’s your emergency?”
“This is Lieutenant Ian Gamble with the Remington Fire Department, Station Seventeen. I’d like to report an active fire on the Charlie side of fourteen seventy-six Marshall Avenue, no entrapment, one civilian on-scene at the corner of Marshall and”—he looked up at the overhead street sign—“Spring Hill Street.”
Gamble gave up a few more particulars before replacing his phone in his pocket and turning his attention back to Kennedy. She was still coughing, albeit a little more intermittently now, and he took a step toward her to check her vitals and look at her hand, just to be on the safe side.
But he was so lasered in on her that he didn’t see the car approaching from the side street until it had sped past them and screeched around the corner, whipping off into the dead of night.
“Holy shit.” He jumped reflexively, blinking twice in an effort to process any details his eyes might’ve grabbed up independently from his brain. The car’s headlights couldn’t have been on—he’d have definitely noticed it approaching a hell of a lot sooner if they had. His back had been to the side street, which was strike two in the useful-details department, since it meant he hadn’t seen the car until it was already skidding around the corner, and Kennedy had been coughing hard enough that his concern for her had taken precedence over taking in the scene around them until it was too late. There hadn’t been anything out of the ordinary about the vehicle, just a standard-issue sedan, white, or maybe silver—but maybe not. Gamble could’ve sworn the right brake light had been out, but he’d only caught the briefest glimpse before the car had disappeared up Marshall Avenue. He couldn’t even be certain which direction it had headed since the next major intersection was over a hill.
In short, as far as anything definitive was concerned, he’d seen precisely dick.
But nobody tore away from the scene of a fire at Mach 2 with no headlights on unless they were up to no goddamned good, and fires like this didn’t just erupt out of thin air, which meant whoever was in that car had likely started the blaze. Kennedy had been facing the side street when the car had approached, and the intersection was decently lit. She had to have seen more than he had. She had the perfect vantage point to put eyes on the driver, or at the very least, the vehicle.
Gamble turned toward her, stepping closer as her expression registered in his brain. Her pretty face was drawn and pale, even in the low light afforded by the nearby street lamp and the bar behind them, and she was still staring, wide-eyed and startled, at the far end of Marshall Avenue, even though the street was now totally empty. Her lips were parted, her body still, and it struck him that in all the time he’d known her, he’d never once seen a look like this on her face.
Kennedy was scared.
“Did you get a good look at that car?” Gamble asked. She didn’t speak, didn’t move, not even to take a breath, and no, no, he couldn’t let her go into shock.
“Kennedy.” He kept his voice low but firm, stepping into her field of vision. The sight of him seemed to deliver her back to the here-and-now, and she gave up a few rapid blinks before coughing and knotting her arms around her rib cage.
“What?” she asked, and yeah, first thing’s first.
“Are you sure you’re okay?”
“Yes.”
The word came out too softly to be accurate, and he tried again. “Why don’t you let me take a look at that hand?”
“I told you, I’m fine.” She punctuated the affirmation with a don’t-fuck-with-me lift of her chin, but, funny, Gamble had never been the sort of guy to heed most warnings. Especially when his instincts were thrumming with warnings of their own.
“Great. Go on and prove it.”
He held out his hand. She must have realized that backing down was nowhere in his vocabulary, because after a beat, she extended her hand, palm up.
“It’s no worse than I’d get helping Marco in the kitchen. Seriously.”
After a quick look by the light of his cell phone, he discovered Kennedy was telling the truth. At least, about her hand. “Did you see that car before it passed us and took off?”
She wrestled with another cough. “No. I didn’t see anything.”
His gut tightened. This was a woman who had the awareness to put a guy into a fucking hammerlock in less time than it took most people to fully exhale. How could she have seen nothing?
“Details are the most accurate directly after an event has been witnessed, and I’d bet whoever was in that car had something to do with this fire. If you saw the driver—”
“I said I didn’t,” Kennedy snapped, sending his brows sky-high and his hackles to high alert.
But somehow, he managed to trade the unease in his gut for caution. “Okay. I know this is a lot to process. Did you maybe see the make of the car, or what color it was?” At least they might get somewhere with more general details.
“No.”
Her answer arrived just a heartbeat too quickly, making Gamble warily ask, “Are you sure?”
She speared him with an icy look. “That’s the second time you’ve asked me that question in the span of less than a minute. I might’ve had a hell of a night, but I’m not fragile, and I’m damned sure not an idiot. If I say I’m sure of something, it means I’m fucking sure.”
For a sharp second, he was tempted to give back as good as he’d just gotten. After all, he didn’t even take shit from seasoned firefighters or hardened Marines. But then he caught the flash of emotion stuffed beneath Kennedy’s tough-girl stare, and ah, hell. She really had been through the wringer tonight. Expecting her to see details the way he’d see them as a former Force Recon Marine and active firefighter wasn’t really fair, no matter how street-savvy she was. He was trained for this sort of thing, to the point that it was sewn into every last fabric of his instincts. Of course, his version of normal was far from normal for things like this.
Even if those instincts were still telling him something wasn’t quite on the level here.
Turning her back on Marshall Avenue, Kennedy returned her stare to the side street and the entrance to the alley leading to the back door of The Crooked Angel, her expression turning to pure worry at the sight of the orange glow and the heavy curtain of smoke churning from the narrow space. “The fire department is coming as fast as they can, right? Like, they know my bar is definitely on fire?”
Her voice wavered over the last word with just the slightest hint of softness, followed by another chesty cough. Some foreign sensation twisted behind Gamble’s breastbone, but he managed to snuff it out and jerk his chin in an approximation of a nod. He didn’t want to let go of the topic of the car, but he wanted to push Kennedy even less. Especially when she had a look like that on her face. “Yeah. They know. They’re coming as fast as they can.”
“Good,” she whispered, her eyes not moving from the smoke and fire-glow pouring out from the mouth of the alley. Sirens sounded, in the distance at first, then growing quickly louder as the minutes ticked by. Red and white flashes ricocheted off the darkened buildings from down the block, announcing the arrival of both the engine and the truck from Station Forty-Two. They barreled up Marshall Avenue in a diesel-fueled roar that was as familiar to Gamble as his own heartbeat, followed by an ambulance and a department-issued Suburban that matched the one Gamble’s captain drove on calls.
The Suburban came to an abrupt halt not far from where he and Kennedy stood on the corner, Station Forty-Two’s captain wearing a definite look of surprise as he slid out of the driver’s seat. “Gamble. Can’t say I expected to see you here.”
He gave up a clipped nod in reply. They’d have time for pleasantries later, after things like buildings were no longer on fire. “Captain Wilder. You’ve got flames showing in the alley on the Charlie side of the building. No entrapment. We were the only ones inside.”
“Copy that. Any idea what’s burning up back there?”
Gamble looked at Kennedy, whose stare was glued to the firefighters jumping down from the engine and prepping water lines. “What? Oh.” She shook her head, her expression toughening up. “I couldn’t see, exactly, but there’s a dumpster in the alley that we share with the other two businesses on the block, and it’s pretty close to the back door. It’s the only thing I can think of that’s big enough to burn like this.”
“Got it,” Captain Wilder said, firing off a few commands to his engine lieutenant on the radio on his shoulder before returning his attention back to Gamble and Kennedy. “You the owner?”
“Manager,” she said hoarsely, and Wilder nodded.
“I’ll keep you posted.” He shifted his stare to Gamble, even though he was already on the move toward his firefighters. “You know the drill.”
Gamble read between the lines easily enough. But no matter how territorial firefighters were, he wasn’t brainless enough to jump into the fray with no gear and a squad that wasn’t his own.
If Walker and McCullough and de Costa were here? He’d jump into the fray buck fucking naked if the circumstances called for it.
“Come on,” he said to Kennedy, jerking his chin toward the ambo, which had parked on Marshall Avenue, away from the immediate danger of the fire.
“What? No.” She frowned, digging her boots in over the pavement as soon as she saw the ambulance and connected the dots. “I already told you—twice, actually—that I’m fine.”
Gamble ground his molars together and stood firm. “Yep. I heard you say that. But you ate a decent amount of smoke in that alley, and we don’t know exactly what’s burning. You should still let the paramedics give you a once-over to be sure.”
“No.” She turned back toward the firefighters, who were shouting commands back and forth and hauling lines into the alley, and Christ, had she always been this big of a pain in the ass?
“Kennedy—”
“I don’t need to get checked out,” she rasped, but he was in her dance space in the span of a heartbeat.
“You also don’t need to watch your bar burn when there’s nothing you can do about it. The place is in good hands, and, quite frankly, you sound like shit. You can’t manage the place if you keel over from smoke inhalation, so would you do me a goddamn favor and just let the paramedics check your vitals?”
A second slid off the clock, then another, both of them drenched in tension. Just when Gamble was certain she’d tell him to fuck straight off, though, Kennedy shocked him by giving up the tiniest nod.
“Fine. If it’ll get you off my back,” she grumbled. Not wanting to give her a chance to recant, he turned toward the ambulance, letting her lead the way. The paramedics were thankfully swift about their ABCs, taking her pulse and listening to her lungs and doing a bunch of other things she looked like she thoroughly hated.
“Your hand looks okay. Just a small first-degree burn,” the blond paramedic, whose nametag read “Chelsea”, said. “Keep it wrapped in clean dressing for a couple of days, and apply an over-the-counter burn ointment to the affected area twice a day. Your pulse ox is ninety-two, which is on the low side. Your lungs sound pretty clear, but I’d still like to put you on some oxygen for a few minutes, just to cover all the bases.”
Kennedy’s dark red lips parted in what was sure to be a protest, but Gamble sent a high-octane frown in her direction, and she huffed out a slightly wheezy breath.
“Fine. Whatever will get me out of here fastest.”
“Your goals are my goals,” Chelsea said with a smile. She settled Kennedy on the gurney in the back of the ambo, sliding the pulse ox clip over the forefinger on her non-bandaged hand and hooking a portable O2 tank to some tubing and a mask. After a couple of quick adjustments, she slid the clear plastic mask over Kennedy’s nose and mouth and tucked the tank on the gurney beside the rails.
“The oxygen is flowing through the tank. You won’t feel it blowing on your face or anything, but I promise, it’s doing its thing. Just take regular breaths and try not to talk too much.”
Kennedy nodded, and Chelsea looked across the ambo to the bench seat where Gamble sat beside the gurney. “You good to keep an eye on her, Lieutenant?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Chelsea’s brows winged up, and—damn it—so did Kennedy’s, so Gamble covered his slip-up with a scowl.
At least it worked on Chelsea. “Oooookay. I’ll be in the front of the rig with my partner, filling out the paperwork. Holler if you need anything, especially if she starts feeling dizzy.”
Chelsea hopped down from the back of the ambulance, leaving both doors open to the cool nighttime air. The view was of Marshall Avenue, which—other than the eerie glare of the lights from the throng of emergency vehicles around the corner on the side street—didn’t show any signs of the fire unfolding nearby. Under any other circumstances, Gamble would’ve hated the lack of a visual. But he’d meant what he said to Kennedy. There wasn’t anything either of them could do right now.
Except try and figure out who had set the fire so the little bastard could pay for putting people’s lives at risk. No way was a blaze like that a pure accident. At the very least, someone had been negligent.
At worst? It was flat-out arson.
Gamble looked at the pulse ox monitor, his gut squeezing at the sight of the bright red ninety-two still flashing in the corner. He shifted his gaze to the gurney where Kennedy lay, staring up at the roof of the ambo. Her black hair was tangled a bit beneath the elastic holding the mask in place, and her shoulders were tight and tense against the sheet-covered gurney cushion. A spray of goose bumps dotted her bare arms, and even though he was tempted to bring up the car that had sped past them (along with how she’d sped past it as a topic of conversation), he shrugged out of his jacket, draping it over Kennedy’s torso like a blanket instead.
“You don’t have to do that,” she said. “You’ve got to be cold, too.”
She went to tug the leather from her body, but he shook his head. “I’m solid.” So she wouldn’t argue—because, of course, she looked like she was
going to—Gamble added, “If it makes you feel better, I’ll shut the doors to keep the chill out.”
He levered up from the bench seat. Before he could get more than halfway to his intended destination, though, a uniformed police officer poked his head into the back of the ambulance from around the corner.
“Hi. I’m Officer Lynch, and this is my partner, Officer Boldin.” He gestured to the woman next to him, and Gamble exhaled in relief. This fire might not be more than negligence or a prank that had gotten out of hand, but he and Kennedy could’ve still been seriously hurt, or worse, as could any of the responding firefighters or anyone else who happened to be passing by. At least the brass was taking it seriously.
“Ian Gamble, RFD, and Kennedy Matthews,” he said, so she could save some of her breath. “She runs the place.”
Both officers nodded in greeting. Boldin said, “We’ve got a couple of questions, if you’re up for them.”
Gamble nodded and Kennedy followed suit, albeit less enthusiastically, and Boldin continued, “You two witnessed the fire, is that correct?”
“Yes,” Gamble said, at the same time Kennedy replied, “No.”
Lynch’s brows went up, and yeah, Gamble was right there with the guy. “I’m sorry,” Lynch said. “Dispatch told us the fire was called in by someone claiming he was with a witness to the fire. Weren’t you here when the blaze started?”
“Well, yes,” Kennedy said, making a face at the oxygen mask muffling her words. She tugged it away from her mouth and nose, and seriously, Gamble knew she was tough, but how had he never noticed how freaking hard-headed she was? “We were here, but I don’t think we witnessed anything, really.”
She began coughing again, and Lynch shook his head in concern. “It’s okay. You don’t have to do all the talking right now. Why don’t you take a second to catch your breath”—he shifted his gaze from Kennedy to Gamble, brows lifted—“and you can just tell me everything you remember first. No big deal.”
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