Smoke and Mirrors

by Lillian T. MacGowan

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Loose Id Titles by Lillian T. MacGowan

  Lillian T. MacGowan

  SMOKE AND MIRRORS

  Lillian T. MacGowan

  www.loose-id.com

  Smoke and Mirrors

  Copyright © July 2014 by Lillian T. MacGowan

  All rights reserved. This copy is intended for the original purchaser of this e-book ONLY. No part of this e-book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without prior written permission from Loose Id LLC. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

  Image/art disclaimer: Licensed material is being used for illustrative purposes only. Any person depicted in the licensed material is a model.

  eISBN 9781623001538

  Editor: Judith David

  Cover Artist: Kalen O’Donnell

  Published in the United States of America

  Loose Id LLC

  PO Box 806

  San Francisco CA 94104-0806

  www.loose-id.com

  This e-book is a work of fiction. While reference might be made to actual historical events or existing locations, the names, characters, places and incidents are either the prodpguct of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Warning

  This e-book contains sexually explicit scenes and adult language and may be considered offensive to some readers. Loose Id LLC’s e-books are for sale to adults ONLY, as defined by the laws of the country in which you made your purchase. Please store your files wisely, where they cannot be accessed by under-aged readers.

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  Dedication

  For the loves of my life, and the people without whom this wouldn’t exist:

  My perfect sister Laura, whose brilliant Scottish brain baked in the Vegas sun and then something happened.

  For Marcela, who always has my back, always has a shoulder, and would always find a way to have bail money.

  And last but never, ever least, mon méfiant. Toujours.

  “There may be a great fire in our soul, yet no one ever comes to warm himself at it, and the passersby see only a wisp of smoke.”

  —Vincent van Gogh

  Chapter One

  Dekker gently placed the old man onto the stretcher, then turned and sprinted back toward the entrance as fast as eighty pounds’ worth of firefighting equipment would allow. It wasn’t until he reached the bottom step of the building that housed a neighborhood free clinic, half of which was a smoking blaze, that he registered a voice shouting for him to stop.

  Hesitating half a second, then ignoring the voice, Deck took the steps two at a time. He was almost lost in the black smoke pouring from the mouth of the building when several hands were on him, grabbing and yanking him off the steps.

  “You are not going back in there. We’re done,” Liebgott barked over the sirens and chaos of the scene.

  “You fucking tryin’ to burn, asshole?” Keller snarled.

  “Get the fuck off me. We’re not done.” Deck grunted, shook them off his arms, and ran back into the choking blackness. He could still hear them yelling and Keller saying, “Let the stupid asshole die,” but he didn’t care enough to look back.

  These old tenements went up faster than California brush in July, and Deck knew he had little to no time. They’d managed to get all the patients out; everyone was at least somewhat mobile, and no one was hurt critically, but there was one other person in there. Deck hadn’t been able to hear or understand what the man was saying over the noise of the ambulances and engines, the cracking of the building slowly dying around them, and the muffling effect of his helmet, but the stranger had shoved a thin, yellowish, elderly man into Deck’s arms, and Deck had run out, delivering the old man to the paramedics.

  No one else had gotten out of the building since then, and to hell with his lieutenant’s orders. That man was still in there.

  He eased his way across the floor, testing the stability of the surface. His walkie crackled, and he could hear Keller cursing his entire family line, so he turned the volume down. Deck figured Peyton or Spellacy might try to follow him inside, but if they had, it was already impossible to see. The LED mounted on his helmet beamed into nothing but black smoke and angry, orange flames. But he didn’t need to see to know that the ceiling was too close to collapsing; at least three door frames had already tumbled.

  The flames were deceptively sparse, but smoke poured from the walls, floor, and ceiling like ribbons in a hurricane. The ancient, probably poisonous, wallpaper bubbled and curled, even as the flames confined themselves sinisterly to the corners and along the edges of the walls. In fires like this, Deck always felt like the flames were watching him, dancing tauntingly, just waiting for him to lose focus for a second or become entranced in their hypnotic, sinuous movements. Then they would pounce, racing and reproducing with all the lethal speed and ferocity of a panther, snarling and chewing away at everything in their path.

  He’d seen fires like this before. He’d seen good men die in fires like this before, fires that tried to convince you that they were slow and manageable. Low flames, no roaring infernos to fear. But there were backdrafts waiting behind every closed door, and a simple crack in a window could cause the whole building to blow.

  Just as he finished that thought, timber, tile, and innards came crashing down behind him. He turned instinctively, hoping to see a sliver of light from the entranceway, but he saw only empty blackness.

  The entrance—and his only guaranteed escape—was closed off.

  Fuck.

  He was beginning to question his decision to come back in as the collapse settled and the building became eerily quiet. Deck could hear nothing other than the creaking of the building’s old and dying bones and his rebreather, too loud and heavy under his mask. While Deck had a well-earned reputation for being the first one to go off half-cocked and make the most foolish and dangerous decisions possible, he wasn’t actually suicidal. He took his job seriously and wouldn’t allow anyone to roast as long as he could still walk. Granted, if he had enough to drink, he’d admit that he got off on the hero thing as well, and yeah, he loved being known as a total badass—but Deck rarely drank quite that much.

  At least not recently.

  Stone sober and bursting with adrenaline, Deck called out as loudly as he could through his mask, hoping to find the figure that had thrown the old man at him. The walls groaned and creaked, and from under a closed door to his left he could see deadly wisps of smoke flicking like a phantom’s breath, the fire in that room starving and clutching for oxygen. This building could go at
any second, and Deck would fucking die.

  Fuck.

  He was moving faster through the corridors, scanning every inch he could by feel, when he heard a series of faint, metallic clangs in a short burst of three. Stopping his movements, he listened again.

  One, two, three: metal striking metal.

  Deck moved toward the source of the sound, back and to the right.

  One, two, three. Again, only louder this time.

  He bellowed, needing to be heard past his rebreather and mask, “Are you there? Where are you?” He heard a voice answer but couldn’t make out the words. The metallic banging became frantic.

  Turning into a short, narrow corridor, Deck nearly stepped into a low wall of flames. The fire licked across the floor and up the walls, trapping anyone on the other side. At the end of the corridor he barely made out what looked to be a bathroom and a figure inside, crouched on hands and knees, choking and shouting at him. “There’s no window.”

  He didn’t pause, instinctively leaping over the burning floor and racing down the corridor to the figure. It looked to be the same person who had shoved the old man at him, but Deck could barely see through the smoke.

  As soon as he hit the bathroom doorway, Deck ripped off his rebreather and shoved it onto the man’s face, coughing in a lung-full of smoke, his eyes pouring out tears.

  “Just get us the fuck out of here.” The man struggled, fighting against the air, yelling about Deck needing it more as he shook his head violently.

  Deck strapped the apparatus onto the man’s face and shoved one giant arm under his shoulders, hoisting him to his feet and dragging him toward the back of the bathroom. He noticed the man had a wrench in his hand; he’d been using it to bang on the ancient cast-iron bathtub to get the firefighters’ attention. Smart move.

  From earlier reconnaissance and an ingrained familiarity with the old buildings in his district, Deck knew this back wall led to the outside. The fire held them hostage in the small bathroom, so their only hope was to cleave through the weakened, paper-thin wall to the outside, hoping against hope that in the attempt to do so, the whole room didn’t come down on top of them or release a raging backdraft lying in wait behind the plaster.

  Shoving the man behind him, Deck took his ax from his belt and tapped frantically at the wall until the tip sank easily into a spot between the studs. “Use the wrench,” he shouted at the smoke-blackened figure next to him. “Help me break through.” He used precious seconds to hit his walkie and pray that Liebgott or Keller could still hear him. “Lieb. Lock our twenty. Southeast quadrant, coming through the wall.”

  “You know I’m gonna suspend the shit outta you for this, Deck.” Liebgott’s response came immediately, and Deck could hear them moving already.

  “Fuck that. I’m gonna knock his fucking teeth out.” Keller growled through the walkie as he heard the men racing to move equipment to the southeast side of the building.

  Deck choked and gasped as he began hacking through the plaster, and in the haze of smoke and dust he could almost see the figure next to him beating at it with the wrench. The rebreather on the man’s face and connected to the tank on Deck’s back tethered them together, but in the thick air he could see little else.

  The flames had already consumed the corridor he’d come from, and now Deck could feel them crawling up the walls and into the door frame of the bathroom. His bunker gear kept him safe from the heat, but he knew the man working impressively beside him had no such security. If they couldn’t get to the outside wall and brick soon, the man would roast and Deck would likely suffocate.

  After a tense minute of cleaving at the wall, he registered the man shouting something at him as he chopped and kicked. Deck ignored him, focused only on getting through to the crumbling, weak brick outside…close. So close. He could hear pounding coming from the other side; the squad had located them, and Deck could swear he saw light coming through. Thank fucking God.

  But the man next to him had stopped hacking to grab at Deck, still shouting and trying to pull him away from the wall. What the fuck was wrong with this asshole? The flames inched closer to them at the same rate they cut through the wall. They had to move fast.

  The man finally ripped the rebreather off with one hand and grabbed Deck’s arm with the other in a surprisingly powerful grip. ”Fucking move,” he screamed and yanked Deck away from the wall, throwing him backward.

  He remembered stumbling and falling back, and he remembered watching the ceiling rain down on top of him.

  And then pain. Thick, nauseating pain that turned his vision white, and he wondered if someone expected him to go into the goddamned light.

  “Do you hear me? Do you hear me saying this to him?” Marie nagged at Eli, who shrugged and continued to prep. “Don’t shrug at me. I need a witness. It’s bad enough the chief resident told him to stand down but when the chief of surgery finds out about this, I’ll at least have my own ass covered.” She continued to grumble as she scrubbed at her fingernails.

  “You needn’t worry about your ass, Marie. I’m fully prepared to take Jen on myself, and no one will be blamed but me. It’s not like I’m giving you a choice.” Naim lifted his foot off the faucet pedal and turned to Eli, who handed him a sterile towel, then moved behind him to tie on his surgical mask. “Hurry up. I need you now.”

  “She does have a point, Doc,” Eli commented. “I mean, you have a head injury.”

  “See. Even Lee-Lee agrees with me.”

  “Please stop calling me that,” Eli groaned while gloving Naim.

  “Will you both shut the hell up. This man saved my life, and I wouldn’t be operating on him if I didn’t know that I’m at my best and fully capable of returning the bloody favor. Now get moving.” Leaving no room for further conversation, Naim butted open the door to the OR where his patient waited, unconscious, intubated, and propped onto his right side. The two-inch-round length of copper piping shone in the bright surgical lighting, impaled through the left side of the man’s chest and back, dangerously close to his heart.

  When the ceiling had come down on them, Naim had just managed to shove the firefighter out of the most immediate line of damage when his own head cracked against the side of the cast-iron tub. He managed to crawl out of the wall before collapsing, unconscious. He came to confused, nauseous, on a stretcher, with oxygen pumping into him and a paramedic examining his bleeding forehead. Then he saw the other firefighters and paramedics trying to maneuver the enormous, wounded firefighter out of the wall before the whole building collapsed. Impatient with his own injury, Naim ignored his bleeding head and insisted on seeing the man who’d saved him from asphyxiating—or worse—in that miserable bathroom in the back of his clinic.

  Naim couldn’t think of a worse place to die. He hated that worn, claustrophobic bathroom and avoided it at all costs, occasionally even using the toilet at the petrol station across the street in an emergency. A small, guilty part of him had taken great pleasure in hacking violently at its walls and was pleased that it had burned into rubble.

  But the cost of that could be this man’s life. While Naim had his head X-rayed and nagged at Marie to go faster as she applied four stitches to his hairline, the firefighter—Deck, the others called him—went through a full workup; CT scans showing that the copper piping rested about six millimeters from the ascending aorta.

  As soon as he saw the injury at the scene of the fire, Naim knew the firefighter was critical, and he demanded that he ride in the ambulance and assist in the firefighter’s treatment. A fight with the paramedics almost ensued, but fortunately Keller had stepped up and reassured them that he knew Naim and his well-earned reputation as one of the finest general surgeons in town.

  Now, no thanks to the very same Keller, Naim’s furious supervisor—Keller’s wife—was on her way to the hospital. Once he was out of surgery, she would no doubt tear him three new ones when she found out he’d operated with a head injury and against the chief resident’s orders. Naim just
hoped that the six clinic evacuees in the ER and seven frantic firefighters in the waiting room, including her husband, would distract her long enough to let him do his job.

  Dr. Peter Barrett didn’t look up when he entered the operating theater. “If I suspect, even for a moment, that you are not up to par, I will have you bodily removed.”

  “You’ll have no reason.” Naim approached the patient. Cardiothoracic surgeons were notorious for being the most arrogant and obnoxious of a particularly arrogant and obnoxious species, but Naim knew Barrett had earned every bit of his attitude, one that was, in fact, more no-nonsense than arrogant. “I’m just here to assist.”

  “You are here to operate, Dr. Moreau. And as long as you do so successfully, I am here only to assist.” Barrett looked at him then, his black eyes serious and respectful.

  Naim nodded. They’d consulted over the CT earlier as Eli did his best to sponge Naim clean of filth and smoke and fretted over his long hair, now singed and smelly, while he tied it up in a dirty bun and covered it in a surgical cap. At first, it looked like they would be able to remove the pipe from the man’s chest without causing catastrophic injury, but upon closer examination, they could see that the fire had melted the metal into a curve. Pulling it out without nicking the aorta would be like threading a needle through rotini.

  Shit. He needed to eat.

  “Eli,” he called through to the observation area, “I need a chocolate shake. Marie, scalpel.”

  After six hours at the clinic, surviving a five-alarm fire, and then a six-and-a-half-hour emergency surgery, Naim could have sweat blood. He wanted nothing more than to sleep for a month, but first he would have to speak to the roomful of exhausted, tense firefighters, and then deal with Dr. Jen Keller—his friend, chief of surgery, and menacing ballbuster when crossed.