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toward anxiety.
Jack looked at Miranda and the station manager. “Do you know if this building has
interior fire-separated stairwell shafts?” Jack asked succinctly. He knew it was a long
shot they’d know the answer.
“Yes,” the station manager said as he wiped his forehead with a handkerchief. “I
heard someone talking about it and they’ve been finishing it up over the last few
months.”
Jack sighed. “Good.”
With that, Jack sent them down the stairwell.
Miranda held back until the last person stepped through the door. Jack turned to her.
“I’ll follow you down until the crowd reaches the sixth floor. Then I’m coming back up.
After I leave you, keep everyone orderly and don’t let them stop until they’re out of the
building.”
Miranda grabbed his arm. “What about Autumn? She must have heard the alarm.”
A sick feeling filled his stomach. “She should be back by now, but maybe she’s
trying to help others.” Jack urged Miranda toward the stairs. “I’ll find her.”
Miranda’s eyes held worry. “I’ve got a weird feeling about this.”
“So do I.” He took his badge identification out of his pants pocket and clipped it to
his belt. “There’s no time to lose.”
* * * *
A shrill noise filled Autumn’s hearing and increased the pain in her head. After the
asshole had punched her she’d passed out. How long she’d been out, she didn’t know.
Confused, she took assessment of each twinge invading her body. A wrenching pain in
her knee said she’d damaged the area she destroyed during the last horrible fire in her
smoke jumping career. Sharp pain stabbed her ribs as she tried to move. A groan escaped
her throat.
Okay. You might have broken a rib. Your knee is shot to hell. Again.
Damn, damn, damn.
Wait. She sniffed.
That better not be what I think it is. She took another deep breath and confirmed her
fears. Smoke.
If she was lucky, this high rise was designed with stairwells that kept out fire and
smoke. Either they hadn’t retrofitted the building to those specifications or something
else was terribly wrong.
Her memory snapped into sharp focus. The reporter. The cleaning man. Where the
hell had he gone?
Dread curled in her stomach, creating a nausea that could be as much from a head
wound as fear. She forced herself to sit up as pain lacerated her side. She couldn’t hold
back a gasp. “Shit.”
She should be dead. He wanted her dead. Why?
Wonder later. Get out now. If he is anywhere nearby, he may want to finish the job.
The unforgiving concrete felt like a cold slab in a coroner’s workspace.
What kind of lunatic had she run into? What shitty luck to find her ass stuck in two
fires so close together—
Hell, no.
It didn’t seem realistic that the arsonist who set so many fires in Clifton had trailed
her and Jack to Billings. Whatever the case might be, she didn’t have the luxury of
wondering.
As she glanced at the number on the door on this landing, she realized she’d fallen
down a short flight of steps. No wonder she felt awful.
She remembered the fire plan of the building. Windows didn’t open in this building,
and even if they did, firefighting equipment couldn’t reach past the seventh floor. She
knew a rescue attempt by helicopter from the roof couldn’t be guaranteed.
Time to stand up and face the music. With effort, she pulled herself up. A dull ache
shot through her ribs, and she clapped her hand against her side in reaction.
Gingerly she tried putting weight on her knee. Agony ripped through the abused
limb, and she cried out. She sank back until she sat on a step.
She heard shouting from above, then some gunshots. Her breathing accelerated. Oh,
damn.
“Don’t move, little girl.”
Stiffening, she did as commanded. The chunky man who’d placed her in this
precarious position walked down the stairs toward her. A handgun nestled in his pasty
white hand. She fixated on the red hairs that peppered his wrist. Then her gaze darted to
his face. If his features hadn’t reminded her of a pug, she wouldn’t have recognized him
as the reporter who participated in the paparazzi-like hounding she’d encountered in
Clifton. Dozens of freckles sprinkled his nose. Unlike the clean suit she’d seen him
wearing in Clifton, today he wore a dirty jumpsuit from a cleaning company. As a
reporter, he’d looked spit-shined.
Dressed to kill, she guessed.
Yeah, he was a pug all right. Just as ugly, but not as cute.
Not me, you slimy creep. You aren’t going to kill me.
Then she saw the name on his jumpsuit. J.P. Margolies.
The man who’d called into the radio station.
* * * *
As the crowd in front of Jack flowed down the stairs past the sixth floor, he urged
Miranda to take everyone the rest of the way down, then started back upstairs.
The door to the seventh floor burst opened next to him. A wild-eyed young brunette,
panic etched into her face, grabbed at his arm. “Please help! My friend is still here and
he’s not listening to me. I told him we have to leave and he thinks he’s super man. He
thought he heard someone in one of the offices. Please help me!”
Jack rushed into the hallway, afraid someone would be killed or hurt if cool heads [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]