The flimsy door was no match for Matt Clark's boot. He kicked it in, ducking as the greedy fire sucked in fresh air. Heat surged toward him as he pushed into the front room, his partner, Lara Hughes, beside him. J.T. Keller and Miguel Santos were at the door behind them.
The house should be empty--on the foreclosure list according to property records. No one was supposed to be living here, but Matt had seen the overflowing trash cans baking in the hot summer sun, and the sleeping bags and uncovered mattresses on the floor of the living room added to the story. A story currently giving him the willies.
He caught Lara's eye. "I have a bad feeling about this."
"Tell me about it." Lara made one more visual sweep of the room, her voice tinny through the SCBA mask.
Smoke swirled in the room, a living, breathing thing. Around the edges of the swinging kitchen door, he could see a telltale orange glow and pulled the hose with him deeper into the house. The basics of firefighting. Put water on fire. "We're heading into the kitchen."
Matt barely registered the response over the heat that rushed them when he opened the door. He hit his knees, and beside him he felt more than heard Lara thump to hers. Obviously the center of the fire, the room glowed, every surface flaming or charred. The Sheetrock walls bubbled in some places and burned through in so many others that it was impossible to tell where the burn started.
The air too superheated for words, Matt motioned to Lara to stay down. He turned the nozzle to fire a stream through the nearest window, giving the hot gases a place to escape.
As the smoke cleared, they climbed to their feet. Matt took quick stock of the room. He laid the spray of water directly over the kitchen table. A conglomeration of objects remained, telling him that, although the residents of this house had definitely been cooking, they weren't using Grandma's cookbook.
They were cooking meth.
He ducked down to look under the table. And immediately knew that the heebie-jeebies he'd been fighting all afternoon had been seriously justified.
He started backing toward the door and turned to Lara. "Get out of here. This place is gonna blow."
She shook her head. "Another couple minutes and we'll have it under control."
"Another couple of minutes and we'll be dead. Get out of here. Now."
She took off for the front door, the smoke billowing and closing around her. Close on her heels, he felt the intense heat bearing down on him. He could almost hear the clock ticking in his head. As he broke through the smoke, the force of the blast slammed into him--a physical blow--catapulting him into the air. He flew, arms and legs splayed all directions.
In that split second his thoughts fragmented.
His family. His sweet dark-haired mom. His county sheriff father. How he'd never get to see his old man be proud that his son had joined the Sea Breeze Police Department as their first-ever arson investigator.
The last thought as the ground raced toward him was a wisp of a prayer that his beautiful, stubborn partner would be okay.
Lara Hughes blinked her eyes against too-bright sunlight. The sound of a PASS alarm found its way into her consciousness. Hers or someone else's?
She tested her legs and arms. All still attached. She tried to think back. She'd wanted to stay and fight...
Stephanie Newton (Author)
At an early age Terri Reed discovered the wonderful world of fiction and declared she would one day write a book. Now she is fulfilling that dream and enjoys writing for Steeple Hill. She is an active member of both Romance Writers of America and American Christian Fiction Writers. She resides in the Pacific Northwest with her college-sweetheart husband, two wonderful children and an array of critters. When not writing, she enjoys spending time with her family and friends, gardening and playing with her dogs.You can write to Terri at P.O. Box 19555 Portland, OR 97280; e-mail her at firstname.lastname@example.org or visit her online.