Rapid Fire (23 page)

Damn it,
she wished she’d done more, been more.

The voice
of the fire increased until it sounded like words. Like a voice. Thorne’s
voice, shouting, “Here! She’s in here!”

At first
Maya thought she was imagining it, that her mind had conjured his memory to
keep her company in her final moments.

Then she
heard the deep-throated roar of a fire extinguisher, and felt the splatter of
cooling foam, the grasp of strong hands on her bare arms, lifting her, dragging
her as she had been dragged before.

“Hey! Let
go!” She thrashed, struggling to free herself, not sure whether the hands
belonged to rescue or new danger.

“Hold
on,” Thorne’s voice said. “This is going to hurt.”

She
forced herself to relax only moments before he ripped the tape away from her
eyes. She screamed reflexively, though the gasoline had softened the adhesive,
dulling the pain.

“Sorry.”
His voice was ragged sounding over the continued puffs of the extinguisher.
“God, are you okay?”

“I’m not
sure.” Maya waited while her vision cleared from dark to painful white,
solidifying into the image of Thorne’s face, creased in concerned lines. His
hands gripped her arms hard enough to bruise, but she wished they were even
tighter, because the ache proved she was alive. “He said it was Henkes,” she
gasped. “He said the name, said the fire was a message from Henkes.” She
glanced beyond him and felt her stomach dip. “Oh, God.”

They were
in a maintenance area, as she had surmised. Black streaks marked the walls and
floor, and the whole place stank of gasoline. She could see where the bastard
had poured a pool of the accelerant, then a thin trickle leading toward her.

“Why
didn’t it light all the way?” she asked, her words cracking on the horror of
the question, or maybe from the force of her screams.

“I don’t
know.” Thorne’s voice sounded as ragged as hers, and he didn’t let go of her
arms. His eyes searched hers as though looking for something and not finding
it. “He set a trail to delay the fire by a few minutes. Something must’ve gone
wrong.”

Or it
went right, she thought, because that mistake had saved her life as surely as
the men who now crowded the room, filling it with fire retardant foam and
starting blowers to clear the fumes. Aloud, she said, “I’m fine. You can let go
of me now.”

Thorne
looked at his hands on her arms, and the indentations his fingers had made on
her flesh, but he didn’t step away. “Not on your life.” He kept his grip on one
arm, turned, and half dragged, half led her out of the room. “Come on.”

Maya
nearly tripped over her own feet when her rubbery legs failed to keep up with
his long strides. “Where are we going?”

“To get
you cleaned up before somebody lights a cigarette near you,” he grated, not
slackening pace even as they passed a knot of cops in the hall that included
the chief, Tucker McDermott and Alissa. Maya saw Alissa’s eyes darken with
worry, saw her mouth stretch to say something, but Thorne blew past the group
before the friends could connect.

Maya
thought about digging in her heels, but he was right, damn him. She stank of
gasoline and was a hazard to herself and others. Getting clean would have to
come first, explanations second.

As if she
could explain what had happened to her.

Thorne
let go of her abruptly, ducked into the skate shop, grabbed a warm-up suit off
one of the racks and tossed two twenties on the deserted counter. He handed the
suit to her and nodded toward the nearby restroom. “Change and leave your
clothes for Alissa and Cassie. They might get some contact evidence.” He leaned
against the wall and crossed his arms over his chest. “If you’re not out in
three minutes, I’m coming in.”

Maya
didn’t argue. She didn’t have the strength, or maybe she had too much strength,
all of it pulsing just beneath her skin in wave after wave of tremors. She
wanted to shake, wanted to howl, wanted to burst into tears or scream until her
voice gave out for good. She wanted to grab Thorne tightly, or shove him away
with both hands and run.

She
wanted too many things all at once. Because of it, she nodded without a word
and pushed past him into the bathroom.

She was
changed in under three minutes, and gladly left her gas-soaked dress, panties,
bra, socks and shoes on the bathroom floor. The warm-up suit was cheap nylon,
and chafed across her damp skin. Shivers traveled from her skin inwards, until
her whole body shook with them.

She had
very nearly died.

If Thorne
hadn’t come for her…

She
shivered, pulled the nylon zip-up suit close around her scalded-feeling skin,
and pushed through the swinging door, out into the hallway, which was now lit
day-bright.

She
squinted. “Guess they’ve got the power back up.”

He didn’t
answer, just stared at her with those blank, buffered eyes until she had to
fight not to squirm under his regard. Anger crackled around him like a visible
aura, but he didn’t make a move toward her, didn’t yell as she knew he wanted
to. Instead, he inclined his head and gestured toward the front of the
building. “Come on. Let’s go.”

Fatigue
and tension pulled at her, and her too-sensitive skin told her she was freezing
cold, though the hallway was warm around them. She nodded. “Right. The chief
will want his report.”

But once
they’d bypassed the last of the rescue workers outside the rink and pushed
through the first of the avid, news-hungry reporters, once they were in his car
and headed away, Thorne turned them deeper into the city without a word,
bypassing the PD. When he pulled into the parking garage beneath her building,
Maya nearly wept with relief.

She
waited for him to get her door because she was too numb, too unsettled to do
otherwise. They rode up in the elevator, shoulder to shoulder, silence
stretching between them like a bad smell. He was furious. She was shaky.

Bad
combination, she knew. She needed her armor in place, her shields raised before
she could go up against him. In her current state, she was likely to agree to
just about anything.

And hate
him for it later.

It wasn’t
until she reached her door that she realized her purse was gone. She shaped her
hands in front of her, as though the bag might magically appear slung over her
shoulder. “I lost my…It must’ve flung free when he grabbed me. I don’t…” Tears
pressed against her eyelids, weak and useless. “I don’t have a key.”

All she
wanted to do was go home, but she was barred from even that.

“Make
sure nobody’s watching,” Thorne ordered. “I’ll take care of it.”

“How?”
She glanced quickly up and down, but the hallway outside her condo was
deserted. When she saw the slim metal lock picks in his hands, she hissed,
“Where did you get those?”

“It’s a
habit I picked up undercover.” He popped the lock in under a minute, and
returned the tools to the inner pocket of his jacket. “They say it never hurts
to have a second skill.”

But
although his words bordered on light, his expression remained closed as he
ushered her through into the condo, then made her wait by the door while he
checked the rooms. Though the building was under constant surveillance, the
Mastermind had proven himself able to get past the cops before.

“All
clear?” she said when he rejoined her, expression dark.

“There’s
nobody here but us,” he said, which seemed like more of a threat than an
answer. Sure enough, he continued, “Which means I can ask you what the hell you
thought you were doing. I told you to wait in the lobby. You were safe there.
What the hell happened?”

His
volume climbed with each word and he loomed closer and closer, until his angry
eyes nearly dominated her vision and his breath was a hot, spicy wash on her
face.

Maya had
thought she would bow under the pressure, maybe even break. Instead, she felt
the anger build. The desire to give in was washed away by a surge of
frustration, a kick of rage against the people and events that had conspired
against her ever since her arrival in Bear Claw. She’d come to town looking to
build her career, to protect the innocent citizens of the Colorado town.

Instead,
she had become a target.

Well, no
more. She was done being a target, done being a victim. She balled her fists at
her sides and held her voice steady so it wouldn’t crack weakly when she said,
“That’s enough.” When he drew back, surprised, she followed and poked a finger
toward his chest. “I’ve had it up to the teeth with you bossing me around,
making decisions for me, making calls about the case without consulting me…”
She trailed off, sorting through the resentments until she found the central
issue. “I’m done being treated like a second-class cop. Maybe I made a mistake
with Henkes, maybe not. But mistakes happen—we fix them and move on. You want a
partner? Fine. Treat me like a partner. You want a lover? Then you’d better
damn well start treating me like one of those, too. But I’m sick and tired of
you treating me like you’re some police force big brother. Yes, you’ve got
seniority, and yes, you’ve had field experiences that I can’t begin to
understand, but that does not,” she emphasized the word with another finger
stab toward his chest, “entitle you to treat me like your dimwitted little
sister.”

“I
didn’t—”

“I don’t
care,” she interrupted, not wanting to hear his explanation or defense. “In
fact, I don’t care about much of anything right now. I smell of gasoline, my
bruises have bruises and my skin feels like I’m sunburned all over. I want a
cool shower and a colder drink—a soda, damn it—and then I want us to sit down
and talk about this like professionals. If you can’t do that, then I want you
gone when I get out of the shower. You either accept me as an equal, or we’re
not working together. I don’t give a damn anymore that I’m suspended. I’m not
even sure I give a damn if you take my job when this is all over. But I am
not,” this time she emphasized the word by turning away and heading for the
bathroom, tossing her parting shot over her shoulder, “absolutely not allowing
that bastard to go free.”

It was
Henkes, damn it. Her attacker had said it plain as day.

She
entered the small bathroom and closed the door behind her, oddly surprised that
Thorne hadn’t followed, that he hadn’t argued harder. Worse, moments later she
heard the sound of the front door locking shut.

Disappointment
and a spiky sense of betrayal washed through her.

He’d
left, damn him.

Granted
she’d told him to, but she’d never expected him to listen. Fuming and
inexplicably heart-sore, she shucked off the cheap nylon suit and cranked on
the shower. Her hair felt greasy, her body felt grimy and her skin throbbed
with the blood flowing just beneath it. Cool water would feel good, she told
herself, and ignored the vague beat of depression at the knowledge that Thorne
was gone.

She’d
thought their moment together in the garden had meant something, that the worry
in his eyes when he’d saved her had been personal, despite their differences.

Apparently,
she’d been wrong.

Ignoring
the faint sting of tears, she climbed into the shower and let out a broken sigh
when the cool spray sluiced over her skin and the hiss of the drumming water
drowned out the real world, at least for a few minutes.

“I don’t
think of you as a sister, but I can’t think of you as a cop.”