WidowMaker (14 page)

Even the agent stopped his compressions as he witnessed the growing conflagration. Finally, the fire alarm sounded, setting the sprinklers off. Water rained down upon them, but it barely seemed to affect the fire.

“Shit!” Derek picked up Sam’s body. “Everyone out!”

Jill ran forward to get the door for Derek, but Mitchell couldn’t go. Not yet.

Fire danced and popped between him and the console, but he wouldn’t leave without some evidence. The Baxter brothers couldn’t get away with all of this. Without evidence, though, how could they ever prove any of this was their doing?

A strand of flaming film slithered its way across the floor like some kind of celluloid snake. Mitchell had seen what the film could do firsthand. Still he had to get proof.

“Mitchell!” Derek yelled as he left with Sam. “Move it!”

Gulping searing air, Mitchell braced himself. He just needed to snatch the disc. Leaping over the serpentine flame, Mitchell landed next to the console. He punched the button that opened up the DVD backup disc. Who knew how much of the information was on there, but if Sam was half the technician that Mitchell thought he was, there should be plenty of information on the DVD.

So great, he got the darn thing, but as he turned back to the door, a wall of fire blocked his exit. A flame snapped at his leg, probably trying to get a taste of Mitchell. This was it. The moment of truth. Mitchell actually had to be brave.

Leaning back, Mitchell tried to give himself as much room as possible, wishing, really wishing, that he had drunk that protein powder stuff his mom was always forcing on him.

Here goes.

Then Mitchell realized that there was no way he could leap over that burning barrier. Not even Superman could do it. Well, not if there was a piece of kryptonite in the room. No, Mitchell wasn’t strong, but by golly, he was smart.

“Get out of there!” he heard Jill cry.

Come on, brain. Kick in.

He put his hand on the back of the chair to steady himself. He might really die here. Consumed by
Terror
’s avenging fire. How poetic. And how incredibly sucky.

Wait. The chair. Without giving himself too much time to talk himself out of the plan, Mitchell crouched down on the chair, and then pushed off as hard as he could from the console. The chair skidded across the slick linoleum floor, bursting through the flames.

Whoosh!
The fire blew over, blasting his back with a furnace full of heat. His clothes were singed, but he was alive! Alive, but spinning to the right.

“Mitchell!” Jill said as he skidded toward her.

He jumped off the chair, unfortunately catching his foot in the wheel. His body slammed to the ground. Great. He’d just pulled off the most awesome escape in the history of fire escapes, except of course, for
Backdraft
. Mitchell didn’t think he was Ron Howard or anything, but to end it doing a face plant in front of Ms. Connor?

“Come on!” she said tugging him up, but his leg wouldn’t budge.

Smoke billowed toward them, making it hard to breathe. Mitchell coughed, fanning the smoke away to find a tendril of film tied around his ankle.

Damn, but
Terror
was persistent! He kicked, but to no avail.

It looked like he was going to die by film. Mitchell wanted it written on his tombstone, “Every student complains about his workload, but Mitchell’s thesis really did kill him.”

But wait. Would his father really spring for all those letters?

* * *

Jill took the scissors she had found for Derek and opened them wide. Using a slicing motion, she cut the film that Mitchell had entangled himself in. The strand snapped, releasing Mitchell’s ankle. But did it just retract? Recoil?

She shook her head. All of this talk about
Terror
.

They rushed down the stairs as the fire alarm blared and a torrent of water came down upon them. The exit was only down the hall, but it turned out to be too far.

An explosion rent the air. The force picked her and Mitchell up, carrying them those last few yards, and then slammed them against the wall. Her ears rang. Her back screamed, and her head pounded. Winded, Jill struggled to her feet, dragging Mitchell with her.

She shoved open the exit door to find as much chaos outside as inside.

Luckily, it looked like the fire alarm had evacuated the building. Stumbling, Jill made her way to Derek. He knelt beside Sam, still giving him compressions, even though two EMTs hovered over Derek, trying to get him to back away.

“They weren’t doing their
jobs
,” Derek said as he counted, “One. Two. Three. Four. Five.” He leaned over, pinched Sam’s nose, and gave him a breath, and then went back to compressions. “They gave up on him.”

* * * * *

CHAPTER 10

Chaos erupted around Derek, yet he barely registered any of it. Agents, coughing and choking, stumbled over each other in their mad dash out of the building.

Boom.
Another explosion. Glass shattered, raining down on the ground and upon his head. Jill tried to get him out of harm’s way, but Derek’s feet simply wouldn’t move.

An agent in command barked orders. Agonized screams echoed from the building. The screech of sirens wailed in the distance. The sky above them darkened, masked by churning clouds of acrid smoke.

“Derek, we need to get to safety.”

First, Derek didn’t need to do anything. Second, where was safe anymore?

Jesus, he’d rained down death, yet again. It wasn’t bad enough that the little girl’s eyes haunted him, now? Sam had died in his arms. Again, Derek was helpless to stop any of it.

Jill rubbed his back with her hand. “Derek, I am so sorry.”

Too little. Too late.

Besides, what did her sympathy get Sam? Nothing. And that’s exactly what it gave Derek.

“Agent Boulder!” the agent in charged yelled over the churning chaos, but he ignored the call. Not even sure if he was an agent any more.

Derek snorted. She thought he was in shock, afraid, or cowed. If anything, it was a white- hot iron that burned within him. Rage at himself. Rage at fate. Rage especially at the Baxter brothers. It seared up and down his chest and low into his belly.

“Boulder! Front and center!”

Slowly and carefully, Derek pushed all of that anger away. He pushed it behind an internal steel door, just like he had after D.C. Derek then slammed that door closed and spun the lock. He swore he could feel it actually click closed.

Now he was ready to get the job done.

“Here!” he yelled, striding over to the agent in charge.

* * *

Jill watched Derek’s back. Muscles rippled under his shirt. He was gutting it out. Jill could tell. She’d seen it before. Any time an agent went down or Derek had to shoot someone in the line of duty, he would put on this mask. Derek wasn’t big on processing emotions. Her ex- fiancé subscribed more to the John Wayne style of coping. One of the reasons he was an ex.

As Derek disappeared into a sea of suits, Jill scanned the crowd for Mitchell. Where had he gone? She found him leaning up against the building, turning the DVD that he had snatched from the console. She walked over to him, noting the smear of soot across his face, punctuated by a streak of tears.

Sure, Mitchell could be a pain and a little overeager. Right now, he looked like a broken toy, shoved in the corner and forgotten. Poor Mitchell. In less than twenty-four hours, he found a co-worker decapitated, was grilled by some overeager police detectives, and now witnessed an FBI specialist’s death. He was a scared kid—in
way
over his head. Hell, Jill was practically drowning as well.

Jill placed the back of her hand against Mitchell’s forehead, drifting down to his cheeks.

“Are you sure? ’Cause you don’t look it,” Jill said. This was the quietest that she had ever seen Mitchell. Even in jail, he couldn’t stop talking.

She really did not want to get into another conversation about
Terror
. Jill snuck a glance at Derek, who was gesturing toward the building. Flames licked at the windows. Screams leaked through. Derek humoring Mitchell and involving him was a mistake. Mitchell should be back in his dorm eating Cheetos and watching his horror marathon.

“Well it’s destroyed now.” Along with her career. God. She didn’t want to become a statistic. Having to move back in with her parents. Living in their basement. Finding used furniture on Craigslist.

“No. I mean the movie itself.” Mitchell spoke so softly that Jill had to lean in to hear him over the wail of sirens and the shouts of paramedics and police.

“I don’t understand.”

“I felt something ... back at the editing room and now here. Like a voice whispering in my ear.”

Jill had seen that in Mitchell’s face. It was as if he were mesmerized by the movie. His jaw slack, his expression enraptured. Then the film snapped and reared up before fleeing back into the smoke. It had to be adrenaline messing with their senses. Exaggerating their imaginations.

Again, she tried humor to defuse the nerve-jangling tension. “You aren’t going postal on me, are you?”

“I wish.”

“I don’t give a shit what it sounds like,” Derek’s angry voice drew Jill’s attention. She turned as Derek continued venting. “It happened, and I want a damn warrant for the Baxter brothers’ arrest,”

The three followed in his wake. Derek pulled out his cell phone, hitting speed dial. Jill felt a little sorry for the agent in charge. Sure, he outranked Derek, but out-bullied him? Never.

“Agent Boulder, you are in my jurisdiction now, and you will—”

“Fred?” Derek said into his phone cutting of the agent. “I need you to get me a search warrant and two arrest warrants.”

“Sir!” another agent yelled as he ran toward them. “We’ve got several men trapped on the third floor!” he exclaimed, breathless as his arm swung toward the building.