Deadly Heat (Deadly #2)(80)

Dammit.

“All units are searching for him,” Monica said, but there was something in her voice, a tension skirting under the words that told him she was worried. “But we’ve got another problem.”

When Monica worried, it wasn’t just a problem, it was a big damn deal. “What is it?”

“Bob Kyle is missing.”

Kenton froze near the station’s check-in desk. A banner waved over the door. We love our firefighters. The sign was filled with hearts and the oversized scrawl of schoolchildren. “Run that by me again.” The guy was supposed to be safe. Lawrence had promised that he’d keep his best men on Bob.

All the cops on that team knew the order. Bob Kyle was to be protected.

Fuck, he was outside Phoenix’s kill zone. His placement there had been a deliberate move to add extra security for Bob.

“Bob was in his bedroom. The cops thought he was sleeping.” Her voice lowered. “Officer Daniels went to check on him, and he was gone.”

“Phoenix?”

“The window was open. They think he left on his own.”

Why? “What do you think?”

“I think Bob Kyle is a man with severe medical and emotional problems. I think he’s been off his medication for a long time.” A sigh. “I think we need to find him, right now, because I have a knot in my gut that’s telling me this isn’t going to end well.”

When it came to Monica’s instincts, he listened to them. “You already start the search?”

“Five minutes ago.”

Malone and Bob missing? Hell, no, that wasn’t a good sign. Kenton ended the call and rushed for the door. The uniforms were there. He’d arranged for them to take over Lora’s watch. “Jon…”

The other agent glanced up at him.

“Our witness is gone.”

“Fuck.”

Yeah, that about summed things up.


As Bob Kyle staggered out of the liquor store, he lifted a bottle to his mouth. Liquid dropped down his chin and spilled on his clothes.

Figured. The guy needed his fix.

Where had he gotten money? Maybe from the cops. The idiots probably hadn’t even noticed when he’d swiped it. Or maybe they’d given it to him. Payment for ratting him out.

Kyle staggered down the street, drinking, guzzling as fast as he could.

Phoenix followed him. Not too close. Though it probably wouldn’t have mattered. But, no, not too close. Not yet.

That guy was spilling booze all over himself. The bitter scent filled the air.

Kyle stumbled over the broken road and wandered back into the alley. And Phoenix followed.

The match rolled between his fingers. He wouldn’t need an accelerant. The fool had provided it for him. Hell, he didn’t even have to pour this time. Just light ’im and watch the fire burn.

Too easy.

“Cathy!” Kyle’s bellow had him freezing, then glancing back over his shoulder. A scream like that would alert too many people. It was daylight, and cars were buzzing down the street.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

“Talk to me! Cathy, t-talk to me!”

What the hell? Was someone else with him?

Phoenix hurried his steps. Kyle had disappeared behind a garbage bin. A big, green, stinking bin.

Glass shattered.

Phoenix yanked off his cap and shoved it into his backpack. If this was some kind of trap, he wasn’t falling for it.

“Comin’ home… comin’ home, C-Cathy…” Kyle mumbled. The words were so faint that he almost didn’t catch them.

Then a gasp, choked off.

He hurried around the bin.

A gurgle rattled in the air and had him tensing. “Buddy, are you—”

Kyle’s body shuddered as it slammed into the wall. Kyle’s muddy eyes were open wide, with streaks of bloodshot red in the white. His hand was still at his throat, and he was still holding the broken bottle of whiskey that he’d shoved into his neck.

Blood poured down from the wound, soaking his shirt, mixing with the alcohol, and clogging the air.

The guy wheezed, twitched, and slid down to the ground. His eyes were still open.

Still looking right at him.

Some days, this shit was so easy.

Kyle’s chest rose, then slowly fell. And the blood kept coming.

How long would the guy last? Not more than a few more minutes.

Guess he didn’t have to worry about the witness anymore.

Phoenix reached into his bag and pulled out his cap. As he settled it on his head, he said, “You just saved me some trouble.”

Kyle’s lips moved, but no sound came out. Of course not, the guy had ripped his throat to hell. No way to scream now.

He pulled out his match.

That alcohol was strong. The thick stench of booze was stronger than the scent of blood.

Kyle only had a few minutes left, maybe not even that long.

“But I do like my fire, and since you’ve made it so easy…” He struck the match on the brick wall above his prey and watched that little flame flare to life.

Then he smiled and dropped it into the pool of whiskey right between Bob Kyle’s legs.

He jumped back as the flames shot up, catching Kyle, and greedily following the trail of that booze. The fire blazed right up his soaked chest and right over his skin.