The Long Way Down (Daniel Faust #1)(88)

The door grip rattled uselessly in my hand. Looking closer, I could see the warped metal in the doorjamb, how it ran like melted wax. They’d destroyed the lock.

I ran down to the seventh floor landing and hauled open the stairwell door. A sudden furnace-blast of heat seared my lungs and stole my breath. Flames licked the walls of the hallway beyond, curling the antique hotel wallpaper and blackening the dusty carpet.

If the fire was this out of control, going any lower would be suicide. I could run back up to nine and hope the flames hadn’t reached it yet, then try jumping down to the fire escape, but if the windows didn’t line up I’d be trapped. Meanwhile, my window of opportunity on seven closing tighter than a hangman’s noose.

I took my last breath of clean air and ran for it, keeping to the middle of the hallway as the fire raged around me. I knew it was a bad idea once I hit the first intersection and suddenly couldn’t tell left from right. The billowing smoke stung my watering eyes, spinning me around, leaving me choking and blind.

The hotel rumbled. Somewhere to my side, sparks flew as a chunk of burning wall came crashing down.

I kept low, my sleeve over my mouth, aching for breath as I ran the other way. I couldn’t inhale without the air gusting back out in a hacking cough. An open doorway offered a hint of escape, and I took it. Dead end. Just another stripped-down hotel room, the ceiling blanketed in roiling smoke.

I ran to the window. Red and blue lights strobed against the darkness far below. No sign of the fire escape. I’d gotten turned around, confused in the chaos, and now I was trapped. Out in the hallway, another tremor sent timbers crashing down from the ceiling, throwing up walls of flame.

Seven floors. I’d heard of people surviving falls from that high up, miracle cases. Far more likely I’d end up a broken ragdoll on the asphalt, but it was still better than burning to death. I threw my shoulder against the window, gritting my teeth against the jarring pain, but the glass didn’t budge. The smoke had stolen my strength and my breath, leaving me weak as a newborn kitten. With my burning eyes squeezed shut I punched the window again and again. I tried to muster the focus for a spell, but constant lung-searing coughs tore my concentration to pieces.

No good. I slumped to the carpet, spent.

I left the earpiece in my pocket. My friends didn’t need to listen to me die. That wasn’t the memory I wanted to leave them with. I just hoped the smoke would kill me before the fire did.

Fuck it, I thought, bitter. At least I saved the world.

Something moved in the hallway. A plank of burning wood, shoved aside. I rubbed my streaming eyes as I struggled to focus.

Caitlin strode through the flames, untouched, her white leather greatcoat billowing behind her. I thought I was hallucinating until she scooped me up in her arms.

“You stupid man,” she whispered, cradling my head against her breast. “Hold on tight.”

She took a few steps back and ran, leaping for the window, smashing through. For a brief, shining moment we hung suspended over the abyss, trailed by a frozen rain of glass. It felt like we could fly.

Then I fell, clutched in Caitlin’s arms.





Forty-Four



My memories of the night were hazy. I remembered Caitlin bundling me into the back seat of her car, a ride that turned into a gurney slide under too-bright lights, an oxygen mask over my face. Then nothing.

I spent about a week at Desert Springs Hospital, most of it on a respirator. They bandaged my ribs, set my broken nose, and patched up a dozen other cuts and scrapes I didn’t even remember getting. A chubby doctor came by once a day to check my charts and tell me how lucky I was to be alive. He didn’t know the half of it.

I was worried about being connected to the Silverlode fire, but I didn’t need to be. Hospitals have to report knife and gunshot wounds to the cops. Smoke inhalation, not so much. The official story was that I’d been rescued from a house fire out in the burbs, and nobody challenged it.

Tuesday was my discharge day. I woke from a nap to find Bentley sitting at my bedside, reading an Agatha Christie novel.

“I hear they’re letting you go,” he said, slipping in a bookmark and resting the paperback on his knee.

“About damn time, too. That’s the problem with hospitals. They kill you with boredom.”

Out of the corner of my eye, on the grainy television mounted high on the wall, I saw Lauren Carmichael’s face. Grabbing the remote, I unmuted the TV and raised the volume.

“—tragedy for this great community,” she said, flashbulbs popping around her. “Despite the loss of a classic civic landmark, we can only be thankful that the fire was quickly contained, thanks to the hard work of the Las Vegas Fire Department, and that no one was seriously hurt.”

“She’s giving a press conference?” I said.

Bentley glared at the screen. “It’s been repeating all morning. Everybody loves a catastrophe.”

Lauren stared into the camera. I knew it was only a recording, but somehow I could still feel her eyes drilling into mine.

“To the arsonist responsible for this senseless act of destruction, I will say only this. We will find you. And we will bring you to justice.”

“Not if I find you first,” I muttered.

“What’s next for Carmichael-Sterling Nevada?” one reporter called from the audience.

Lauren put on a million-dollar smile. “What’s next? Progress. The tragedy at the Silverlode in no way hinders our primary goal, the completion of the Enclave Resort and Casino. We intend to put a new face on Las Vegas. New life, new jobs, new capital and growth. Make no mistake: the Enclave will rise.”