What I've Done (Morgan Dane #4)(67)

Another bottle came through the window near the front door and smashed on the floor. Liquid splattered. Fire bloomed in the foyer, engulfing the welcome mat and blocking his exit to the door.

Lance turned back. Smoke filled the hall. He lived in a one-story house. He just had to find a window that wasn’t on fire.

He covered his mouth and nose with his hand and headed for the guest room. Before he could get close to the window, another Molotov cocktail came crashing through the glass. It landed on the wood floor next to the guest bed and erupted into a ball of flames. The bedding caught fire. Flames rushed toward the ceiling.

Lance backed out of the room.

Whoever was trying to kill him was still outside, running around the house and tossing incendiaries through every window, trapping him inside.

What were his options?

He had damned few.

The hall bath was an interior room. With no windows, it was a death trap.

The bedrooms had too much fuel. Soaked in gasoline, bedding, mattresses, and area rugs would catch too quickly. Smoke was pouring from both doorways.

But if he continued to stand still, he was dead. The whole house would be engulfed in a few minutes. Modern houses, full of synthetic materials, burned hotter and faster and emitted more toxins than houses in the past.

Heat enveloped him. Sweat broke out on his skin. The smoke darkened and filled his lungs.

With no other choices, Lance raced back toward the front hall, toward the fire. With no fabric save the welcome mat, the fire would spread more slowly there. He could exit through the dining room windows or patio slider.

Provided the arsonist didn’t beat him to the back of the house.

Flames danced across the floor in front of him. Without breaking stride, he dug deep, pushed off the floor, and leaped over the fire. Pain licked at his bare feet and roared through his bad leg as he landed, but adrenaline blocked the pain as quickly as it registered.

Eyes stinging, lungs burning, Lance coughed. He stumbled across the living room toward the sliding glass patio doors.

Through the glass, he saw a flaming bottle soaring toward him like a missile. Anticipating another explosion, he ducked and covered his face. But the bottle broke on the outside of the thicker glass of the patio door. Liquid splattered the glass and patio. Flames rushed across the concrete, then, lacking additional fuel, went out.

Lance opened the slider. Air flooded the house. Behind him, the fire rushed toward the fresh oxygen. Leading with his gun, he staggered through the opening into the darkness. His focus tunneled down to the potential threat. Smoke clogged his throat, and his racing heartbeats echoed in his ears.

A shadow ran toward him. A man. Sweat dripped down Lance’s forehead, mixing with soot and smoke, and ran into his eyes. He blinked, but his vision was still too blurry to identify the man.

“Stop!” he shouted, aiming his gun at the dark figure.

“Whoa,” the figure yelled. “Don’t shoot me. It’s Bill.”

Lance wiped his eyes, which didn’t help much. He squinted, and his vision clarified enough to see his skinny next-door neighbor standing on the back lawn, hands in the air. Shirtless, he wore only pajamas bottoms and sneakers, the laces untied.

Lance lowered the gun. A wave of heat hit his back, and he staggered a few yards farther away from the house. “Did you see anyone?”

Sirens blared. One big advantage to living in town was the proximity to the fire and police stations.

“No!” Bill yelled over the din of the fire and approaching emergency vehicles. “Is anyone else inside?”

Lance shook his head. Now that he was alive and likely to stay that way, his body busied itself with exchanging smoke for clean night air. He leaned on his thighs and hacked up what felt like an entire lung.

The winds kicked up. Something hot pricked Lance’s shoulder. He swatted an ember from his skin. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw the fire swallow his roof. Flames reached into the dark sky, and smoke billowed across the moon.

“Dude, we gotta get away from here. Let me help you.” Bill slung one of Lance’s arms over his shoulders and half dragged him to his own backyard, around his own house, and out to the street. Bill’s wife stood on the sidewalk in a long bathrobe. She clutched their toddler on her hip. More neighbors emerged from houses and gathered on front lawns.

A fire truck parked, and firemen went to work, dragging hoses off the rig toward the inferno. Two more fire trucks and multiple Scarlet Falls police cars roared onto the street. An ambulance parked at the rear of the vehicle pack, three lots down the road. Patrol officers herded the crowd farther from the fire.

Sharp jogged down the sidewalk toward Lance. He wore jeans and sneakers, but his salt-and-pepper hair stood straight up on one side.

“You alive?” Sharp asked, scanning him.

Still coughing, Lance nodded.

“I’ll take him from here,” Sharp said to Bill.

Bill ducked out from under Lance’s arm, and Sharp took his place. Lance wanted to tell him he could walk on his own, but he wasn’t entirely sure about that. Faceplanting on the sidewalk would be embarrassing.

“Thanks, Bill,” Lance croaked.

With a wave, Bill turned and jogged toward his wife and child.

“I heard the sirens and just knew it was you.” Sharp hauled Lance to the back of the ambulance. Lance perched on the rear bumper. A paramedic slapped an oxygen mask over his face and handed him a bottle of water. Lance moved the mask to rinse his eyes and mouth. He spat onto the street then sipped water. The cool liquid soothed his raw throat.