Ryley's Revenge (Gloves Off #2)(76)

We raced to the lockers, pulled our turnout gear on, and soon the firetruck, the tanker, and the paramedics’ rig drove through the slowly waking streets of Portland. The firetruck’s lights and blaring siren warranted us free pass through the sparse 4 a.m. traffic. Cars and busses pulled to the sides of the road, letting us through.

Jack blasted the horn and swore angrily, stomping on the brake pedal. A heavily bundled homeless woman started to cross the street, an old shopping cart in front of her. The cart was filled to the brim with all kinds of junk—probably containing all her possessions. Jack swerved the truck to the side, swiftly turning the steering wheel.

The woman stopped in the middle of the street as if surprised at the approaching firetruck with its lights flashing and horn screeching. She watched us, motionless, waiting for the vehicle to pass.

“Come on, lady! Move back!” Jack roared, although she wouldn’t be able to hear him anyway.

“Relax, bro. She’s probably deaf. Or doesn’t get it,” I said. I was normally a laid-back type, while Jack’s temper flared at the slightest reason.

In addition to being one of many cousins, he was also my best buddy. The guy had a heart of gold, despite his apparent anger problem. We both had served in the Marines, and then he had followed my path to become a firefighter.

Jack spat through his window. He shot me a glance and grinned. I snorted, shaking my head. The dispatcher updates chirped through the radio.

“What the hell is that about? An explosion?” Jack hollered over the siren.

“Must’ve been a gas leak.”

“Or some * dragged his barbecue inside again. Like last month, remember? Shit for brains.”

“Hard to forget,” I said.

I watched the sidewalk to my right. A small group of homeless people sat together, leaning against the building and smoking cigarettes. Two blocks farther, another two slept on the ground, wrapped in old, tattered sleeping bags.

“The cops are on their way too.” I nodded to my side mirror.

Jack glanced in his own mirror. “There is also a black unmarked car in the other lane, driving head-to-head with the cop. Someone’s asking for trouble. Wait, they just put a beacon on the roof. What the hell?”

By the time Jack finished his sentence, three black sedans with tinted windows accelerated past us, their beacons flashing red-and-blue.

“Cops?” he asked.

“I don’t think so. Looks more like one of the agencies.”

Jack looked at me. “Wonder which one. This job ain’t a barbecue accident.”

I frowned. “No, doesn’t look like it is.” I lifted the microphone and pressed the button to speak to the dispatch. “Give me more info on that explosion.”

She came on the line, “Not much left from the structure. All leveled down. Looks like a crapload of explosives were used.”

“Motherf*cker.” Jack hit the steering wheel with the heel of his hand. “Which gang was it this time?”

“We might find out soon.”

Jack shot me a glance.

“What?” I asked.

He smirked.

“Oh, that tells me a lot, bro.” I laughed. I knew that look—he was about to give me shit about something.

“Where the f*ck did you disappear last Friday? You were supposed to meet me and Julio at Black Pelican.”

Black Pelican was one of our hangouts that I lately decided to avoid. A certain feisty redhead bartender chick and I had too much of a past. I wasn’t interested in making it a future. But she was.

“I told you I might go if you two morons chose to get shitfaced somewhere else and not at the Black Pelican.”

A small, red sedan swerved onto our lane. Jack turned the siren on for a moment, and the car scooted away over two lanes to the left.

“Rita wasn’t there last Friday. You should’ve seen the new girl.” He suggestively wiggled his eyebrows. “Tits like melons, man. And those eyes. I f*cking get a hard on just thinking of her.”

“Tell her that, not me, *.”

He burst into laughter and punched me on the arm. Hard. The guy didn’t know his own strength. I tipped my chin toward the scene ahead of us.

Plums of thick, dark-gray smoke puffed above the spot where a small warehouse used to stand on the corner of Daltona and Warren Streets. Red-and-yellow fire licked the scattered chunks of concrete and fragments of broken timber strewn all over the area. The buildings around were badly damaged as well.

Jack pulled Rescue 8 to the curb. I opened the door and jumped out, my boots hitting the ground with a dull thud. I quickly scanned the area, trying to locate the Incident Command. I spotted Chief Holton talking with two dark suits. FBI?

The Chief was pointing to the screen of a small laptop in his hand. Both dark suits nodded and exchanged a silent glance.

“Ethan!” Chief Holton saw me approach but made no introductions.

“Chief.” I nodded.

The dark suits wordlessly walked away.

“Feds?” I asked.

“Yep.” His bushy eyebrows pulled together, deepening the permanent crease between them.

Chief’s eyes were puffy and red, the skin on his jowls sagging more than normal. He was pushing sixty, and his health was failing. Diane, one of my good friends, worked in the clinic where Chief Holton had his annual physical done for the past ten years. She didn’t think he should be working in such a physically demanding job.