Beneath the Scars (Masters of the Shadowlands #13)(115)

As Brandon pulled the trailer around the side of the house, Ryan dropped down beside Carson, his eyes scared. “Jesus, Cars, he got you good.”

Carson sucked in a breath. “Don’t help him, Ryan. He’s crazy.”

“Yeah, kinda.” Glancing at the house doubtfully, Ryan rose and pulled Carson to his feet. “I…I’m outta here. You better run, too.”

“I will.” Moving slower, Carson reached his bike and got on.

Ryan lifted his hand, bike almost flying as he sped toward the driveway. He got there and paused, looking back.

Rubbing his aching stomach, Carson waved him on, and Ryan pedaled into the street and away.

The yard felt awfully lonely. Slowly, Carson lowered his bike. He couldn’t just…leave. It didn’t matter who owned the house—burning it was wrong. He had to try to stop Brandon again.

But what if Brandon wouldn’t stop?

Call 911? Jeez, he couldn’t. They wouldn’t believe him anyway—he was just a kid.

Call Mom? She’d come. She could do something. Only Brandon was awful big and strong and knew karate. He might hurt her.

Who could handle Brandon in a rage? Handle…the word brought back a memory. “Just remember you can call me if you get into trouble you can’t handle.”

He pulled out his phone, looked up the number, and touched the CALL button. Guilt swept through him. He’d sure been a stupid jerk.

“Yeah? Who’s this?”

“Holt? I need help.”

*

With Josie beside him, Holt parked at the curb outside Everett Lanning’s house. He jumped out of the car, fuming with frustration. Detouring around a massive traffic jam at Dale Mabry intersection had delayed them.

What the fuck was going on? Why was Carson here? The kid hadn’t explained, simply said he needed Holt “right now” and hung up. Jesus, he hoped the boy hadn’t gotten caught sneaking around the asshole’s house.

Josie’d been with Holt when the panicked call came, and she’d insisted on coming. Not that he’d argued. They needed to work as a team with Carson.

With Josie beside him, he jogged up the driveway, smelled fire, and stopped dead. White plumes of smoke rose from the house. Through the busted-out front windows, he could see multiple fires consuming the walls and flickering over the ceiling. “Oh, fuck.”

As fire alarms in the house blared, Holt yanked out his phone and punched 911. “Josie, do you see Carson?”

He heard the emergency dispatcher answer, didn’t bother to listen, and snapped out, “House fire.” How many of the normally answering units were stuck in the Dale Mabry traffic jam?

As he recited the address for the dispatcher, Josie headed to the left.

Spotting movement around the side, Holt ran toward the right.

Shovel raised over his head, a husky kid stood over a lump on the ground. Over Carson.

Holt roared, “Drop it!”

The boy—Brandon—spun, dropped the shovel, and ran.

“Carson.” Holt sprinted forward.

Carson shoved to his feet and limped to Holt. “You came! He started a fire. We have to call 911.”

“I called.” After guiding him to the portico at the front of the house. The yard light revealed bruises and cuts on his face. What the fuck happened here?

Where had Josie gone?” Holt shouted, “I’ve got him, Josie.”

Inside the house, the fire’s roar was beginning to compete with the sirens and then something exploded with a loud bang inside. A new set of flames shot up. Had Carson’s friend used Molotov cocktails here the way he had at the school? Jesus.

“Is anyone inside?” he asked Carson.

“No. Brandon said everyone was going to Disney World.”

Relief rolled through Holt.

“Carson!” Josie ran toward them across the lawn.

“Mom.” Breaking free, Carson met his mother in front of the broken out front window.

Above the portico where Holt stood, a window shrieked open. “Help!” A dark-haired boy maybe a year or so older than Carson appeared in the window. “I can’t get out—I’m locked in. Please, help my sister. Help Britney!”

Children. Holt’s chest compressed as he moved to below the child. Dammit, what with that pileup, no telling how soon the firefighters would make it.

A terrified shriek came from inside the house.

“No!” Carson shouted, moving closer to the window. “The stairs are on fire. No, don’t!” Evading his mother’s grab, he vaulted into the house through the busted out window.

“Carson, no!” Josie screamed and followed.

And Holt went after them. As he reached the window, heat poured through it. Fuck, no. The room was reaching flashover when everything would ignite. Terror filled him.

A young girl stood frozen, as Carson charged up the burning stairs toward her.

Holt jumped through the window, seeing that Josie was halfway across the living room.

Bang! Something exploded. A sharp pain ripped through Holt’s arm.

Fresh flames shot upward. Bottles were scattered here and there in the room—unexploded Molotov-cocktails—and Holt knew when the fire reached them…

Too close to the one that had exploded, Josie staggered. Blood poured from her shoulder and leg.

“Mom!” Carson reversed course to run down the stairs.