Sacrifice

  Tyler gave Michael a clear up and down. “He’s all right. He’s going to sit down and have a beer. Right?”

  Michael looked around again. The anticipatory tension in the restaurant was potent. God, what was wrong with him?

  He collapsed into the chair across from Tyler. Normal activity slowly resumed around him. The four men returned to their tables. Tammy picked up her tray and slid the phone into a pocket of her apron.

  Tyler scooted back up to the table. “You don’t have dynamite strapped to you or anything, do you?”

  Michael glared. “Don’t be an idiot, Tyler.”

  “You come rolling in here like a psycho, and I’m the idiot. Okay.”

  “If you didn’t text me, what are you doing here?”

  “Having dinner.”

  Michael pulled a whole peanut out of a bucket on the table and crushed it between his fingers. He didn’t want to eat it, but he needed something destructive to do with his hands. He glanced around again, ready for someone to jump out of the shadows and yell Boo! “Sure. Here. This is your scene.”

  “I don’t know if it’s my scene, but my family owns this place, so it’s free.” He paused. “What are you doing here?”

  “Your family owns this place?”

  “My grandparents did, actually. My folks inherited when they died. Want me to draw you a family tree?”

  “No, I’m good.”

  But he wasn’t good. This didn’t make sense. Did . . . whoever-it-was know that this was Tyler’s family’s restaurant? Did it matter?

  You’ll know me when you see me.

  Another glance around. The only person he recognized was Tyler.

  But really, this whole thing—none of it felt like Tyler, just like none of it felt like Calla. Tyler had brutalized Michael’s family for years, wanting the Merricks put to death because they were full Elementals. Then Tyler had accidentally revealed his carefully kept secret to Nick: Tyler was a full Elemental himself—a powerful Fire Elemental who had just as much reason to fear the Guides coming to town as the Merricks did.

  They weren’t friends now, not by a long shot. But Tyler hadn’t bothered them in weeks. And no one knew Tyler was a Fire Elemental.

  Michael took a long breath and let it out. “Our house was set on fire last night.” He hesitated, keeping his voice low. “My whole street.”

  Tyler frowned, then went still. He leaned in against the table. “I heard about that on the news. I didn’t know it was your neighborhood.” He paused, and his voice sharpened. “And you thought I would do that?”

  “No—I don’t—” Michael shook his head. The adrenaline was fading, letting exhaustion settle in again. “I have no idea who did it.”

  “No wonder you look like shit.”

  “Thanks.”

  Tammy reappeared beside their table and unloaded two frosted bottles of Natty Boh, and then a platter of nachos. Tyler thanked her, and Michael smashed another peanut.

  “Hungry?” said Tyler.

  He hadn’t eaten all day, but he couldn’t think of putting food in his mouth right now. “No.”

  Tyler shrugged and took a chip. “You still haven’t said what you’re doing here.”

  “I got a text this morning that I should meet someone here about the fires.”

  “From who?”

  “I don’t know who. I thought it was you.”

  “Show me.”

  Michael hesitated—then unlocked his phone, clicked on the texts, and handed it over. It felt weird to trust Tyler with something he hadn’t shared with his brothers, but this felt safer, too. His brothers had a big stake in this game. Tyler didn’t.

  Tyler scrolled. For a while.

  Michael fidgeted. It was seven-fifteen now, and no one had come through the door.

  “This guy said you could bring your brothers.” Tyler handed back the phone, and Michael slid it into his pocket. “And the police.”

  “I know.”

  “And you didn’t think maybe that was important?”

  “I’m not leading my brothers into a trap.”

  “Do they know you’re here?”

  The question hit Michael hard. His brothers had no idea—but admitting it out loud seemed dangerous. “You’re asking a lot of questions.”

  Tyler picked up another chip. “Jesus, Merrick. Maybe you could tone down the paranoia. Why didn’t you bring the cops, then?”

  “The cops think I’m involved in whatever happened to my neighborhood.”

  “So you’re holding on to proof that you’re not?”

  “A bunch of pictures from a random phone number? That’s not proof of anything. Hell, it’s proof that I am involved. It’s proof that more people are in danger.”

  Some of the aggression leaked out of Tyler’s expression. “The blonde in those pictures. Your girlfriend?”

  “Yeah.” He paused. “Her father is the county fire marshal.” Tyler gave a low whistle. “So where is this guy you’re supposed to meet?” He looked around. “You’ll know him when you see him? What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

  “I don’t know.” Michael sighed and rubbed the back of his neck. “I feel like I should be able to figure this out.” He looked around again. The more time that went by, the more he felt certain this was an effort to separate him from his brothers. He twisted his hands together and fished his phone out of his pocket to send a text to Gabriel.

  All OK?

  His heart beat double time as he waited for a response, but he didn’t have to wait long.

  Yeah. What’s up?

  Nothing, just checking. Waiting for other guy to get here.

  Michael blew air through his teeth and set down his phone again. “Why here? Why now? And why is he late?”

  “Text him and ask.”

  Michael felt like an idiot for not thinking of it himself. He typed out a quick message.

  Either I don’t see you or I don’t know you.

  Then he hesitated before pressing send.

  What was the worst that could happen? The guy could stand up and shoot him? And how was that any different from just sitting here waiting?

  Fuck it. Michael pressed the button. The progress bar at the top of his phone showed the text going through.

  And then the restaurant exploded.

  Hannah pushed food around her plate and tried to ignore the way Irish kept kissing her father’s ass. James had long ago abandoned the dinner table for his Legos, and Hannah was tempted to join him.

  But no, when they had a guest, her father insisted that she remain at the table.

  Like she was a teenager who needed a lesson in etiquette.

  If her father were the only one at the table, Hannah would have walked out without question. But she wouldn’t disrespect her mother that way.

  Irish’s alert pager went off with the chimes promising an urgent message. Out of habit, everyone went silent. No one in this house was a stranger to emergency alerts.

  Commercial Box 13-3. Engines 131, 112, 104, 201 Truck 30, Truck 13, Medic Unit 11, Battalion Chief 2 respond for a commercial building fire, reported explosion, at 8503 Magothy Beach Road. Cross streets of Clover Hill Road and Riviera Drive. Respond hot on Echo—

  There was more, but Hannah didn’t hear the rest.

  Commercial building fire. Reported explosion.

  Magothy Beach Road.

  She knew almost every road in this part of the county, right down to where each fire hydrant was located. She knew Magothy Beach Road like the back of her hand, and there weren’t a lot of commercial buildings.

  Except the Roadhouse.

  Right where Michael was meeting someone about a job.

  Her phone was pressed against her ear before she realized she had dialed.

  Answer. Please. Answer.

  It didn’t even ring. Straight to voice mail.

  She looked at his last text.

  Meeting someone at the Roadhouse at 7.

  It was now seven-twenty.

 
She tried to call him again.

  “Pick up,” she whispered. “Pick up.”

  “Hannah,” said her mother, her voice concerned. “Hannah, you’re white. What is it?”

  Right to voice mail again. Irish was getting his coat from the front closet, calling his thanks for dinner. Her father was already on the phone, saying he’d be there in fifteen minutes, making notes on a small pad with details he’d never repeat out loud.

  Hannah looked at her mother. “Can you watch James until I get back?” She didn’t even wait for an answer, just pushed away from the table. “Irish! Wait!”

  He stopped with the door halfway open. “Blondie?”

  “But—Hannah—” Her mother was on her feet. “Where are you going?”

  “I’m going to help.”

  CHAPTER 12

  Even with lights and sirens, it seemed to take forever to get to Magothy Beach Road. Hannah was torn between keeping her eyes fixed on the controls inside the fire truck and looking out the window to see how bad it was.

  Then Irish said, “Jesus,” under his breath, and she didn’t have a choice. She looked.

  Half the building was gone. She didn’t see much actively burning, but smoke plumed from the remaining structure. Several cars bore heavy damage, and almost none in the lot had escaped the flying debris. Fire trucks lined the road and the edge of the property, along with ambulances and half a dozen cop cars. She saw a lot of people in uniform or firefighting gear.

  She didn’t see anyone who looked like they’d survived an explosion.

  She checked her phone again. She’d called six more times during the ride to the firehouse with Irish. No response from Michael.

  “He’ll be all right,” Irish said quietly. “You don’t know if he was still here.”

  “I don’t even know if his brothers are with him.”

  “Can you call them?”

  She shook her head. She didn’t have any of their numbers.

  The radio on her shoulder kept going off, but she hadn’t been able to focus on any of it. Now she listened and realized why there were so many people milling around.

  They’d been ordered to wait for the bomb squad and the collapse unit.

  She turned to Irish. “We’re waiting? We can’t rescue—”

  “Yeah, we’re waiting.” The truck rolled to a stop, and strobe lights from the other units reflected off his cheeks and clothing. “Have you ever worked a building collapse before?”

  She shook her head, her eyes fixed on the smoldering structure. She didn’t see any bodies.

  Which meant they’d either been incinerated or they were buried under the rubble.

  Michael. Her breath hitched.

  Don’t hang up. Talk to me.

  God, Hannah, I wish I could.

  Two major catastrophes in as many days.

  “Maybe you should stay here,” said Irish. “You weren’t assigned to work tonight.”

  “I’m fine,” she snapped.

  “You’re whiter than you were at your house. If you’re looking for him, you won’t be looking for anything else.”

  She unclipped her seat belt and stood. “There could be survivors in there! How can you just sit here and wait?”

  “There could be another bomb in there, Hannah!” He got in her face and pointed out the window. “There are propane tanks sitting right there! You bet your ass I’m going to wait!”

  She looked. There were two large propane tanks at the back of the restaurant, probably still intact because of nothing more than a huge stroke of luck.

  But her eyes focused on what was parked right behind those propane tanks. A large red diesel pickup truck. Stray bits of lumber had landed across the cab, denting the roof and fracturing the windshield. The passenger door was clearly visible.

  Along with the MERRICK LANDSCAPING logo.

  “It’s his truck,” she said. Her voice almost broke as she swept her eyes across the rubble again. No movement aside from the wisps of smoke rising from the wreckage. “Irish, it’s his truck.”

  Irish knocked on the glass separating them from the front part of the cab, where her battalion chief sat. When the glass slid open, Irish said, “Chief, she can’t work this scene.”

  “I can!” she cried.

  “Look at me.” Irish put his hands on her cheeks. “Look at me, Blondie.”

  “His brothers—we have to find him. They’re under eighteen—we need to find him—”

  “Hannah. Look at me.”

  His voice was firm, and his chocolate-brown eyes were locked on hers. His hands were warm and strong against her face. She looked at him.

  “We’ll find him,” he said. “I promise.” He paused. “Don’t make me rescue you too.”

  Something in his voice steadied her. She opened her mouth to respond.

  Then the chief called for them to join the crew from the other trucks to form a plan of action. She pulled away from Irish, feeling warmth on her cheeks. He shifted past her to climb down from the truck.

  When she moved to follow him, the chief said, “Not you, Blondie. Sit tight.”

  “But—”

  “That’s an order!”

  His voice left no room for argument. She fell back into the seat.

  Through the window, she could watch the flurry of activity. Groups of firefighters were getting orders. Some of it came across her radio. Police officers had blocked the roads, so no traffic could come through. A large truck from the county collapse unit rolled up—but still no one approached the structure. They were all waiting for the bomb squad.

  She watched for any sign of survivors but saw none.

  How long had it been? Twenty minutes?

  Every minute counted. She knew. She’d been trained for this.

  We don’t trade lives for dead bodies, Hannah.

  Her father’s voice, so clear, even years later. A hard and fast rule.

  Had they found evidence of a bomb last night? Had that been the cause of the “earthquake”? Her father hadn’t said—but he wouldn’t tell her, anyway.

  Her breathing echoed in the empty truck. Despite the chill in the air, her bunker coat felt stifling. She couldn’t keep sitting here, wrapped in worry.

  She climbed down from the cab, easing out of the truck on the side away from the rest of the crew. The chief couldn’t imprison her in the truck, but he could yell at her for disobeying orders. She’d seen her dad’s car, and all she needed was for him to hear her getting dressed down. He’d order her out of here in a heartbeat, and the only way she would leave was if she was handcuffed in a cop car.

  She wouldn’t put it past him.

  Her radio squawked on her shoulder, and she quickly dialed down the volume. She moved to the back of the truck and pulled her helmet onto her head, hoping it would make her less recognizable. She opened the cabinet at the back, taking down some tools, then putting them back. Trying to look like she was standing here with a purpose.

  She was really watching the site of destruction.

  No movement.

  Across the parking lot stood the crew from company ten. She knew some of them, but not many. They wouldn’t know she’d been ordered to wait. She doubled back behind the fire trucks, walking with purpose, carrying a Halligan bar from the back of her engine as if she’d been sent to fetch something.

  Yeah, right, like the guys from ten don’t have a bar on their truck.

  But what else was she going to carry? The fire hose? Might draw attention.

  Her radio chirped again, only loud enough for her to hear. At first she ignored the radio chatter, but then her brain latched on to the message.

  Thermal imaging showed no signs of life. All rescue units were ordered to wait for the area to be cleared.

  No signs of life.

  Michael. Her eyes flew to his damaged truck.

  Keep moving. Find a task.

  What task? What could she do?

  She couldn’t breathe. Had he survived last night only to die here and n
ow?

  Then she heard the clink.

  At first her subconscious registered the sound and ignored it. Clink. Then she heard it again. And again. Clearly coming from beneath the wreckage. And then, a faint recognizable pattern. Clinkclinkclink. Clink. Clink. Clink. Clinkclinkclink.

  Three short, three long, three short.

  SOS.

  Someone was alive.

  She turned to run back to her crew. They had to know. She had to tell them—but then her radio crackled.

  SOS observed. Pending clearance from bomb squad and collapse units. Hold all rescue.

  They were right. She knew they were right. Attempting a rescue when a bomb could be sitting in there was nuts. Even without a bomb, nothing about the remaining structure looked secure. Those propane tanks could be leaking. There could be an active gas line leading to the stove. One spark could send the rest of the building sky high. One shifting board could send it all crashing down. She’d gone through the schooling and knew it as well as anyone.

  But learning something in a classroom was different from handling it in practice.

  Clinkclinkclink. Clink. Clink. Clink. Clinkclinkclink.

  So faint, yet so clear.

  “Hannah.”

  Her father. She’d lost track of herself, and she was now standing between units, staring at the wreckage, a bar clutched in one hand.

  She looked at her father. His features blurred, just a little, then steadied. She blinked and tears rolled down her cheeks.

  She was crying. She hadn’t even noticed.

  “Hannah?” he said again. His voice was quiet. Not harsh, but not gentle either.

  Emotion clogged her throat and made it impossible for irritation to color her words. For an instant she wanted to be six years old again, for her father to be a hero again, for him to put on a helmet and rush into danger and walk out with a survivor in his arms.

  But he wasn’t. And now she was the firefighter. He was the fire marshal. The most heroic thing he did these days was harass people.