Bringer of Fire by Jaz Primo Page A

your right!” I shouted, as two muffled belches erupted in the silence.
    My right palm was extended before I knew it; reflexes left over from combat experiences earned in the battlefield. Sanders’ body tensed as I felt two more heavy thuds in my head, only this time they were followed by sharp, stabbing pains.
    My vision blurred slightly, but I managed to focus on Sanders, who quickly scanned to her right. She gasped with shock and stared at two coppery objects suspended before her forehead.
    She gasped as the small projectiles dropped harmlessly to the ground before her.
    The moment seemed frozen in time, save for a breeze rustling the trees before us and the louder wail of approaching sirens. Despite the throbbing in my head, I no longer sensed the presence of anyone else immediately around us.
    After scanning the area with her pistol held before her, Sanders turned to face me with an astonished expression.
    “Are you—? Did you—?”
    I rubbed at my throbbing temples, relieved that she hadn’t been injured. The fact that I’d been able to stop those bullets from hitting her meant more to me than I’d expected. A wave of confusion coursed through me, battling for supremacy with the effects of exhaustion and an adrenaline rush.
    “It’s complicated,” I said.
    I felt something trickling from my nose and brushed my fingers across the spot. My nose was bleeding.
    She lowered her weapon and rushed past me toward the front of my house.
    “Burroughs,” she muttered.
    Three police officers had their guns drawn on us as soon as we rounded the corner. Fortunately, Agent Sanders already had her badge out.
    “FBI, Agent Sanders,” she announced authoritatively. “There’s a gunman in the area; tall and wearing a dark fog coat. He fled south through the trees at the back of the house.”
    Two officers immediately headed in that direction while the other scanned the immediate area. Fire department paramedics were already tending to Agent Burroughs as an ambulance pulled up to the curb before my house.
    I felt dizzy and squatted on the ground to dab at my bleeding nose as Sanders watched over the ministrations to her partner.
    It’d turned into one hell of a day.
    * * *
    Two hours later, I marveled at the control that a single FBI agent seemed to have over the crime scene. Agent Sanders had somehow managed to remove an entire set of my clothes from my home, claiming it was for “evidence”, which I genuinely appreciated.
    Despite her obvious concern for her partner, who’d been transported to the same local hospital where my sister and her family had been taken, Sanders appeared remarkably calm and composed as she drove us downtown to the high-rise building housing the local FBI office.
    Their office area was surprisingly modern-looking, and I was only too pleased to be offered the use of a walk-in shower in an oversized private lavatory. I appreciated the hot shower, which granted me the first opportunity that evening to reflect on all that had happened.
    I was having difficulty putting the self-evident puzzle pieces together, struggling to determine who might be at the center of events that had transpired.
    Granted, divining mysteries such as that wasn’t something I was used to doing, but there was more to it than that.
    Maybe it was the continued pounding in my head, or the aching in my body, or even the lingering adrenaline coursing through my system that kept me from thinking entirely clearly. Either way, I quickly realized that I was severely lacking enough information to make even a wild-ass guess.
    After cleaning up and changing into fresh clothes, I returned to the main office area. The place was buzzing with the activities of half a dozen agents.
    I spotted Agent Sanders and made my way to her. She looked up at me with a penetrating expression and gestured to a spare chair before her desk. To my surprise, there was already a cold container of a sports drink waiting for me.
    Apparently, she remembered my