Jack’s spine. Though there were probably a number of similar complexes around the area, his gut clenched with the certainty that it was not only his building but his apartment burning—along with a number of others.
Reagan turned around and snatched a remote off an end table. The volume climbed as the Asian-American anchorwoman’s expression sobered. “Recapping our top local story, about twenty minutes ago, a Houston firefighter was rushed to Memorial Hermann Hospital’s Trauma Center in what appeared to be very serious condition. So far, we are unable to release that firefighter’s name, but as soon as relatives are notified, we expect to have that information for you.”
As the woman’s voice-over gave the address— Jack’s address—the screen flashed on an image of an ambulance pulling away, its lights and siren going full blast. Near the corner of the screen, Reagan pointed out a fire truck.
“That’s my station’s pumper—and that’s my crew on the scene.”
Her fear and horror sliced through Jack, wrenching his mind from thoughts of his neighbors’ safety andhis possessions. Turning, she rushed toward a cordless phone—only to have it ring before she reached it.
She grabbed it up, her eyes wild and her body trembling as if someone had injected her with pure adrenaline. “Beau? Is that you, Beau? Who’s down? Who is it?”
She went silent, visibly straining with every cell to listen. And crying out in response to something that the caller said.
“I should have been there. This was my shift, my shift, damn it.”
Jack was overcome with the urge to lay his palm on her shoulder, to offer her whatever comfort human touch could. But she’d started pacing frantically, her body language all but screaming, Keep your distance. Clearly sensing her distress, the white dog tried to follow, nervously winding himself around her legs.
“I’m—I’m going to the hospital,” she said into the phone, pushing past the greyhound. “And sure, sure—I’ll be careful driving over. Get back—get back to work. Stick with Zellers, and get that fire out, Beau. Kill the bitch for me, and for him, especially. Kill that fire for the captain.”
As soon as she’d hung up, Jack said, “I’ll be glad to drive you, Reagan. They took him to Ben Taub, right?”
She turned, staring at him oddly, as if she had forgotten he was there. A moment later, the fog appeared to lift, and she shook her head emphatically. “It’s all right, Jack. I’ll be fine.”
“I know shock when I see it, and besides, that’s my apartment complex burning. It could be that all this is related—that car you saw, the damage to my truck, the fire.”
She pursed her lips. “Maybe, if it really is your place.”
“Don’t you think the cops are going to want to talk to both of us?”
Again she shook her head. “I didn’t see much—barely got a quick glimpse of the driver. Besides, I don’t give a damn what the police want. All I care about is getting to my captain as soon as possible.”
“Then quit arguing and let me drive you,” he insisted.
She took a deep breath, as if winding up to shout at him. Instead, she nodded and said, “Fine—if you can handle a stick shift. We’re going to take my car.”
“But why? Mine’s running just fine.”
“Yeah,” she said, her expression darkening, “but mine doesn’t have a big, fat target painted on the side of it.”
Chapter Four
“This has gone too far,” Jack was telling her as he drove toward the hospital. “ Damn Darren Winter—I never cared about the politics, never gave a rat’s ass where those kids or their parents came from. All I wanted to do was keep them breathing.”
“Hurry up, Jack, please. You drive like my grandmother,” Reagan complained, unable to focus on anything but Joe Rozinski. Her father’s captain and now hers—a friend to both of them. More than a friend; in her case, he was the man who’d taken her hand at her father’s funeral.
Reagan turned around and snatched a remote off an end table. The volume climbed as the Asian-American anchorwoman’s expression sobered. “Recapping our top local story, about twenty minutes ago, a Houston firefighter was rushed to Memorial Hermann Hospital’s Trauma Center in what appeared to be very serious condition. So far, we are unable to release that firefighter’s name, but as soon as relatives are notified, we expect to have that information for you.”
As the woman’s voice-over gave the address— Jack’s address—the screen flashed on an image of an ambulance pulling away, its lights and siren going full blast. Near the corner of the screen, Reagan pointed out a fire truck.
“That’s my station’s pumper—and that’s my crew on the scene.”
Her fear and horror sliced through Jack, wrenching his mind from thoughts of his neighbors’ safety andhis possessions. Turning, she rushed toward a cordless phone—only to have it ring before she reached it.
She grabbed it up, her eyes wild and her body trembling as if someone had injected her with pure adrenaline. “Beau? Is that you, Beau? Who’s down? Who is it?”
She went silent, visibly straining with every cell to listen. And crying out in response to something that the caller said.
“I should have been there. This was my shift, my shift, damn it.”
Jack was overcome with the urge to lay his palm on her shoulder, to offer her whatever comfort human touch could. But she’d started pacing frantically, her body language all but screaming, Keep your distance. Clearly sensing her distress, the white dog tried to follow, nervously winding himself around her legs.
“I’m—I’m going to the hospital,” she said into the phone, pushing past the greyhound. “And sure, sure—I’ll be careful driving over. Get back—get back to work. Stick with Zellers, and get that fire out, Beau. Kill the bitch for me, and for him, especially. Kill that fire for the captain.”
As soon as she’d hung up, Jack said, “I’ll be glad to drive you, Reagan. They took him to Ben Taub, right?”
She turned, staring at him oddly, as if she had forgotten he was there. A moment later, the fog appeared to lift, and she shook her head emphatically. “It’s all right, Jack. I’ll be fine.”
“I know shock when I see it, and besides, that’s my apartment complex burning. It could be that all this is related—that car you saw, the damage to my truck, the fire.”
She pursed her lips. “Maybe, if it really is your place.”
“Don’t you think the cops are going to want to talk to both of us?”
Again she shook her head. “I didn’t see much—barely got a quick glimpse of the driver. Besides, I don’t give a damn what the police want. All I care about is getting to my captain as soon as possible.”
“Then quit arguing and let me drive you,” he insisted.
She took a deep breath, as if winding up to shout at him. Instead, she nodded and said, “Fine—if you can handle a stick shift. We’re going to take my car.”
“But why? Mine’s running just fine.”
“Yeah,” she said, her expression darkening, “but mine doesn’t have a big, fat target painted on the side of it.”
Chapter Four
“This has gone too far,” Jack was telling her as he drove toward the hospital. “ Damn Darren Winter—I never cared about the politics, never gave a rat’s ass where those kids or their parents came from. All I wanted to do was keep them breathing.”
“Hurry up, Jack, please. You drive like my grandmother,” Reagan complained, unable to focus on anything but Joe Rozinski. Her father’s captain and now hers—a friend to both of them. More than a friend; in her case, he was the man who’d taken her hand at her father’s funeral.
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