Up in Flames

As soon as they entered the bar, Bradford assessed the situation. This fire was ten times worse than the one at the café, and already engulfed half the room. Although the emergency sprinklers had kicked in, the thin jets of water weren’t enough to douse the overpowering blaze, which was feeding greedily on the alcohol. Wood, glass, tables, drinks, lighting equipment—everything lay in shambles.

What the hell had happened here? How had the fire spread so rapidly?

He cut his eyes through the haze, searching for victims, someone trapped, hurt, needing assistance. The fire was a monster, the gray smoke so thick he could barely see, so he removed a handkerchief and covered his mouth. Somewhere amidst the crackling timber and the haze of shattering glass he heard a scream.

“My God,” Parker muttered. “There’s a woman trapped over there. I’m going after her!”

“I heard someone else in the back,” Bradford yelled. “I’m going to check.”

Without waiting for a response, he darted through the patches of flames, coughing into the handkerchief, searching through the thick plumes of smoke.

A curly haired young man wearing an apron who must have been a server lay facedown on the floor, arms and legs sprawled at awkward angles. Bradford knelt and checked for a pulse, but he couldn’t find one. Dammit.

Then he saw the blood pooling beneath the man’s face and neck. Bradford lifted his head slightly, and grimaced. A huge chunk of glass had pierced the man’s throat. Another was embedded in one eyeball.

It was too late for the poor guy. He was already dead.

A terrified scream pierced the air again, faint and hoarse, barely discernible over the roar of the flames.

Heat seared his back, face and hands, but he forged on toward the back.

“Help me!”

His lungs and throat burned as he spotted the caller. A woman lay on the floor, trapped by a wooden beam. She was using her bare hand to beat away the flames crawling toward her skirt. Another burning beam lay behind her.

He raced to her, jerked off his shirt and swatted the flames.

“Help me!” she cried again. “I have to save my friend.”

He glanced at her face and recognized her immediately. The redhead he’d seen in the crowd outside Cozy’s.

“Please,” she whispered. “I have to find Natalie.”

She broke into a coughing fit, and he handed her his handkerchief, then stood and dragged the beam off her legs. She tried to stand, but stumbled, so he swooped her up in his arms and ran toward the front door, praying they made it out in time before the monster eating the building swallowed them completely.

Chapter Three

Rosanna coughed, clinging to her rescuer as he hauled her into his arms. The last few terrifying minutes rushed back, fear tightening her lungs.

She’d been trapped in the bathroom. No way out. But she refused to give up. She had to get to Natalie.

She’d splashed water from the bathroom sink on her clothes hoping they wouldn’t catch fire when she ran through the spiking flames in the doorway. But another beam had fallen and she’d collapsed as it slammed down onto her legs.

Her ankle throbbed, her throat ached and she felt dizzy. She squinted through the smoke, though, desperately searching for her friend. Maybe she’d escaped. Maybe she was huddled in the mob pouring onto the streets.

A siren wailed. Then another. Police cars, ambulances and two fire trucks screeched through the mass, all arriving at once and jumping into motion.

“Miss, are you all right?” a gruff voice asked.

She tried to answer, but her voice squeaked out, low and pain-filled. Disoriented, she blinked through the darkness, but the raging fire illuminated her rescuer’s face, and her stomach tightened. He was the detective she’d seen questioning spectators at Cozy’s earlier. He had saved Hazel, and now her.

She clutched his open shirt in a death grip as he dodged the flames and falling debris. Outside, she dragged in gulping breaths of fresh air, then swallowed against the dryness in her throat, aware of his masculinity and the power of his body as he carried her toward the ambulance.

Her body glided downward, scraping over the detective’s massive thighs as he lowered her onto the stretcher. For a brief second, he pushed errant strands of her hair from her forehead. The gesture was so tender and gentle that tears pricked her eyes.

“Miss, are you okay?”

She nodded. “My friend…” she whispered. “Natalie Gorman, she fell. Find her, see if she’s all right.”

He nodded and squeezed her arm. “I will. What does she look like? What’s she wearing?”

“Brown hair, a green dress!”

An EMT met them and shoved an oxygen mask toward her.

“Check her out!” The detective shouted, then he raced back toward the burning building.

The EMT examined her hands and arms for burns. They tingled from the heat, but she’d survived without any major injuries. “Are you hurt anywhere?”

Rosanna tried to tell him that she was okay, but again she broke out in a coughing fit.

The weighty pull of the smoke and exhaustion pulled her under, and she drifted into unconsciousness.

BRADFORD DARTED back toward the blazing building searching for his partner, but he didn’t see him anywhere.

Two pairs of officers had arrived on the scene, and were trying to manage traffic and contain the crowd. He quickly explained what had happened and asked them to canvas the people who’d been inside, as well as the spectators on the street for information.

“See if you can find a Natalie Gorman, too,” he said. “Her friend was asking about her. Brown hair. Green dress.”

He pushed his way back through the mob, but didn’t see a brown-haired woman in a green dress. And no Parker. He radioed him, but Parker didn’t respond, and panic seized Bradford.

He headed to the front door to go back inside, but a fireman grabbed him. “You can’t go in. Too dangerous.”

“Detective Walsh, SPD.” He flashed his badge. “My partner may still be inside. And another woman.”

The burly man’s expression clearly looked doubtful that they’d find anyone still alive. But he turned to one of the other rescue workers. “Search for survivors.”

Bradford paced the sidewalk feeling helpless and angry. He should be questioning people, hunting for clues as to how the fire started, but fear kept him watching the doorway, listening.

Finally one of the rescue workers appeared, sweating and cursing. “We have a live one, trapped. Need equipment.” He grabbed an ax from the truck.

“Let me help,” Bradford pleaded.

The burly man put a hand to Bradford’s chest as his coworker ran back inside. “No, stay put. You do your job, we’ll do ours.”

Bradford scraped sweaty hair from his forehead as another firefighter grabbed an ax and followed his coworker inside the blaze.

Heat scalded Bradford’s face and a wave of anger crashed over him a second later when one of the men carried an unconscious woman outside. He ran to check on her, but the firefighter shook his head. “She’s dead,” he said. “Looks like she took a blow to the head.”