“Alpha,” Jamie said, “Unknown car headed your way. Charger, newer model.”
No time left.
Bypassing the lock, Cam clutched the door jamb on either side, bracing himself to kick the door in by force.
Moisture seeped through his gloves, yet there’d been no rain or moisture in town for days.
Jerking back his hands, he flipped up his tactical helmet mask with the back of one and brought the other to his nose, sniffing.
He recognized that smell, the same one he’d gotten a whiff of early Saturday morning outside the burning apartment unit in Nic’s building.
Accelerant.
“Boston, get the fuck out of there,” Nic’s strangled scream came across the line. “He’s got a Molotov.”
Breaking silence, Cam shouted at his team, even as he braced again and lifted his foot, kicking at the door. “Everyone, get back! Move, move, move!”
“Cameron!” Jamie shouted. “Go with them!”
“Why the fuck aren’t you moving?” Nic added loudly.
He kicked again at the door. “Shannon could be in there.” The roar of the oncoming car grew louder, closer. “Jamie, get up front and drive. Follow the car!”
On the other end, the van’s engine revved and Nic cursed first at Jamie, then at him. “Fucking hell, Boston, get out of there!”
“She may?—”
“They’re not going to sacrifice their leverage. She’s not in there!”
Even if Shannon wasn’t, something had to be if someone was willing to torch the place with a Molotov cocktail. Evidence, leads, maybe something that could connect the case to Erin. Cam had to get in there, save whomever or whatever it was before all hope went up in flames.
“Agent Byrne!” Nic clipped in a voice that cut through Cam’s single-minded determination. It was not a tone he’d ever heard him use before; one Cam guessed had been more common in the desert halfway around the world. “Back off the target now!” Cam hesitated, his helmet and no doubt the camera attached to it shaking. Nic tempered the commanding tone when he added, “Nothing will be solved if you die. Don’t do that to your family.”
Don’t do that to me.
“Fuck!” Spinning on his heel, Cam ripped off his accelerant-soaked gloves and ran for his team at the far edge of the yard. “Stay on the?—”
His words were swallowed up by the spinning of tires, the shattering of glass, and a booming whoosh that drowned out everything but Nic’s “Boston!”
A ball of heat blasted into Cam’s back, lifting him off his feet and hurtling him against the gate.
“Turn the goddamn van around, Jamie!”
Nic’s shouts from the back of the van went unheeded by the man up front who was whipping them around corners and speeding down the narrow streets of Boston. Traffic was light at this hour—they were moving fast after the Charger—but the streets weren’t totally deserted, their mad dash drawing a cacophony of car horns. The only reason Nic wasn’t puking his guts out on the wild ride was his prior experience getting tossed around tanks and boats. This was nothing new. But the tossing and turning of his insides . . . Now that was new and shaking him up far worse than the physical jostling.
“Get up, get up, get up,” he mumbled, not that Cam could hear him. Audio had been blown by the explosion, but Nic still had visual. A sideways shot from Cam’s motionless helmet cam showed the fire eating up the garage, creeping out toward the yard and an unconscious Cam. Why wasn’t anyone pulling him back? Had the entire team been taken out? Or had Cam just lost his helmet? Nic couldn’t see and the not knowing was driving him insane.
“We need to go back!” he shouted at Jamie. “We don’t know what happened to the team.”
“I need you up here!”
“Fuck!” Nic slapped the table with his open palm, frustration boiling over at being sidelined and pulled away from where he wanted to be. Again. But if he wanted to get back there, the quickest way was to help the driver.
Cranking up the volume on the wall speakers, making sure he’d hear Cam’s call when it came through, he shot to his feet and charged up front. He’d just pushed through the curtains to the cab when Jamie slammed on the brakes, propelling him forward, fast. He went flying toward the dash, arms and hands outstretched to catch himself, but the speed and momentum were more pressure on his wrists than they could handle.
He was going to hit the windshield.
Later, Boston, was on the tip of his tongue, but Jamie saved him the sentiment and probably his life, grabbing a fistful of his jacket and yanking him back. He went down hard in the passenger seat, but he was still in one piece, as was the biker that had ridden out in front of a speeding van.
