Wolfe swallowed down puke. “That’s Spanek.” The guy was barely recognizable from his photo with cuts all over his face and body, some deep, some surface. He stepped over still fresh pools of blood, shutting down all emotion to partially turn and look through the barely open doorway to what had been the master bedroom. “Jesus,” he breathed at seeing the dead woman inside.
Force approached from his left and looked past him. “Any idea who she is?”
“No. Must’ve been with Spanek when Rock got here.” Gary had gone to town on her face with more cuts than Wolfe could count, and that didn’t take into account the swelling and bruising. A purplish hand mark marred her neck. She was nude, spread-eagled, and definitely dead. Blood pooled all around her, soaking through the bedclothes.
“Okay.” Force exhaled loudly, no doubt trying to stay in control. “Let’s gather what information we can and get out of here before calling it in.” He nudged the door open with his gloved hand.
Something clicked.
Wolfe stiffened, grabbed Force by the arms and started running for the exit. “Go!” They hit the doorway just as a wave of heat smashed into them, throwing them into the wall on the other side of the hall. Wolfe impacted headfirst and dropped, smoke filling his lungs.
“Force,” he croaked. Then darkness claimed him, cold and empty.
* * *
Thrumming pain and swirling lights jerked Wolfe from the darkness. He freaked, striking out, finding himself on a stretcher being carried through the heated night.
“Whoa. Take it easy, big guy,” said a male voice.
“Get the hell off me.” Wolfe shoved his legs to the side and pushed away from the stretcher, landing on his feet. His head spun. He couldn’t see anything and furiously wiped at his eyes until they cleared. His stomach heaved, and he bent over, losing what dinner he still had left.
Sounds roared in. Sirens, boots running, people over radios talking. What had happened?
He lifted his head and focused on Angus Force sitting in the back of a nearby ambulance, an oxygen mask covering his nose and a blanket around his shoulders.
Force tugged the mask off, his face layered in soot. “You covered me with your body, asshole.” He tossed off the blanket and struggled to step down.
“Wait,” the same voice said as before. “We’ll bring him to you.” A tightly muscled paramedic who looked about eighteen shot an arm beneath Wolfe’s shoulders and helped him up. “Let’s at least check out your head.” He assisted Wolfe over to sit by Force, grunting on the way.
Pain burrowed through Wolfe’s solar plexus, and his ears rang, but he sat by Force as firefighters and police personnel ran around. “How bad are you hurt?”
“Not as bad as you. Don’t ever do that again.” Force leaned to the side and coughed hard enough to dislodge a lung.
The paramedic ducked and pointed a penlight into Wolfe’s eyes.
Agony pierced his brain. Wolfe slapped the penlight away. “I’m fine. Go make sure there aren’t other wounded.” The blast had been fairly localized, it seemed, so hopefully nobody else had been injured. “Guess Gary wanted to sanitize the crime scene.” He coughed, trying not to cry when his ribs protested vehemently.
Force groaned. “Yeah. He’s probably tying off loose ends and appeasing his need to kill on the way to you. Frank Spanek didn’t have a chance.”
Wolfe’s head would fall off if he tried to turn it, so he didn’t move. The image of the dead woman flashed across his mind. “Have you ever seen something like that?”
“Yeah, unfortunately,” Force grunted. “I’ve chased my share of serial murderers, and more than a couple of them were really sick jerks.” He glanced toward the building and then stiffened. “Ah, fuck.”
Wolfe’s eyeballs wanted to roll from his head, but he looked up anyway to see their HDD handlers maneuvering around firefighting equipment and emergency personnel to reach them. “Can I just shoot them?”
“Too many witnesses,” Force said, the sound strained.
Agent Kurt Fields reached them first, his normal limp more pronounced than usual. Soot dotted the time-worn brown suit that went perfectly with his shaggy brown hair and beard, streaked with gray. He was in his late fifties and gave Wolfe the impression that he just wanted to retire. “You guys okay?”
“Great,” Force growled.
Agent Tom Rutherford, careful of his expensive, shiny shoes, stepped over a hose to reach them, his thousand-dollar navy-blue suit as out of place in the crime scene as a ballet dancer would’ve been. Somehow, soot didn’t mar his smooth blond hair or his angled face. His blue eyes narrowed. “What has your crazy unit done now?”
Wolfe swallowed ash and grit, trying to wet his mouth so he could speak. “Your nose healed nicely.” He hadn’t seen the agent since Raider had broken his nose and given him two black eyes.
Rutherford’s head lifted. “This is going to shut you down for good. Now, what happened?”
Wolfe tried to make a fist, just in case he should break Rutherford’s nose again, but his fingers weren’t working properly. The ringing kept buzzing between his ears, and his vision wavered again.
