Prologue
The first visible flame would be the sweetest. The one that the grayed, splintered wood and those raised shingles could no longer contain. His pulse hammered, his palms slick as he pictured it, the same rickety, snow-covered structure across the field from him now, only with sparks shooting through the holes in its roof like the best illegal fireworks on the Fourth of July. Plastic inside melting and curling. A satisfying shattering of glass.
He couldn’t wait.
Closing his eyes, he breathed in the intoxicating scent of smoke and let the bitter taste of ashes settle on his tongue. His fingers closed around the object in his pocket, firm against his palm, its energy stored and nearly vibrating in readiness. Every muscle in his body twitched and hummed, spinning wheels instead of rolling forward.
He hated these delays. The guilty needed to be punished, the truth laid bare. But he couldn’t afford to be reckless now when the stakes were so high. When spotlights had sprouted near many of the best new locations and even among the old. When even the least nosy neighbors were worried enough to watch and report.
No. He shook his head until his neck ached. After all the time he’d spent planning this blaze, weighing his methods and considering every possible outcome, there was no way he would let his anxiousness to hitLiftoffbe responsible for a failed mission. Mistakes wouldn’t be tolerated.
With a sigh, he withdrew his hand from his pocket, allowing the cigarette lighter to drop to the bottom, its spark wheel never striking the stone. Like him, it would continue to bide its time.
As the unsettling sensation of being watched tripped along his spine, he flipped up the collar of his duck coat and glanced over his shoulder. Just scraggly pines that tipped their hats to the wind and their barren neighbors that sat waiting for the unfurling of spring. Though it appeared that no one had followed him, his gut told him it was time to move on. He scanned the whole scene once more to store the image and then grabbed his bag and started on the quarter-mile jog down the country road to his car.
Snow crunched under his boots as he first stomped and then smoothed the traces of his footsteps. Even if local officials were on constant watch now, they couldn’t keep up that level of vigilance forever. When they let their guards down again, he would be there, ready to make them sorry, ready to strike both the location and the match.
“Burn, baby, burn.”
At the music of his own laughter, he shot one more look around to ensure that only he and the deserted road shared his secret for now. Soon everyone would know. And if the too curious got in the way, he would welcome them inside the building and then watch the flames devour them.
Chapter 1
Firehouses didn’t sparkle this way back on the South Side of Chicago. Not even close. And though Mick Prentiss had psyched himself up to march through the door with at least the illusion of confidence, he couldn’t help but stop and stare like a dumbfounded toddler at the yawning fire palace before him. A place where no sooty turnout jackets and helmets nor the stench of smoke and human sweat belonged. As they’d all soon discover, he had no business being there, either.
Mick unwound his scarf, soaked and itchy, and unzipped his parka as he stepped deeper into the abandoned apparatus bay where the firefighting and emergency response vehicles were stored. He’d heard that some of the newer stations were like Taj Mahals, but until today, he’d never seen one like that up close.
Everything in the place had to be brand-new. Epoxy-covered concrete floors, shiny enough for firefighters to catch their reflections in them while suiting up for their charity calendar shoots. Four bright red engines and a matching fire-and-rescue truck so pristine that they all could have come right out of their boxes. Had the taxpayers agreed to pay for all of this?
Based on what he’d learned about suspicious fires and possible corruption in this tiny southeastern Michigan town—technically a village—his new station was as muchsmoke and mirrorsas his fitness to be back on the job.
“That you, Prentiss?”
Mick scanned the empty room, trying to locate that familiar voice. He found it when he tilted his head back and peered toward the massive rafters. Peter Russo waved down at him from the landing of the steel staircase, mounted to the concrete wall. Of course, the place would have a balcony, à la Juliet, but he doubted the House of Capulet also had a firefighter’s pole.
“Good to see you, Russo.” Well,goodmight have been an overstatement, but everything about his first week would require spin. And having a familiar face around while he settled in couldn’t hurt.
“Same, buddy. I mean ‘Chief.’”
Peter started down the stairs, the thuds of his black athletic shoes echoing with each step. Though it couldn’t have been more than thirty degrees outside, he still wore a short-sleeve polo with his matching navy work pants. The symbol for fire service, the Maltese cross, plus the wordsMount Isabel, covered his heart on the uniform shirt. His last name was embroidered on the opposite side.
Both men reaching the landing at the same time, Peter jutted out his hand, and Mick gripped it.
“Welcome to Station 1,” Peter said. “I know you don’t officially start until tomorrow, but I thought you said you’d stop by earlier. That drive on I-94 must have been a skating rink.”
“Yeah, it was slow going in my truck. Happy first week of March in Michigan.”
“Not to worry. Spring will be here in two more weeks, probably bringing more snow with it.” Peter’s shoes squeaked on the floor as he shifted his feet. “I was glad to hear you changed your mind about applying for the chief job. It was short notice. And I wasn’t sure you would at all…you know…after.”
Mick nodded at the other man’s meaningful look, his throat thickening as he waited for questions about the events in Chicago last September. A rig-size weight lifted off his chest when Peter didn’t ask.
“I was surprised to hear from you, too. Hasn’t it been five years since you abandoned us for a job in your hometown?”
“Six. But we needed some help around here. Fast.” Peter dragged his front teeth over his bottom lip. “And I’d heard you were, uh, available.”
Mick wasn’t surprised that the news had traveled across state lines. The firefighting community could be a small one, especially when tragedies occurred.
“It’s been like fire-style whack-a-mole around here these past two months.” The younger man indicated the apparatus bay with a sweep of his hand. “Sometimes as many as two intentionally set fires a week since early January. It’s like somebody’s trying to burn down Mount Isabel.”
