across the garage because the BMW was up on the service rack. The only
person in sight was the Asian mechanic, as dead as the concrete on
which he was sprawled.
Jack turned to the blue door. It was black on this side, which seemed
ominous, glossy black, and it had gone shut behind him.
He took a step toward it, meaning to pull it open. He fell against it
instead.
Harried by the changeable wind, a tide of bitter tarry smoke washed
into the double-bay garage.
Coughing, Jack wrenched open the door. The office was filled with
smoke, an antechamber to hell.
He shouted for the woman to come to him, and he was dismayed to hear
that his shout was barely more than a thin wheeze.
She was already on the move, however, and before he could try to shout
again, she appeared out of the roiling smoke, with one hand clamped
over her nose and mouth.
At first, when she leaned against him, Jack thought she was seeking
support, strength he didn't have to give, but he realized she was
urging him to rely on her. He was the one who had taken the oath, who
had sworn to serve and defend.
He felt dismally inadequate because he couldn't scoop her up in his
arms and carry her out of there as a hero might have done in a movie.
He leaned on the woman as little as he dared and turned left with her
in the direction of the open bay door, which was obscured by the
smoke.
He dragged his left leg. No longer any feeling in it whatsoever, no
pain, not even a tingle. Dead weight. Eyes squeezed shut against the
stinging smoke, bursts of color coruscating across the backs of his
eyelids. Holding his breath, resisting a powerful urge to vomit.
Somebody screaming, a shrill and terrible scream, on and on. No, not a
scream. Sirens. Rapidly drawing closer. Then he and the woman were
in the open, which he detected by a change in the wind, and he gasped
for breath, which came cold and clean into his lungs.
When he opened his eyes, the world was blurred by tears that the
abrasive smoke had rubbed from him, and he blinked frantically until
his sight cleared somewhat. Because of blood loss or shock, he was
reduced to tunnel vision. It was like looking at the world through
twin gun barrels, because the surrounding darkness was as smooth as the
curve of a steel bore.
To his left, everything was enveloped in flames. The Lexus.
Portico.
Service station. Arkadian's body was on fire. Luther's was not afire
yet, but hot embers were falling on it, flaming bits of shingles and
wood, and at any moment his uniform would ignite. Burning gasoline
still arced from the riddled pumps and streamed toward the street. The
blacktop along the perimeter of the blaze was melting, boiling.
Churning masses of thick black smoke rose high above the city, blending
into the pendulous black and gray storm clouds.
Someone cursed.
Jack jerked his head to the right, away from the terrible but
