“Tell them to send an ambulance,” Luke ordered. “Hank was watching the house.”
There was no way Megan was in danger and his stepfather had stood by and let it happen. Weston relayed the information in clipped and even tones, but his leg bounced up and down, betraying his nerves. Luke took a curve too fast and the back end of his vehicle fishtailed before catching hold of the asphalt. Rocks pinged off the undercarriage.
Lord, please, I need to get there in time. Don’t let it be too late.
He rounded the final curve and his breath caught. June’s house was ablaze. Smoke belched from shattered windows and gathered in an ominous cloud around the roof. Hank’s truck sat in the driveway.
“There!” Weston pointed to something in the distance, near the backside of the barn as Luke blew past it. A blot of brown in a sea of green grass. Weston yanked on the radio and confirmed to dispatch they had injured.
Luke squealed to a stop and shoved the car into park. “You take care of Hank. I’ll get Megan.”
Weston took off across the field. Luke raced to the back of his vehicle and opened a storage trunk. He grabbed a bottle of water and two bandanas. Soaking the fabric, he shoved one in his pocket and wrapped the other over his nose and mouth before snatching his tactical baton.
Flames flickered in the living room. Luke didn’t bother trying the front door. Instead, he went around the side. The smoke leaking from the bedroom windows was wispy and thin. He smashed his baton against the windowpane and it shattered, glass spilling over the ledge to the carpet below. A dresser drawer hung askew and the closet door was wide open.
“Megs,” he screamed. “Where are you?”
Calling out was dangerous. There was no way to know if the perpetrator was still in the house and it could make him a target, but Luke didn’t have a choice. Saving his own neck didn’t matter if Megan died.
June’s cat darted out from under the bed. Luke scooped him up and gently tossed him out the window, before crossing the room. Heart pounding, he moved into the hall, keeping his gun out but pointed near the floor. The heat stole his breath. Light from the flames in the living room flickered and danced with a magnetic pull.
“Megs!”
The smoke hung like a fog. Luke pressed forward, checking each room he passed. The bathroom. The spare bedroom. Each step brought him closer to the heat and the flames. The embedded survival instinct urged him to run away. It was only sheer strength of will that kept his feet moving forward. Sweat coated the back of his shirt.
“Megs, where are you?”
A faint pounding, barely distinguishable from the crackle of the fire, caught his attention. He froze. It sounded like it was coming from the kitchen area, but there was no sign of her. The flames reached a set of living room curtains and they went up in a whoosh of heat. Luke put his arm up to block his face from the sparks and ran past.
The pounding came again. He followed the sound, darting into the utility room and dipping low to get as much of the lingering oxygen as possible. His head whacked against the washing machine.
“Luke!” The pounding came again. “In here!”
He looked up. The washing machine was blocking the doorway leading to the basement. Luke tucked his weapon into its holster. He shoved his weight against the ancient appliance and it scraped against the tile. Sweat dribbled into his eyes making them sting. The heat from the fire was crushing and coupled with the smoke made it almost impossible to breathe.
When the washing machine was shoved far enough away, he flung the door to the basement open and Megan tumbled into his arms. She was whole. Alive. Luke had every intention of keeping her that way.
Pulling the still-wet bandana from his pocket, he placed it over her nose and mouth. “Can you walk?”
She nodded. He set her upright and gripped her hand. The heat intensified the moment they stepped out of the utility room. Flames licked along three of the four living room walls, and the entire kitchen was ablaze.
Megan’s eyes widened. “The fire will destroy everything.”
She yanked her hand out of his and disappeared back into the utility room. He chased after her, his boots pounding on the wooden steps down into the basement.
“Megs, we need to get out of here. Now.”
“Help me!” She scooped up documents from the narrow table. “It’s all of June’s work.”
His gaze swept over the piles of papers, the photographs and maps on the wall in quick snaps. Franny Dickerson’s face jumped out and the cause of her panic became obvious.
“There’s no time.” He grabbed her arm. “Megs, now.”
He pulled her up the stairs. Heat seared his skin. The fire was spreading fast, eating its way through the house. Luke kept his hand on Megan’s arm as they raced through the kitchen.
The house creaked. The bookcase in the living room tilted, falling toward them. Luke whipped around and pressed Megan against the wall, using his body to cover hers. The papers fell from her hand, scattering along the floor to be eaten by the flames.
Six
Hours later, Luke paused outside the interview room. His throat ached, and the faint scent of smoke lingered, even after showering and changing his clothes. Down the hall, Megan limped toward the electronics rooms to observe Wade’s questioning. Her soft blonde hair was swept to the side, expertly covering the gash on her forehead, and the new jeans and blouse hid the other bumps and bruises. But Luke knew they were there.
His hand tightened on the doorknob, as a rush of anger so sharp he could taste it swamped him. Megan had nearly been killed.
