No Damaged Goods

by Snow, Nicole

  For several long seconds, he stares.

  Justin’s grimace widens, his jaw shaking—and he flings me back against the ice slab, letting go of my hair.

  “Bullshit. You sing only lies,” he whispers in a slow and eerie tone. “But I’ll tell my own truth. I just want you to give me a nice little soundtrack for dramatic effect. Something to get their attention.” He cranes his head like a doll, watching me with those unblinking, empty eyes. “And you’ll do it, or I’ll leave my Jenna right where she is, and they’ll have to cut her in half to peel her frozen body off the ice.”

  “Don’t!” I plead, while Andrea’s whimpers peak even higher, wordless and terrified. “I’ll do it. I’ll sing for you. Are you going to do a presentation?”

  “Oh, no, little peacemaker.”

  I recoil as he reaches for me, curls his knuckles, strokes his fingers down my temple, my cheek—and reignites the hot pain where he touches my frost burned skin.

  “I’m going to burn everybody in Heart’s Edge alive. Right down to ashes,” he purrs with a deep, hideous pleasure darkening his voice. “And then they’ll know exactly how it felt when my mother died, charred and choking on her own charcoal-blackened lungs. And he’ll be right in the middle of it. My father and all his little friends...and so will you.”

  It takes everything I have not to shake. I don’t understand his logic, his reasoning.

  Much later, I realize there isn’t any.

  He taps his fingertips almost playfully to my nose. “Sorry for this. You’re not from this fucked up little town. But you chose your side, Peace, and you looked at me just like them. Like I was nothing. Like I was just this hollowed out puppy. It’s time for me and Jenna to leave this place behind. In our dust, where you all belong.”

  Crap.

  Crap, crap, crap, and also crap.

  “What are you going to do? I don’t understand,” I whisper.

  I’m not expecting him to tell me. Not really.

  I’m just trying to stall him for a little while longer.

  Especially when I see movement.

  We’re in some kind of tent, I realize, and there’s a frosted plastic window stitched into the fabric. Over Justin’s shoulder, I catch a glimpse of someone.

  Clark.

  He’s looking inside, his face white with fear.

  Oh, thank God.

  Someone who knows we’re here.

  Someone who can help.

  But I’m dragged back to Justin as he lets out a short, barking laugh. “Wouldn’t you like to know?” he mocks, folding his arms over his chest, looking down at me with contempt. “You just do your job. Give Chief a little more incentive to come running for you. The fool loves you more than he loves his own son and daughter. That’s why I have to take her away. That’s why I have to take you away from them, too.”

  “That’s not true,” I whisper. “You have no clue how much Blake loves Andrea. He’d die for her.”

  “Maybe he will,” Justin snarls, giving me the most dead-eyed look yet.

  I shake my head sharply, but past Justin, I’m watching Clark, hoping not to give him away. But he’s got to do something besides stand there.

  “You’re wrong. You’ll never get Blake,” I spit back at Justin. “You hear me? You’ll never GET BLAKE.”

  Please, I plead silently.

  Please let Clark understand. Let him find Blake before it’s too late.

  Justin has no intention of letting anyone get out of here alive.

  He swings around, hefting a thick tank with a strap on it and a nozzle, and it takes me a second to figure it out.

  It’s a flamethrower.

  “Don’t worry,” he says, his nasty, cunning smile returning, making him look like a nightmare scarecrow come to life. “One way or another, I’m going to get everyone. Then Heart’s Edge will know how it feels to really burn.”

  20

  Percussion Shock (Blake)

  Too many damn people.

  That’s all I can think right now as I bolt out of my Jeep and through the gate, back on the carnival grounds.

  There are too many people, hundreds, and fuck if calling ahead didn’t do a single thing to help.

  I’d warned them.

  Leo, Warren, Doc, even Langley.

  I told them, while I barreled my way down the road toward the grounds at top speed, breaking every fucking speed limit in the county while I barked into my phone.

  Justin’s crazy.

  He’s obsessed.

  He’s the arsonist.

  And he’s out for revenge against the people he thinks failed to save his ma, Constance, and failed to save the girl he was obsessed with...

  ...and now that dumb kid is about to ruin his life.

  It doesn’t matter who’s to blame right now.

  We can talk guilt, unfortunate circumstances, and how somebody always gets hurt when evil companies like Galentron cause tragic hotel fires.

  Later.

  After I see my daughter and my woman alive in one piece. The fact that Andrea’s not picking up her phone and neither is Peace has me scared shitless.

  Crazy or not, I have to fucking stop Justin from inflicting his pain on anyone else.

  A whole lot more people, because apparently the townspeople aren’t listening when Warren and the others try to get them to leave.

  Most folks don’t even hear the announcement.

  They’re too caught up in their chatter and funnel cakes to cast more than odd glances at the crazy men waving their arms around everywhere and shouting.

  I shove my way through the dazed, milling crowd, toward Leo, who’s closest, standing on the fence around a pen with thickly furred woolly sheep dressed up in cute costumes for kids to play with.

  “Hey!” I bark, reaching up to snap my fingers for his attention. “Andrea! Where’s Andrea?”

  Leo stops shouting and looks down at me, then growls and vaults off the fence in front of me. “No goddamn clue, man. I’ve turned this place inside out, and I can’t find her or Peace.”

  I swear under my breath, pacing roughly left and right.

  Fuck.

  I need a plan.

  Shame all my training and emergency response skills go right out the window when it’s my daughter and the woman I love possibly in danger.

  I make myself stop, take a deep breath, press my fingers to my temples, and calm down. Just like the way Peace would. I can almost hear her soothing voice washing over me.

  Wait.

  That ain’t my imagination.

  I hear Peace. Her voice echoes over the intercom system mounted to the power poles spaced around the area.

  She’s singing.

  This slow, intense, oddly distorted version of “Ring of Fire” I’m not sure what old Johnny would ever make of.

  And it sounds like she’s never wanted to sing anything less in her life. The pain and fear in her voice make every word tremble. It’s ugly and unmistakably different from those soaring sweet notes from the heart I love so much.

  Leo lifts his head, staring up at one of the mounted speakers. “What the hell is that?”

  “Trouble,” I mutter. Just like that, people start clustering toward the middle of the carnival grounds, milling around and staring, whispering among themselves in curious tones. “And we’d better put an end to it now.”

  That’s when I realize I’m hearing Peace’s voice twice.

  Once over the intercom.

  And echoing from the center of the carnival grounds.

  Where people are streaming toward her, gasping out. Some seemingly delighted by what they’re seeing like it’s some kind of show, others crying out in concern.

  I shove my way through the crowd, using my size to my advantage to part the sea of people.

  Until I reach the front.

  I stop, staring in horror.

  Peace stands on the tall wooden stage that’s been erected for the silent auction later tonight.

  She’s perched on a s
tool and surrounded by a literal ring of fire.

  Some kind of accelerant must’ve been sprayed down on the wood and ignited. Now, it leaps up around her, and she’s trapped on all sides, no more than two feet of space in any direction from the stool where she huddles, strumming her guitar.

  And singing her heart out.

  I don’t understand.

  I don’t get what’s happening.

  Why she’s singing her heart out, when past the flickering flames I can just barely make out her face, the sweat beading on her brow, mixing with tears.

  That’s why her voice is so thick.

  She’s sobbing.

  And my heart hits my throat like a bullet.

  Especially when I see the side of her face, red like someone struck her.

  Someone hurt her.

  Someone hurt my girl.

  “Peace!” I roar, reaching out, charging toward the steps.

  Her head snaps up, her eyes widening, fear transfixing her face as her tear-bright gaze locks on me. “Blake, don’t!” she cries, the song breaking.

  Too late.

  I just don’t realize it till my foot comes down on the bottom step.

  And I feel something snap under the sole of my boot.

  Some kind of trigger, I realize—freezing far too late, sudden flashback, the feeling of a shell exploding too close on a hot, Afghan day.

  But it’s not the earth around me that explodes.

  It’s the snow around the temporary windbreaker fence built around the carnival grounds.

  Plumes of snow rocket up in sharp blasts, followed by gouts of flame, jetting up in red-gold tongues from concealed devices beneath.

  Holy fuck.

  Those fence planks are just dry wood, not very dense, and—

  And it’s like throwing a match into a stack of newspaper, they’re so flammable.

  They go up instantly, illuminating like fireworks, flame racing up along the planks and spearing toward the sky in a roaring rush, wood crackling, a ring of flames completely encircling the carnival grounds in hellish light. Heat that melts back the snow so furiously the wetness doesn’t even have a chance to dampen the sparks.

  The barrier that was supposed to protect the townspeople from the cold traps them in an orange-flickering cage of fire.

  Dimly, I’m aware of screaming. Shouting.

  People begin their stampede, shoving, pushing, rushing for the exits—only to break back with frightened cries as leaping walls of fire make them recoil, the heat beating them back. One man tries to rush it anyway, then stumbles, throwing himself down in the snow and rolling frantically, beating out the flames on his jacket while people grasp at his smoking frame and drag him back.

  Shit.

  I’m the fire chief.

  I’m supposed to be taking control here.

  Instead, I’m frozen, staring, the only point of stillness in the chaotic crowd.

  This is my fault.

  Because I was blind.

  Because I let my biases rule me.

  Because I was too goddamn naïve and trusted the wrong people, mistrusted the people I should’ve put some kind of faith in, let my own issues get in the way of keeping people safe, protecting the people I love.

  And I still don’t know where the hell Andrea even is.

  My hands form rigid fists at my sides. I hold in a scream. I’m just frozen.

  Freaked that I might lose her, and lose Peace.

  And suddenly my leg is all rigid pain, and I’m down on my knees, dropping as everything inside me locks up and pulls that tension in a paralyzing knot.

  Hissing, I hit the ground hard, losing sight of Peace as I strike the frozen earth, clutching at my thigh.

  No, dammit. Not now.

  I can’t.

  Fucking mind over matter, and it’s my mind making my matter act up.

  All because I had a slow-motion half-second eternity of doubt, of fear, and I’m pounding at my thigh, but it ain’t doing a thing but driving that pain deeper like a nail in a coffin.

  “Blake!” someone cries, only it’s not Peace.

  Someone comes slamming into me, hard enough to nearly bowl me over, dropping to his knees in front of me and staring at me with total desperation.

  Clark Patten.

  He’s wild-eyed, scared, shaking me.

  “Get up!” he gasps, begging me, pleading me. “You have to get up. You have to come. She needs you.”

  I don’t even know what she he means, and it doesn’t matter.

  All that matters is I can’t let my fucking body destroy me like this.

  Or anyone else.

  I grit my teeth, pushing past the pain, grappling at Clark’s arm, forcing myself up. It feels like I’m ripping my leg out of its socket, but I don’t have the luxury to care. He holds close to me, letting me steady myself on him, and I give him a tight nod as I brace my feet and start for the stage.

  Peace.

  I’ve got to get her free.

  And then I’ve got to get this crowd under control and to safety.

  Then I’ve got to get through the flames myself, to the fire truck outside.

  Remember my duty.

  Remember my calling.

  And take it one step at a time, until everyone’s out of danger.

  But Clark thrusts himself in front of me, staring up, shaking his head as he braces his hands against my chest to stop me.

  “Let me help,” he says, already shrugging out of his jacket—fire-retardant material, I realize, just black like the rest of his clothes, a hazard of his job.

  For a second, I can’t help but feel a spark of admiration in him, and I get it—why my daughter likes him. He’s mustering up all his bravery even when I can tell he’s piss scared.

  “Andrea?” I growl. “Where is she?”

  Then he says the words that make my gut ice over, that beat back the heat of the roaring flames to leave me completely cold.

  “He’s got her,” Clark whispers. “Justin’s got her. He was calling her Jenna, and he...he was hurting her. I couldn’t get inside. I couldn’t get to her without him seeing me. He’s armed, Blake.”

  I’ve never felt such pure murderous rage like what I’m feeling now.

  Never felt such sheer certainty that I could kill someone with my bare hands without even half a second’s thought.

  My anger is a wall of ice.

  And strong enough that I swear to fuck, I’ll break Justin Bast into pieces against it.

  Without hesitation.

  “Where?” I bite off coolly, and Clark points over the rioting, shoving, out-of-control crowd, toward the far end of the carnival grounds.

  “Inside a tent,” he whispers, then lifts his chin, tossing his head to me urgently. “Hurry. I’ll help save your girl, Mr. Silverton. Just promise me you’ll save mine.”

  He doesn’t have to ask.

  I trust him to beat down that little ring of fire and let me get her free of the flames.

  And no one has to tell me to save my daughter.

  For a moment, over his head, I catch Peace’s eye through the flames, slowly tightening around her. I know now that she’s bait.

  Justin knew, though.

  He knew I’d react to seeing Peace threatened, and charge right at the stage.

  He used my own feelings against me.

  He’s been using my own feelings against me—to lead me astray, to cloud my judgment.

  No more.

  I see clearly now.

  And I see so clearly the faith in her big green eyes. She gives me a small nod, her lips trembling but her jaw firm, her shoulders square.

  Then I slap him on the shoulder, and it’s go time.

  The boy knows what to do. He’s charging in ahead of me, positioning himself near a natural sliver of a break in the fire. He crouches, letting the flames pour against his stretched out jacket, just long enough for me to fly right past.

  I dive for Peace, rip her off that chair, up into my arms.

>   The hard part? There’s no time to even steal a kiss.

  Not while the fire keeps lashing like deadly whips all around us.

  Not while a fucking madman I thought was my friend has Andrea.

  Fire resistant or not, the boy’s jacket isn’t made to last forever. We barely make it past him again, Peace clutched tight in my arms, folded around me.

  I leap off the stairs holding her and we hit the snow, topple over, and roll.

  I only realize after the fact the snow hisses out a small part of my jacket that caught the flames.

  It’s a miracle I can even stand, sparing just a second to give her a fierce look and a furious hand-squeeze. “Stay here, darlin’. You’re safe. Be right back.”

  Then I turn away, striding in the direction where Clark’s pointing, forging through the crowd. I slip my fingers between my teeth, letting out a piercing whistle before thrusting my hand in the air.

  It’s like summoning hunting hawks. Warren, Leo, and Doc appear almost out of nowhere, sweaty and dirty and rushed, Warren’s jacket singed from where he’s been beating at the flames. Rich materializes next, breathless and streaked with soot.

  “You know what to do,” I say. “Calm everybody down. Keep ’em away from the flames. Slow and orderly, before anyone hurts anyone else. Tend to the injured. Tell everyone to get low, under the smoke. Look for a weak spot in the wall, and get them out of here. As soon as you can get to the truck, fire it up.”

  “On it,” Warren snaps, while the others already peel away, jogging out, raising their voices in loud shouts. “What are you gonna do?”

  My answer gets cut off by a sudden spout of flame erupting from between two booths. My head whips around.

  Justin steps out, a fucking flamethrower strapped to his back, the nozzle clutched in both hands.

  He jacks it and sends flame spraying out in front of him in an arc that burns through the snow to catch the dry grass underneath, igniting it like some kind of crazed smile painted in flames against the ground.

  Almost as disturbing a smile as the one on his lips. The flames light up his eyes and he plants his feet, staring me down.