Walk Through the Fire

by Calle J. Brookes

  “I remember hurting.” Terror. Terror that she wouldn’t survive to make it home to the boys, terror that something had happened to them, too. She didn’t live all that far from city hall.

  “You were pinned in the debris.” Izzie’s breath hiccupped. She would try to hide the tears, but Annie knew...

  She was just about all Izzie had. Her, Nikkie Jean, and Izzie’s uncle. Izzie didn’t have any other family. Not anyone. “The boys? Jake? Josie?” It surprised her that her sister wasn’t there, but she had an idea where Josie no doubt was. “Iz, my kids? Where exactly are they right now?”

  Two of the three people she most trusted with her children were right here in the room with her now. That left only her eighteen-year-old sister.

  “Are perfectly fine. Your house took some damage, but it can be fixed. Your sister and kids were at the neighbors’, in their basement. They are just fine,” Dr. Jacobson said, as he checked the bandage on her chest. And then he moved to her leg. “Do you remember how your leg was injured?”

  “No. I don’t. I remember it hurting, but not as much as my chest.” Dr. Jacobson listed the exact injuries and how long she would have to take it easy.

  Before she could say anything, a tall, handsome man with dark hair and blue eyes stepped inside the room. Her breath caught, seeing him again. All she had focused on was his voice, his face in the eerie blue glow of his cell phone. Seeing him in the bright light of day, in a room she’d been in hundreds of times, told her more than anything else that the storm had passed.

  “Mayor Barratt,” she said softly.

  “Hey, Annie Belle. Glad to see you’re awake. How do you feel?”

  Like she’d been impaled by a quarter-inch piece of metal that had narrowly missed piercing her lung. But, other than that…she’d live. She hadn’t asked, but she knew—other people hadn’t been so lucky. “Sore. Very sore. How badly were you injured?”

  “Just bumps and bruises. I have a hard head. Houghton tells me it’s my only redeeming quality.” He stepped closer. His hand wrapped around hers. Warm, reassuring, and familiar. Safety. “I’m glad to see you’re ok. You had me scared there.”

  “Scared me, too.” His voice was just as comforting as she remembered. Annie closed her eyes for a moment as memories assailed her. She’d honestly thought they were going to die in that rubble.

  “Turner, Annie really needs to rest,” Dr. Jacobson said. He patted her other hand, just over the IV, gently. “And so does Izzie.”

  Izzie was just as snippy as always when she turned toward him. “I’m good, Jacobson. I told you that.”

  “Too bad. In the bed, please.”

  Izzie glared. Annie fought a smile as she looked at her friend. Izzie always had been snippy when someone tried to tell her what to do. No doubt because Izzie was used to doing her own thing—and had been since about the age of eight, when her father had left, and her mother had sunk into herself for years.

  By the time Izzie’s mother had emerged from her shell, she had been ill with cancer. Izzie had had three months with her mother acknowledging Izzie existed before the woman had passed, leaving Izzie alone at fourteen, except for her twenty-six-year-old uncle, who’d had no idea how to deal with a grieving teenager who had basically raised herself.

  Jake and Izzie liked to say they’d raised each other after that.

  They’d survived. All of them had. She looked at Izzie again, pain meds making her head feel fuzzy. Her memories. “Are they with Josie? At home?”

  Izzie nodded. “As long as you need. Once I’m out of here, I can get to them, too.”

  “I…”

  Dr. Jacobson stepped closer and covered her hand with his. “It’ll be ok, Annie, I promise. We’ll see to it that everything is. Just rest, and let us take care of you.”

  Annie closed her eyes for a moment, fighting the pain meds she knew they’d given her. When she opened them again, it was Turner Barratt next to her bed. His hand was still wrapped around hers, even though he was sleeping lightly.

  There was another, larger man across the room, watching every breath Nikkie Jean took.

  They were going to be ok.

  She finally slipped back into sleep, conscious of Turner’s hand around hers. He’d promised he’d make it ok, and he had.

  She’d just get through today, then find her boys tomorrow.

  17

  He’d barely slept for three days. The hours he’d hidden out in Annie’s room had been the last reprieve he’d had. He and Marc Deane had taken a Barratt-Handley helicopter up to assess the damage as soon as the rain cleared. It was even worse, more impactful, from a bird’s-eye view.

  Turner would never forget the horror he’d seen from above.

  Whole houses had disintegrated. There was nothing left but splinters.

  His family was mostly ok. Powell had been in her office. She’d been cut by flying glass and had been hit by a two-by-four. Her cracked ribs and fractured arm were the worst injuries any in his family had taken. Her four brothers had carried her off to the family ranch for pampering and extra care for a few weeks.

  Clay had been found. His pretty little blond deputy—a woman Turner suspected Clay was in love with, though he was denying it—had been injured, but they were both alive.

  Current death toll was sitting at fifty-four. Fifty-four too many. But, by the grace of God, it wasn’t more than that.

  Yet.

  The majority of storm-related injuries were recorded in the first week or so after the storm, as people started searching through rubble for the pieces of their lives.

  Secondary deaths were coming; it was just a matter of time.

  It took Turner forty-four hours to make it to his own house near the outskirts of the city limits. He’d bought the property fifteen months ago and had hired a cousin’s construction company to remodel it.

  Now, the six-month-old roof lay next to the house in pieces. Some sheets of metal had peeled off the roof like tissue paper. One stuck up on top of his roof like it was giving the city behind it the middle finger. The entire third floor had water damage that would have to be repaired, but his house hadn’t been in the direct path of the storm. The damage was relatively minimal.

  His cousin Mac was already out there with his crew, getting tarps over the holes in the roof.

  Turner didn’t have it in himself now to even give a damn.

  Fifty-four people had died on his watch. Countless more were injured. A roof that he could replace with his own two hands if necessary didn’t matter in the least.

  With the roof off the house, he had no place to sleep for the moment. Turner didn’t even get out of his car. He just turned around and headed back to the Barratt hotel. He had a family suite there that he used only on holidays, when he didn’t want to leave his family long enough to go home. The Barratt was becoming the center of the action, anyway. That’s where he needed to be.

  He’d have to deal with people between him and his suite on the family floor, but it was a bed. He’d sleep and do it all over again in the morning.

  There were men pounding on the door to his suite at four a.m.

  Elliot Marshall and a dark-haired man who looked familiar, but Turner couldn’t place.

  The man held out his hand first. “Detective Jacob MacNamara. Nice to meet you.”

  “You, too.”

  “I wanted to say thanks for taking care of Annie Gaines during the storm. She’s…family.”

  “MacNamara? Are you Izzie’s brother?” The guy favored Izzie, that was for sure. Same dark hair and eyes, though he was built like a former linebacker. Or a brick wall. One who chewed nails for breakfast. He was a far cry from the pretty little fairy that was Izzie.

  “Uncle. But I raised her. I’ve known Annie since she was five or so. Practically raised her, too.” The man’s voice clogged up for a minute.

  “How is she doing?” Turner had wanted to go to her. More than anything, he wanted to. He wanted nothing more than to sit by her bed and just…
talk. Reassure himself that she was going to be ok.

  He wasn’t too dense to realize he was suffering some trauma-related reactions now. He’d deal with them when he had the time. That time was definitely not now.

  “She’s awake. Sore. But they’ve had her out of the bed now and moving around a bit. I’m heading over there in a few hours to get Izzie after her shift ends.”

  “Iz doing ok? Last time I saw her, she was giving Dr. Jacobson fits.” But she was with Annie. And that meant information. Turner was genuinely concerned—he’d like to consider Izzie a friend, even if he didn’t know her all that well. “And her little chattery buddy was in the room with them.”

  He hated the thought of her being in the hospital all alone.

  “Izzie’s fine. Home and back to work within a day. Taking care of Annie, like always. Nikkie Jean is taking a few days off, then she’ll be back once she’s fully cleared by her doctors. They are taking good care of her.” MacNamara looked at the chief. “Let’s get down to business. We all know how valuable time can be.”

  Elliot didn’t argue. He got the sense the chief respected his detective. MacNamara had an air about him that said he’d seen a lot, done a lot, and wasn’t afraid of a lot.

  “So what’s going on?” It was more than just storm recovery that had brought the two men to him. Turner wasn’t an idiot. Something was going on.

  “Someone’s stealing from our resources. Someone on the inside,” Elliot stated bluntly. “We think it’s originating in your office, or in the city council. And we need to find them.”

  Dread tightened a band around his gut. “What do you mean?”

  “Supplies have disappeared. At first, we thought there was some tracking mix up. Until they hit the streets within hours, for an exorbitant price,” Elliot said. “Jake’s tracking the supply chain now, but it’ll take a while.”

  “And what makes you think it’s my people?” Sometimes humanity surprised him—and not always for the good. Turner wanted to believe the people of his city were banding together to help their neighbors—and most were. But there were some that were trying to profit right now.

  He’d already given a dozen PSA messages warning people not to fall for con men showing up with false claims for repairs. Or information—people’s private information could be damned valuable now. Turner had warned against everything he could think of.

  It was his job to protect his city.

  “Means and resources to pull it off. Everyone and every service is down. Especially while information is a bit harder to come by. Except the city officials. We’re all keeping dialed in,” Elliot said. “Whoever is doing this is three steps ahead of us. Well aware of where the TSP is, at all times. That tells me it’s someone with access. Cash to get things started, and a workforce of their own to carry things out. Possibly inside the TSP, as well. And the hospital. Utility companies.”

  MacNamara was a bit blunter. “And rumors are flying in that direction. Informants have made it clear—this is coming from your office. Or someone damned close.”

  “That means my office or the council. Then we need to find the person responsible.” It was a no-brainer to Turner. But as the two men shared a significant glance, he knew it was more than that. “What is it?”

  “We found my two missing officers,” Elliot said. His tone was all that Turner needed to know that it wasn’t good. “Shot. Point-blank. The storm had nothing to do with it. They were dead long after the storm hit.”

  Turner bit back a curse, followed by nausea. He’d met a good deal of Elliot’s people in the last year. He may well have known the fallen officers. “How do you know it’s connected?”

  “Some of the missing insulin and prescription drugs were found in the trunk of their patrol car. Their fingerprints were all over it. But I don’t know that they unloaded the supply trucks willingly. There was blood splatter that shouldn’t have been there. Forensics are being handled by a temporary unit out of Wichita Falls. Anything they can’t handle we’re routing through Houston. That’s going to slow us down.”

  “How are we going to figure out who’s responsible for this?” It had gone well beyond just theft of resources and governmental corruption now.

  Murder.

  Dead cops.

  And it had happened on Turner’s watch.

  Now he had to fix it.

  18

  Turner went looking for information. His first stop was his deputy mayor. Carl Buchanan had been a good friend of Turner’s uncle for years. He’d also been active in city politics with no intention of leaving for state or federal politics at any point. He’d been encouraging Turner in his pursuits since Turner had been a young man of eighteen or nineteen. Carl and the previous mayor Richard had been Turner’s mentors as a teen. Carl still was.

  He also had the ability to read a person easily and see exactly what kind of person they were. Not to mention being a damned fine businessman, who’d built his career from the ground up. If anyone could help figure out who on the council was dirty pool, it would be Carl.

  Turner stopped at the information desk and found the room number he was looking for. Carl was upstairs with his grandson, who’d been injured in the storm. The boy was scheduled for the first surgery to repair nerves in his broken arm in the morning.

  Carl was helping Turner where he could, but his first priority was Jason. Turner wouldn’t have it any other way. Carl was all Jason had.

  Turner stuck his head in the door. “Hey, can I come in?”

  Jason was watching television, looking listless. And scared. Turner had been looking for his grandfather, but he decided to take a few minutes with the kid he’d known for years.

  “Where’s your grandpa?”

  “He went to the lobby to make a phone call.”

  “How are you feeling? How is Jimmy?” Carl had shared the teenagers’ story and how the smaller boy was facing an uphill battle right now.

  Jason shrugged. “I’m ok, I guess. Jimmy hasn’t really woken up yet. The doctors say he’ll be ok. If he doesn’t get an infection.”

  “The doctors here are great, you know.”

  “I guess.”

  Turner spent a few minutes with him, trying to get him to smile. But the boy’s entire world had changed when he’d realized the world could stop in an instant.

  Just like Turner, Jason had been hit with his own mortality, thanks to the storm.

  Hell, if he was having trouble processing that fact, why wouldn’t a thirteen-year-old boy? Turner wished he had the answers. For Jason and himself.

  Carl returned a few minutes after Jason had drifted off to sleep.

  He paused when he saw Turner. “I didn’t realize you were here. I see he’s sleeping again.”

  “He’s doing ok?”

  Carl hesitated, and then shook his head. “His friend lost his leg yesterday morning. Jason’s still trying to process.”

  Turner swore. “I’m sorry, Carl. If there is anything I can do to help…”

  “The offer’s appreciated. What are you doing here today?”

  Turner outlined the issue as quickly as he could.

  “There are a few on the council I can see being behind this,” Carl said quietly when Turner finished. “But I can see them being smart enough not to get caught. There have been rumors off and on for years. Richard never put much stock in them. I disagreed. I wanted to let you develop your own opinion.”

  “This seems almost coordinated. As if someone knew exactly what to do when all of our systems were down citywide.”

  Turner had gone over everything with the chief and he agreed.

  It was almost as though they had more than one person involved. That made sense, considering how the supplies were being moved. And from reports of the enforcers that had been out there.

  Turner was just trying to make sense of it, while handling everything else that kept coming his direction.

  “We’re going to have to keep digging,” he said. “Just let me know if you hear
or think of anything that might help us find the answers.”

  Turner patted the older man on the shoulder. The hell Carl Buchanan had been through was written all over his face. Carl had been playing the politician game in Finley Creek since before Turner had been born. And he did it well.

  Carl was the epitome of the self-made man. He’d never attended college, and he’d told Turner before that he’d quit school just after his eighth-grade year and made his way on his own. His stepfather hadn’t wanted a fourteen-year-old boy around after his own son had been born with Carl’s mother. Resources had been scarce. Carl had been as big as a man then—and his stepfather had expected him to act like one.

  His mother hadn’t done much to fix the situation. Carl had gone off on his own and built himself a life to be proud of. He didn’t have much family left, just Jason. Carl had lost his wife, his daughter, and his son over the past twenty years. Jason was all that was left.

  It was that boy who meant the world to the deputy mayor. Carl’s phone rang, and a look of irritation passed over Carl’s face.

  “Go, Carl. I’ll sit with Jason while you’re on the phone.”

  Carl had many small businesses throughout the state.

  With the storm damage, it was a wonder he wasn’t busy twenty-four-seven.

  He’d agreed to be the part-time deputy mayor when Turner had asked him, stepping down from his position on the city council. It wasn’t a decision Turner had regretted.

  He only needed Carl about twenty hours each week—it varied—but in the days since the storm, Carl’s advice had been invaluable.

  Even though most of it had come from the hospital.

  Carl was spending every minute at the hospital with Jason—and Jason’s friend.