by Tee O'Fallon
Reading on, she pursed her lips. A major power struggle was brewing in the Arctic. Other countries were also trying to lay claim to the Arctic’s untapped resources, but unlike those countries, Russia wasn’t a NATO member, and as such, did as it pleased without answering to anyone.
According to the last article she read, the Russians didn’t want any interference from Canada, but Russia was by far the biggest threat to—
A muffled thump from the back door made her jerk her head toward the kitchen, tensing. Then she let out a breath with a whoosh. It was probably just another tree limb.
The old oak tree in her backyard had been dropping branches lately. Having it pruned had been on her to-do list for quite some time, but she’d gotten so wrapped up with things at work, staying late many nights, that she still hadn’t gotten around to it.
She went to the door and flipped on the outside light. Her tiny backyard and the equally small back porch were illuminated by a single light, but she didn’t see anything. Not even a branch, although one could have fallen onto the edge of the decking and slipped to the ground where she couldn’t see it.
Padding back to her desk, she resumed her research. After reading a few more articles about these meetings in Iqaluit, it became screamingly obvious that unless the Canadians beefed up their military in the Arctic, a military confrontation with the Russians was looming. As such, the Canadian government had approached both presidential candidates for a major influx of American cash to fund new naval and military bases in the Arctic, and both Governor Hughes and Senator Ashburn had heartily agreed that if elected, they would lend financial assistance. Anything to prevent Russian dominance in such a vitally strategic part of the world.
The cell phone on the desk vibrated with yet another incoming message from her parents. Groaning, she looked at the image on the screen. It was the tenth photo in the last ten minutes, this one of them posing in front of the Sydney Opera House.
Five years ago, her mother and father—both retired computer experts—had sold their home and been traveling the world ever since. Based upon this latest selfie, she’d guess they were on the last leg of their Australian tour, about to head for one of the many isolated Indonesian islands. She appreciated them staying in touch, but if they pinged her with any more photos, she’d scream.
Another photo came through, and she slammed the phone onto the desk. “Enough already!” This was the reason she never slept with her cell phone by her bed at night anymore. Getting woken up by her parents’ three a.m. text messages got old real fast.
Before powering off her laptop, she considered one more search. Ever since hearing the name Thomas George in the chat room, she considered looking him up and reaching out to him, but that was an operative’s job, and she wasn’t an operative. Still, the idea was tempting.
She yawned and clamped a hand over her mouth. Tomorrow would be another fun-filled day doing next to nothing, and a perfect time to do more research.
After shutting down the laptop, she locked it in a small filing cabinet bolted to the floor beneath the stairs. When she turned, Poofy was still rooted to the same spot by the front door.
“C’mon, Poof.” She scooped the cat up, cuddling him to her as she flipped off the other lights and went into the bedroom, closing the door behind her. The room was stuffy, so she cranked on the large window AC unit, sighing as the first blast of cool air hit her face.
By the time she’d finished with her nighttime rituals and changed into a white cotton camisole, Poofy had curled up on his usual spot at the foot of the bed. Pulling the covers back, she glanced at her short, unpolished nails. Having nails of any length had always been a nuisance, since she usually spent ten to fifteen hours a day tapping on a keyboard. With that time seriously curtailed, maybe she’d get a mani-pedi. Pink, or vixen-red.
Wearing colors had never been her thing, but since she’d be out of work for an indeterminate period of time, perhaps she’d do something fun for herself, something outside her usual, boring box. She tried imagining her vixen-red fingernails against the toned, tanned muscles of Matt’s chest and arms.
Rolling her eyes, she fell into bed, repeating her mantra: men like him don’t go out with women like me. On top of which, she doubted she’d ever be able to forgive him for his role in her being kicked out of Langley. So stop thinking about him.
As soon as she closed her eyes, sleep began to take hold, along with unwanted images of Matt’s powerful body, sweaty and naked as he stepped into the shower.
Meow. Meow. Meow.
“Poofy?” Trista woke to find the cat sitting on her chest, pawing at her frantically.
A high-pitched tone screamed from one of the smoke detectors in the house. Two seconds later, the detector just inside her bedroom door went off, screeching so loudly she flinched. Then she smelled it.
Smoke.
Bolting from the bed, she flicked on the overhead light, immediately noticing the faint haze pervading the room. There weren’t any flames, but smoke curled in from beneath the door.
No! She lunged for the doorknob, jerking her hand back. The metal knob was hot.
There’s fire on the other side of that door.
Her heart began pounding, her breathing coming quicker. Grabbing a shirt draped over a chair, she wrapped her hand in the cloth and twisted the doorknob. A wave of heat slammed into her, and she staggered back. The smoke and smell of gasoline were overwhelming, making her cough. Through the hallway and the haze of smoke, she could make out the flicker of orange and yellow, along with crackling, hissing sounds.
Fire. My house really is on fire.
She covered her mouth with her hand, feeling her way along the wall for the fire extinguisher. As her hand bumped into it, she got a better look at the living room, and a small scream escaped her.
Flames licked up the billowing curtains as they quickly blackened and disintegrated. The sofa and wingback chair were on fire. Dead ahead, the front door of the house was fully engulfed in flames.
A perfect, straight line of fire ran from one window along the floor to her desk, which had also begun to burn but not so much that she couldn’t see that her cell phone was gone. She’d left it there last night like she always did. As if her house being on fire wasn’t enough, her missing cell phone set off alarm bells in her head.
Someone did this. Someone set my house on fire. With me in it.
No extinguisher in the world would be enough to put out this inferno. With her heart pounding like a jackhammer, she spun and bolted back to her bedroom, coughing as she pulled the door shut behind her.
Poofy. I have to get Poofy.
But her cat was nowhere in sight. For a second, her throat closed up, a sure sign of an impending asthma attack, but she managed to take a slow, deep breath, tamping it down. “Poofy,” she cried, searching every corner of the room, still not finding him. Dropping to the floor, she whipped up the bed skirt to find him hunched against the far wall. “C’mon, Poof,” she crooned, but the cat didn’t budge.
Coughing worse now, she crawled under the bed, finding the air clearer and cooler. As she neared the cat, he meowed pitifully. Reaching out, she hooked her hand around Poofy’s body, tugging him toward her as she backed out from under the bed. She cradled him tightly to her chest, then covered him with the same shirt she’d used to open the door.
She ran to the room’s only window, intending to shove the AC unit out onto the grass, but stopped short. When she’d bought the unit earlier in the summer, the installers had securely screwed the flanges into the wooden windowsill. Nothing short of a sledgehammer would dislodge it now.
At the bedroom door, she took one last breath and held it before flinging it open. As it had before, a blast of heat hit her in the face, hotter this time. She burrowed her nose and mouth against Poofy’s cloth-covered body, barely able to see through the thickening smoke. She had to get to the kitchen.
The hall runner beneath her feet was warm, and the air was hot against her bare arms and
legs. Visibility worsened, and she slammed her shoulder against the wall. Stumbling, she fell to her knees, again realizing the air was easier to breathe near the floor.
With Poofy still tucked against her chest, she crawled awkwardly into the living room. Her skin grew hot and tears streamed from her stinging eyes until she almost couldn’t keep them open. With most of the living room furniture and walls engulfed, the crackling, snapping, and hissing was deafening.
Keep going. Keep going.
She scrambled forward on the floor. Using the front door as an escape route was out, but the back door in the kitchen was still accessible.
After what seemed like an hour but was probably only seconds, she felt the hard tile of the kitchen floor beneath her hand and knees. The air was clearer here, enough to see another perfectly straight line of fire leading from the window curtain, down the wall, and along the floor to the table, although the fire hadn’t caught on yet with the same intensity as in the living room.
Pushing to her feet, she grabbed the doorknob, twisting and tugging. It didn’t open.
Beside her, the kitchen table and two of the chairs burst into flames. Tucking Poofy tighter against her, she verified the door was indeed unlocked then pulled repeatedly. It didn’t budge. This was not happening. I need another plan.
Basement.
Even the floor tiles beneath her feet were growing warm as she ran to the basement door and turned the knob. When it opened, she flipped on the light switch and headed down the stairs, slamming the door shut behind her.
The air was better down here, and she sucked in breath after breath, still coughing but not as fiercely. Setting Poofy on top of the washing machine, she grabbed a wooden stool and placed it directly beneath the small, hinged window. She stepped on the stool and twisted the latch, but when she pushed on the window, it didn’t open, either.
What the hell?
She looked around for something to break the window, only to see fire shooting between the door and the doorframe. A burst of flames made it through, hitting the stair rail. The old, brittle wood quickly caught on fire, sending a line of flame down the railing.
I will not die in this house.
She reached for the crowbar hanging on the wall.
Chapter Ten
“Dammit.” Matt gunned the pickup off the highway, taking the circular exit ramp way too fast, but he didn’t give a shit. What Jake had related over the phone had his guts twisting with fear.
The blood on the cloth Sheba had retrieved matched that of Viktor Solonik, a Russian mobster suspected of being a hit man. Solonik had previously been arrested on weapons charges that hadn’t netted much jail time, but every arrest required a DNA swab. Hence the hit in CODIS. This had to be connected to whatever Trista was doing for the CIA. He knew that with every fiber of his being, and he damn well intended to find out what it was if he had to wring it out of her, or her supervisors.
As he turned onto her street, an eerie glow lit the sky. When he saw why, his heart nearly stopped. Trista’s house was on fire, and from the looks of it, it was already fully engulfed.
Jake’s black Charger was parked a few houses from Trista’s, its blue strobes flashing. Matt gunned his truck the remaining distance, then slammed on the brakes in front of the Charger. When he jumped out, he heard Jake calling in the fire, reciting Trista’s address.
“Where is she?” Matt shouted.
Jake threw the radio microphone into the open car window. “Don’t know. Just got here. Fire trucks are on the way.”
Matt ran toward the house. Flames shot from every window, and part of the roof was caving in. The fire roared, snapping and crackling. Timbers creaked under the onslaught, making an eerie, wailing sound.
With his heart in his throat, he ran all around the house, scanning the yard, searching for Trista. But she wasn’t there. She wasn’t anywhere. She’s still inside.
Every door and window were on fire, flames shooting out into the night. There was no way in, and no way out.
A grisly image of her small, petite body on fire came to him…the pain she would have felt. Matt fell to his knees. He’d never been much for prayer, but right at that moment, he prayed the smoke had taken her before the fire did.
His stomach roiled, and he wanted to puke. A hand rested on his shoulder. Jake.
“There’s nothing you could have done, Matt.”
Shaking his head, he breathed heavily. He couldn’t believe she was dead. He barely knew her, but already he felt her loss from his life.
Sirens screeched in the distance. Minutes later, he heard them pull up to the house, their hydraulic brakes hissing as they came to a stop. A burning piece of something landed a few feet away, followed by a burst of glowing embers.
“C’mon, Matt.” Jake grabbed his arm. “We gotta get away from the house.”
Still staring at the fully engulfed structure, he let Jake haul him to his feet. A door slammed, and he jerked his head around. The family next door was evacuating. Good thing.
A crash had him whipping his head back to Trista’s house. Glass breaking. Where?
He couldn’t see anything, but it sounded like it had come from the burning house. Could be the heat doing the damage, but maybe it was something else.
Both he and Jake froze. A few seconds later, the sound of metal on metal came to his ears. He ran around to the back of the house and heard the same metal sounds and more glass breaking.
“There!” He pointed and ran to the window well.
A crowbar, held by pale, bare arms cleared glass from the broken basement window.
Trista.
Matt jumped into the window well just as Trista pulled herself to safety. She fell against his chest and he picked her up, getting a glimpse of the flames flickering inside the basement.
“Poofy!” she shouted, dropping the crowbar and slapping at his hands. “Let me go.”
“Stop fighting me!” Matt shouted. The basement was bright with flames. Smoke poured out the open window, making them both cough. He had to get her out of here, away from the house.
“Let me go!” she repeated. “I have to go back inside.”
But she was no match for him, and he easily handed her up to Jake. Kicking her legs, she caught him in the jaw, and he fell back, whacking his head hard against the siding. For a moment, he saw stars and his vision blurred. He reached out his hand, leaning on the side of the house until the moment passed.
“Poofy!” she screamed, still struggling to free herself from Jake’s arms. “I have to go back and get Poofy!”
Shit. The damned cat.
“Get her out of here!” he yelled to Jake. “Whoever did this could be out there waiting to take a shot at her.”
A fit of coughing seized her, allowing Jake to grip her tighter as he ran from the house.
“Fuck.” Taking a deep breath, Matt pivoted in the tight confines of the window well and began lowering himself into the basement, legs first.
Bits of glass cut into his palms, but he kept going until his feet hit something. A stool. He stepped onto it, then onto the concrete floor. The intense heat hit him first, then the smoke. He dropped to his knees, knowing the air would be better down there. Not much.
“Poofy! Poofy!”
He looked around the smoky room for the cat, not really expecting the animal to come to him like a dog. Hell, even a dog would probably ignore his calls under these circumstances, instinct driving it to go to ground for a hiding place.
This was beyond crazy. It was insane. But seeing Trista screaming, panicked over her cat dying tugged at his heart to the point where he’d do just about anything for her. If it had been Sheba trapped inside a burning building, he would have fought anyone who tried to prevent him from saving her as well.
A chemical smell came to him—gasoline—and he tugged his shirt from his jeans and pulled it over his head, using it as a filter to breathe through.
If I were a cat in a burning building, where would I go?
If the situation wasn’t so dire, he would have laughed. Then it hit him. Years ago, he’d taken care of a friend’s cat for a weekend, and every time he walked into the house, the cat took off and hid behind the dryer.
Matt grabbed the edge of the dryer and pulled it away from the wall. Hunkered down in a tight, soot-covered ball was the cat.
Meoooow.
“Hey, Poofy.” He kept his voice low and easy, trying not to frighten the feline. If the animal took off, and he had to search for it again, he doubted he’d have time to get his ass out of there before the basement turned into an inferno.
Slowly at first, he eased his arm toward the cat. The animal braced itself against the wall and, from the looks of it, was about to haul ass. Dropping his shirt to the floor, Matt shot his arm out, grabbing the cat in mid-lunge, then hauling it to his chest.
He tensed, expecting sharp claws to dig into his skin, but all he felt were soft paws and a wriggling body. Mercifully, the cat must have had its claws trimmed recently.
Coughing worse now, he made his way back to the window and stepped onto the stool. Aiming carefully, he hurled the cat through the open window, over the edge of the well and onto the grass. Then he hauled himself through, grimacing as more shards of glass dug into his palms.
Hands grabbed at him, hauling him out. Firemen.
“You okay?” one of them asked, urging him away from the house.
Water sprayed from two hoses, hissing as it hit the burning timbers.
“I’m fine,” he said, although his voice was rough from coughing. He turned to search the yard for Poofy. “You guys see a cat?”
“Yeah. Over there.” The fireman pointed to a clump of bushes.