Up in Smoke (Firehouse Three, #4)

by Sidney Bristol

  “Yeah, I’ve been there before.”

  “How’s that even possible? She’s a federal agent. She’s someone they should care about.”

  “Sometimes...those decisions don’t make sense, man. You and I, we’re in the trenches. We only see what’s around us—”

  “I stared that mother fucker in the face and told him she was in trouble. He. Didn’t. Even. Care. All but said she deserved it.”

  Spencer pressed his lips together, the distaste clear. “You can’t stay like this though, man. You’re no good to her like this. And when they get her back, she’ll need you. When I—”

  Chaz’s phone vibrated nearly off the armrest. He snatched it up, peering at the text.

  It wasn’t Nate again. Damn fool had sent him half a dozen puppy pictures.

  “That the...?” He frowned and expanded the message.

  It was an unknown number.

  A bunch of numbers.

  Star light. Star bright.

  Call 9-1-1 4 me.

  Those four innocent-seeming words brought back memories so powerful he could taste honeysuckle on his tongue. Smell grass fresh after the rain. Hear her laughing at him. The warm press of her body as they huddled under the blanket.

  Payton was alive.

  “What does this mean?” Chaz turned the phone toward Spencer.

  “What—who is that?” Spencer tilted the phone so he could get a better look.

  “What’s going on?” Tate followed by Abby ambled closer.

  “That’s...longitude and latitude,” Spencer said. “Who is this?”

  “It’s Payton. What—how do I find her?”

  “Seriously? Let me see.” Tate held out his hand, but Spencer took the phone first.

  “How sure are you this is her? What if it’s another trap?” Spencer asked. “There. Looks like...it’s a warehouse, maybe around the Design District?”

  “It’s Payton. That’s her.” Chaz jerked the phone out of Spencer’s grasp and pushed to his feet.

  “Hold on, wait. We need to call the cops,” Abby said.

  “Like hell we do,” Chaz snarled.

  “Think this through.” Spencer stood, hands outstretched in a pleading gesture.

  “I have. If she thought someone else would come save her, don’t you think they’d have done so already?”

  “I hate to say this,” Tate glanced at Abby, his face creased, “but Chaz is right. The case agent on this isn’t going to go after Payton. She’s given him too much ammunition to use against her. He won’t waste manpower on finding her if he thinks she’s already dead.”

  “Then...what?” Abby’s face flushed. Her fair skin colored when she laughed too hard, when she was worried or pissed. Hell, half the time she was red.

  “We go get her,” Spencer said.

  “What? No—”

  “Yeah, Abby, he’s right.” Tate nodded at Spencer. “But, we should be smart about this. I’ve got a plan. You might not like it, but it’ll get Dallas’ finest to show up in force and get Payton home safe.”

  19.

  Payton huddled behind large, hard plastic containers stacked three high.

  She was trapped.

  Making it out of the office-apartment area had been easy enough. There was nothing else on that level, just a sort of balcony space and stairs.

  Payton had escaped this far on luck alone, but she didn’t know how she’d make it much farther.

  There were only a half dozen people on the floor, but besides this section of stacked whatever they were, the warehouse appeared empty. A couple cars. A lounge area with a sofa and TV. The poker game.

  She shivered.

  The warehouse was freezing, she’d lost enough blood, her shoulder ached and her clothes were soaked. Her mind shied away from that, refusing to confront the reality of what she’d just done.

  If she made a break for it, she had a good thirty yards to go to the closest door. The blood was back in her feet. She could get there before her pursuers. But where would she go after that? Night had fallen. She hadn’t heard much in the way of traffic earlier, but she sure as hell hadn’t lately. Which meant she’d need to run and hide in a warren of buildings and streets she didn’t know. She’d be at a disadvantage.

  If she stayed where she was, if she waited for a clear opening, it might never come.

  Alice wouldn’t be gone long. She’d want to ensure Mikel didn’t kill her, while still giving her new pet some leash. She was grooming him. Payton had seen her do it a few times. Alice liked to have a patsy ready in the wings.

  Payton shuddered, a gust of wind blowing the side door open with a bang. Her involuntary movement jostled her arm and she groaned a bit.

  The men playing cards glanced up.

  Shit.

  Had they heard her?

  Or the sound of the door?

  Payton eased to her left so she couldn’t even see through the thin crack between the plastic crates.

  How long until they discovered...she was missing?

  She pulled out Mikel’s phone, hoping and praying for a sign, but it was dead.

  Fuck her luck.

  She was going to die.

  Really kick the bucket.

  Sure, she’d known trading herself for Chaz was a death sentence, but it still didn’t mean she was dead. People survived years on death row.

  The bay door at the end of the building rattled and lifted. A whoosh of frigid air rushed in along with a sleek town car.

  That was Alice. Or someone else Payton didn’t want to meet.

  She had to get out of here now.

  Payton wiggled her way into a narrow space between the crates, trying her damnedest to make herself small.

  The click, click, click of stilettos on concrete was all she needed to confirm her suspicions.

  Alice was in the building.

  The side door slammed shut—which meant one of her newly acquired thugs was right there.

  Payton forced herself to breathe slowly and keep still.

  There were two ways up and down from the apartment-office. One was a metal grate stair that led to where the rest of Alice’s little crew was hanging out. The other was an enclosed stair Payton had used. The lights were busted out, but she’d managed well enough in the dark.

  “Has Mikel come down?” Alice’s voice was a clear, musical bell. She had a set of pipes on her, that was for sure. Payton almost missed the days of their drunken, jet-setting karaoke, only because those were the innocent times. When no one was in danger and everything was fine.

  Her question was answered in a handful of muttered, “No.”

  Click.

  Clack.

  Alice’s heels on the metal stairs sounded far too loud in the space.

  Payton had to go now. Before Alice sounded the alarm. Payton would have a few moment’s head start. It was all she could ask for.

  She shifted, getting her feet under her.

  If she stayed low, she could get to the end of the crates, then make a dash for the door. From there, she’d be winging it.

  Deep breaths.

  You can do this.

  Payton edged out of her hiding spot into the three feet space between the crates and the wall. She squeezed her eye shut, concentrating on not jostling her shoulder.

  There.

  She was out.

  She glanced to her right.

  A man stood in her way, staring dumbly at the bloody smears she’d left behind.

  No...

  Payton froze.

  He lifted his head—and spotted her.

  Shit.

  Payton hurled herself to her left.

  “Hey—hey! Someone grab her!” the guy yelled.

  Payton sprinted around the end of the crates and skidded to a stop. The remaining five goons were headed for her.

  There was nowhere to go.

  Nowhere to run.

  She was finished.

  Chaz got out of Abby’s truck and met Tate on the sidewalk with Spencer. The
old gun he’d kept of his father’s was a strange weight at his hip. Stranger still was that Spencer was both armed and so comfortable with it. This whole situation, from the plan to them standing on the sidewalk like urban soldiers was...it wasn’t Chaz’s world.

  “We are all going to get our asses handed to us,” Tate grumbled.

  “Yeah, well, we’re here now. Might as well bust a kneecap or two.” Spencer stared at the building. “Abby, you really should stay in the truck.”

  “I agree.”

  “You two—”

  “Abby, we’re going to need someone to direct the cops when I make the call—”

  A scream pierced the night, so clear, so near, so—

  “Payton!” Chaz was running before he realized it.

  “Call the cops, now, do it, Abby!” Tate and Spencer were at Chaz’s back.

  Tate’s carefully constructed plan for plausible deniability was just shot to hell. That was a cry for help.

  “Chaz—wait. Chaz!”

  He ignored Tate’s yell.

  Chaz jerked the door open and lunged into the warehouse.

  His stomach churned. The men he vaguely registered. It was the woman in the form-fitting dress, the pale fabric splattered with blood and the other one—Payton—slumped over the top of a plastic crate of some sort.

  “US Federal Marshal. Hands in the air,” Tate bellowed.

  The men gathered around visibly flinched and for half a second...no one moved.

  “Do something,” Alice snapped.

  One man sprinted across the warehouse, running away.

  Alice snatched a gun out of the waistband of the man standing closest to her.

  “Down on the ground, now.” Spencer edged forward.

  Alice grabbed the dumbfounded man at her side and hauled him in front of her.

  Someone—Chaz wasn’t sure who—fired.

  Everything blurred. People yelled, guns went off. It wasn’t the same kind of dangerous unknown of an inferno. This was madness. Chaos.

  And Payton was in the middle of it all.

  Chaz dove for her, ducking one guy and ramming his fist into a second. By the time he got to Payton, she was wavering on her feet, one arm hanging unnaturally from her shoulder.

  “Get—out of—here,” she said between wheezing gasps for air. Her hair stuck to her face. One side of her shirt waved in the wind whipping through the building. Dried blood was smeared over her stomach and chest.

  She didn’t have to tell him twice.

  Chaz wrapped his arm around her waist—he didn’t dare try a fireman’s carry—and hoisted her up. Bullets hit the crate to his right.

  Fuck that.

  He half-carried-half-dragged Payton around the end of the crates.

  One of Alice’s guys was crouched behind the big, blue plastic boxes, gun in hand. He caught sight of them and turned.

  Chaz pushed Payton behind him and swung with his fist, clocking the guy upside the head.

  “You!” A woman screeched.

  He whirled.

  Alice stood just feet away, gun pointed at him.

  “I knew I should have killed you when I had the chance,” she snarled.

  A fist hit Chaz in the back of his head. He staggered forward, vision blurring, the muscles in his neck on fire.

  Voices blended together.

  Chaz shook his head and straightened, staring down the barrel of Alice’s gun.

  The man who’d hit him had hold of Payton now.

  “I’m going to make you watch him die,” she said.

  “Alice—no!”

  Payton wrenched out of the man’s hold, shoving him sideways.

  Alice swung.

  Chaz dove for Payton, but she was somehow faster than him.

  His scream clogged in his throat.

  Why was she in front of him? He was here to save her.

  The gun went off, once, twice.

  For half a second the world seemed to stop.

  Payton dropped to the ground.

  Alice’s grin spread wide.

  Sirens rent the air.

  Chaz went to his knees, horror twisting inside of him.

  “You bitch!” Alice took a step forward, gun up.

  Chaz lifted his arm and fired. Alice staggered back, clutching her stomach. Tate charged in, wrapping an arm around Alice and taking her to the ground.

  “Payton...? Payton...” Chaz dropped the gun, crouching over Payton.

  There was blood. So much more blood. Where was it coming from? What should he do?

  “Move. Chaz, move.” Spencer shoved Chaz on his ass, bellowing over his shoulder, “I need a stretcher over here.”

  Chaz crawled around her, clutching her hand.

  Payton cried out, her face twisting in pain.

  “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, Payton.” Chaz held his hands over her, too scared to touch her.

  “Stay with me, Payton. Breathe. You’re doing good, girl.” Spencer’s hands moved over her chest, down her stomach. “Chaz? Chaz I need you to hold your hands right here. Press down.”

  “Okay.” He covered the spot above her hip with both hands.

  Payton groaned.

  “I’m sorry, babe, I’m sorry.” He pulled back, but Spencer shoved his hands back into place. “Do it. I’ve got to look at her leg. Where’s my stretcher?”

  “Here! Coming,” Abby yelled back.

  There were people all around. Yelling. Radios crackling. Lights flashing. But the only thing Chaz saw was Payton’s life slipping away between his fingers.

  A stretcher rattled and rolled around the end of the crates. Spencer began barking orders, numbers, words that didn’t register.

  Chaz stared into Payton’s eyes, and he could see her slipping away. Losing the battle.

  She’d saved him, and he damn well wanted to save her. But he hadn’t come soon enough. It wasn’t enough. He was always too late when it came to her.

  “Chaz? Chaz, move. We’ve got to move her.” Spencer grabbed Chaz and hauled him back.

  “Why aren’t you doing something? Isn’t there something you can do?” Chaz shoved Spencer.

  He turned, grasping Chaz by the wrist.

  “Let them do their job. That’s what you and I can do.”

  This was the worst hangover ever.

  How toasted had she been?

  Everything hurt.

  Payton’s head throbbed. Her mouth was dry. God, even her toes ached.

  She groaned, but that was a mistake.

  Oh, no...

  No, no, no.

  She was going to be sick.

  Payton rolled to her side, or tried to. Her body wasn’t quite cooperating. The movement—or attempted movement—made it all worse. Her stomach swirled around, protesting.

  “Hey—hey, don’t move,” a deep voice said.

  Who-the-where-the-what?

  “I’m’a’besick,” she managed to get out.

  “Here. Turn your head. I’ve got you.”

  Her stomach clenched and she groaned into a plastic dish for a moment, but nothing came up. Her eyes focused enough that the dim light registered, then her ears picked up the beeping and whirling sounds.

  Where the hell—?

  Payton peered up at her—Chaz.

  “I’m glad I didn’t barf on you.”

  “You can if you need to.” The skin around his eyes crinkled, but the smile didn’t touch the depths of his gaze.

  “That’s gross.”

  “Hey, lay back, okay? Your shoulder’s still pretty banged up.”

  “Ho-kay.”

  Chaz was here. She’d come home. Right. Alice. The phone. Ugh. Webb.

  Mikel.

  That was burned into her memory forever.

  A nurse hustled into the room, asking her all sorts of questions she wasn’t up to answering and took a few readings. She gave Payton something for the nausea and a big cup of ice. Apparently, they had something against allowing her water, which was what she really wanted.

>   “I’m going to turn on the robo-leg machine now,” the nurse said at the end.

  “The—what?”

  “She doesn’t know.” Chaz’s grip on her hand tightened.

  “...oh.” The nurse blinked from him to her.

  “Know what?” Payton pushed up to her elbows—and stared down at...what was that?

  “Payton, lie back down, please, babe?”

  “Yes, your shoulder isn’t going to like that. We can lift the bed for you.” The nurse pressed a button and the top part of the bed lifted.

  “What the hell happened to my leg?” Payton clawed at the blankets. Was it gone? Was that why she needed a robot?

  “Careful—careful!” Chaz clenched the covers in one hand and gently folded them back with the other.

  Payton sucked down a deep breath.

  “I’m going to call the doctor,” the nurse said with far too much enthusiasm. “What’s your pain level like?”

  “Get out,” Payton snapped. Yes, it was rude and undeserved, but she needed a moment. An hour. A lifetime to figure out what had happened to her.

  The nurse crossed to the foot of the bed. “I can adjust it—”

  “Don’t,” Payton said. “Just. Leave. Please.”

  “Okay.” The nurse recoiled. “I’ll have the doctor come in soon.”

  “Thank you,” Chaz said softly.

  The last thing Payton remembered was...seeing Chaz, maybe a glimpse of Alice? What’d happened? Why couldn’t she remember?

  The hospital door clicked closed. Payton blindly groped for the buttons on the side of the bed, finding out which one lifted the back by trial and error.

  She got about halfway into a sitting position before a deep twinge of pain stopped her.

  “That’d be the gunshot wound,” Chaz said.

  “What happened?” She sucked down deep breaths of air.

  Most of her was sort of a numb, wrapped in cotton feeling, but that was false. Drugs. Painkillers. When those wore off...this was going to suck.

  “Hurting?” Chaz asked.

  “No. Maybe? What happened?”

  “If anything starts hurting, click this. They said it’s a morphine drip.”

  “Why—what?” How badly was she broken? How much time had past?

  The white board across from her bed had December 25th written on it in bold, red letters with a bit of green holly drawn in.