Variable Onset

by Layla Reyne

  “L, get out of here! I’ve got him.”

  “I’m not leaving you!”

  That’s when the man went for his knife. It had been holstered on his opposite hip, out of view, but as he yanked it free and lifted it above his head, readying to bring it down at Carter, the blade caught the flames Lincoln couldn’t ignore any longer.

  Except this time he didn’t freeze. He couldn’t. His partner’s life depended on it. “Knife!” Lincoln shouted, then tossed the phone, flashlight up, onto the ground between them and launched himself at the assailant, using the messenger bag and laptop inside it as a club. The hit knocked the stranger off balance, giving Carter a chance to spin away from the slashing blade. But in doing so, he kicked the phone...toward the flames.

  Which were bright enough now that they didn’t need the extra light anymore. But the picture of the vehicle records—

  “L, no!” Carter’s cough was almost as harsh as his grip around Lincoln’s wrist. “We have to get out of here!”

  Lincoln spun back around and through his wet, stinging eyes saw their assailant had escaped. “Fuck, go.” He shoved at Carter’s side. “Go get him!”

  Carter wouldn’t release his wrist. “Not leaving you either! Let’s go!”

  “The phone, the files...”

  “Lost cause. You’re not!”

  An explosion rocked the building, and flames crept through the door along the ceiling. That was all the convincing Lincoln needed. “Let’s go!” They hit the hallway and slammed on brakes. The bullpen was in flames; no exit that way. A door slammed the opposite direction and cold air gusted around Lincoln’s ankles. Glancing down, he noticed the drops of blood leading the same direction. He shifted his grip, hand in Carter’s. “This way!”

  Arms above their heads, buffering the encroaching heat and smoke, they raced around the corner and spied the emergency exit ahead. Running flat out, they hit the door at the same instant another explosion rocked the building, the momentum and force shoving them the rest of the way outside, into the cold, dark winter.

  Chapter Nine

  Lincoln stayed in Carter’s arms an embarrassingly long time. Long enough for a police car to come screaming from a different direction than the burning police station. For the fire truck to likewise arrive from across town. For the ambulance to arrive from the hospital.

  Selling the cover, right? Nothing to do with how Carter had curled his warm body around Lincoln’s once they’d made it through the snowdrift back to the car. Nothing to do with the calming effect of his steady breaths ruffling Lincoln’s hair or his steadier assurances rumbling beneath his ear.

  Even more embarrassing, not realizing his partner was injured until a paramedic approached them and said to Carter, “I need to clean up that cut, sir, and bandage your hands.”

  Lincoln rocked back, out of Carter’s arms. “What cut? I thought the knife missed you.”

  Carter captured his flailing hands, and Lincoln noticed the backs of his knuckles were split and oozing blood. As was the cut on Carter’s outer shoulder, a dark streak of blood creeping down his sleeve. The knife hadn’t missed him completely.

  “Fuck,” Lincoln cursed. “I’m sorry.”

  Carter lifted his hand and cradled Lincoln’s cheek, same as he’d done in the dark. “I’m fine. Are you?”

  Lincoln nodded, and Carter erased the distance between them, nuzzling his temple. Lincoln didn’t draw away, not even when the Barry-Jerry lookalike joined them.

  “You boys okay?” the too-familiar stranger asked.

  “Got out just in time,” Carter said, shifting to Lincoln’s side and sliding an arm around his waist. “Chief Petticoat, this is my husband, Lincoln Polk. L, this is Larry.”

  Lincoln shook the chief’s hand, déjà vu walloping him hard. Larry wasn’t Barry’s twin, but the resemblance was uncanny; the genetics were strong in the Petticoat clan.

  “What happened?” Larry asked.

  The brothers also shared the same inquisitor voice, probably inherited from their father.

  “Sir,” the paramedic said, reminding them she was still there. “Can we please move them to the ambulance? Mr. Polk needs to get that wound cleaned up.” She gestured at Carter’s shoulder, and Larry’s eyes grew wide.

  Lincoln’s stomach wobbled. He was hard as nails at crime scenes. He was never the one who almost lost his lunch. This was what he did, what he understood, what he was good at, but he had also never been the one involved in said crime scene. Which included fire. Which resulted in his partner—Carter—injured.

  The paramedic cleared her throat. “And the other Mr. Polk looks like he needs to sit down.”

  Yes. Sit. Good.

  “Let’s go, then,” Carter said, shuffling them toward the ambulance.

  They moved as a unit, Carter’s good arm around his waist and Lincoln helping to brace his weight, while his mind continued processing what had just happened in a series of horror-movie snapshots. The power outage plunging them into darkness. The flare tumbling, end over end, into the records room. The fight between Carter and the assailant. The smoke, a lighter shade of dark, snaking through the black. The rising flames reflected in the knife. The building shuddering around them. Lincoln shivered, from the mental film reel and from the cold wind that blustered around him, Carter’s big body no longer shielding his. But he couldn’t tear his gaze from the burning building to see where Carter had gone.

  Didn’t need to. Carter tugged at his bag, dragging it off his shoulder and demanding his attention. “Don’t look, L.” He set the bag behind him and urged Lincoln down onto the ambulance fender next to him, holding open a wooly blanket. Lincoln snuggled into the offered warmth, while the paramedic worked on Carter’s other side.

  And while Larry continued to interrogate. “Okay, then,” he said. “Tell me what happened.”

  “I came in to set up a few things for Monday,” Carter said. “Lincoln came with me, and I showed him the records room for his research like we talked about. We’d been here about twenty minutes when the power went out and we were attacked.”

  “Attacked?”

  “The assailant had a flare, which he used to light fires on his way to the records room where we were. He threw the flare into the stacks, which caught fire right away.”

  “The fire originated in the breaker box.”

  “Maybe, but that wasn’t the only fire.”

  “‘Attacked’ you said?”

  The doubt lacing Larry’s question seared through the fog that had settled over Lincoln. “You think Carter got those busted knuckles, that cut, from a ghost? Or me?” Lincoln held up his hands, displaying both sides. “No wounds and no blood.”

  “Sorry, sorry,” Larry said, hands lifted to match. “Just trying to get the order of events straight. Where were you during all of this?”

  “Out of the way,” Carter replied. “This is what I’m trained to do.”

  “I was holding the—Fuck! Your phone.” Lincoln whipped his gaze back to the burning building. “It’s in there, with the—”

  “We got out alive,” Carter said, cutting him off.

  And saving him, Lincoln realized the next second, from blowing their cover. One error tonight was bad enough. He’d lost the phone with the picture of the vehicle records. The computer was undoubtedly destroyed in the fire. Ditto the paper records. If the former weren’t backed up remotely, they were back to square one, maybe without even that much. “Fuck!”

  Carter grasped his chin and drew his face around. “We got out alive,” he repeated. “That’s all that matters.”

  His bright green eyes almost convinced Lincoln.

  “Anyone we need to call for you two?” Larry asked.

  “Shit, Elena. If she sees the news...”

  “Elena?” Larry asked.

  “His daughter,” Carter answered, “from a
previous marriage. You have your phone still?” At Lincoln’s nod, Carter squeezed his shoulder. “Go call her.” His gaze swept the parking lot. “I don’t see any news vans but just in case.”

  Lincoln didn’t need to be told twice. He stood, dug his phone out of his bag, and walked the opposite direction from the blaze, not looking back. Watching a fire burn was what had started this phobia in the first place. There’d been a fire in his hometown one afternoon when he was very young and his grandmother, who’d looked after him and Trina while both their parents worked, had gone out to see it and taken them in the stroller with her. He hadn’t realized that was why he was so afraid of fire until five years ago when he’d found pictures from that day in his recently deceased grandmother’s belongings. He had no recollection of the event but his subconscious did.

  “Dad,” Elena answered. “What’s going on?”

  The fire faded away. “Just needed to hear your voice.”

  * * *

  “What just happened? Who do you—”

  Carter laid a finger over Lincoln’s lips, silencing him. With his other hand, he gestured around the inside of the Forester and mouthed, Could be bugged. Lincoln nodded, and Carter lowered his arm, wincing slightly. The cut hadn’t needed stitches, just a few butterfly bandages, but they pulled at his skin and with the adrenaline wearing off, the abused arm muscles and his bandaged knuckles were starting to ache.

  Before Carter could draw back completely, Lincoln caught his wrist. Open, he mouthed. He pointed at the glovebox, then gestured at the back window. Could be tails. You drive, I’ll cover. Lincoln had been in a daze after they’d escaped the smoldering station, but the call with Elena had calmed him considerably and he’d calmed further as they’d distanced themselves from the burning building.

  Good thinking. Carter flashed Lincoln the digits for the code on the glovebox—a custom modification since he did practically live in his car and needed a locked safe for his weapon.

  Lincoln punched in the numbers, opened the box, and withdrew the Glock. He quickly familiarized himself with the weapon, then shifted sideways in his seat, a view front and back. “Let’s go home,” he said aloud. “It’s been a long night.”

  No argument there. The trip to the house was thankfully uneventful. And silent, neither of them chancing a word. Carter parked in the driveway next to the Wrangler, returned as Susanne had promised. He turned off the engine and signaled Lincoln for continued silence. Lincoln handed him his weapon with a nod, before grabbing his bag and exiting the car.

  Carter followed, eyes roaming their surroundings. Nothing looked out of place or disturbed. No broken glass, no tracks in the snow, no smoke billowing from the house. On the front porch, he pulled Lincoln into his arms. To any tail, or any nosy neighbor, it would look like an intimate moment between husbands. For a second, Carter believed it too, Lincoln stepping into his embrace and laying a hand naturally on his chest. Carter’s heart thudded under the touch. A touch that was almost stolen from him tonight before he’d ever gotten a chance to know it. Fuck. He shuddered, and Lincoln’s eyes flickered up, filled with more than Carter could discern, but the vulnerability, trust, and desire he could pick out of that honeyed stare made him want to do things that were indecent in public. Things that Lincoln would probably regret in the morning. Carter lowered his chin before Lincoln could see how much he wanted all those things. Things that in any event would have to wait until they cleared the house and reported in to Beverley.

  “We need to check the house,” he whispered. “We clear the office first. You get your weapon out of the safe and clear the ground floor while I head upstairs. I’ve got a bug sweeper in my suitcase. I’ll sweep up there, then downstairs, then meet you back in the kitchen.”

  “Got it,” Lincoln confirmed but he didn’t step back. Hand lingering, he leaned into Carter instead.

  Heat bloomed, radiating out from every point where their bodies brushed, hotter than the fire that had chased them earlier. Except Carter didn’t want to run from this blaze. Angling his face, he brushed his lips over Lincoln’s cheek, the stubble setting off sparks that erupted into gooseflesh across his skin. God, all those things he wanted were right there...

  “We need to get inside,” Lincoln breathed, even as his fingers curled in the front of Carter’s sweater.

  As if punctuating the sentiment, a car rolled past, headlights flashing the house and them on the porch. Out here in the cold. Exposed. Reality settled back on Carter’s shoulders, as heavy and dark as the night around them.

  He drew back, and Lincoln released his hold on him, smoothing down the wrinkles in the shirt. Carter couldn’t help but laugh at the domestic gesture, and Lincoln glared at him. Amusement, however, belied the attempt at irritation, and affection flooded Carter’s chest, lifting some of the weight off his shoulders. He brushed a hand over Lincoln’s cheek as he gripped his weapon with the other. “Let’s go inside.”

  They executed the sweep in silence, as Carter had directed, with the one addition of a pit stop upstairs to change his shirt. The bug sweeper likewise remained silent everywhere he passed it over. Twenty minutes later, he laid the device and his Glock on the kitchen table. “We’re clear.”

  Lincoln added his phone and weapon to the collection, then collapsed into a chair. “I texted Oliver and Beverley. Just waiting on a call back.”

  Carter strolled to the sink and soaked a hand towel. On his way back to the table, he stopped next to the cabinet where he’d stashed the party goods last night. “Whiskey, tequila, vodka, or gin?”

  “All of them?”

  Nice thought, but not if they wanted to remain coherent for the call with command. He grabbed the blue-and-white tequila bottle and two shot glasses and brought them over to the table with the towel, which he handed to Lincoln. “Thank you for helping back at the station.”

  “Helping?” Lincoln scoffed as he cleaned his hands in short, jerky motions. “I fucking froze, I disobeyed, I dropped your phone with the evidence on it, and I let the attacker get away. I helped all right.” He traded the towel for the shot Carter poured and threw it back in one go.

  Carter tossed the towel toward the mudroom, and Lincoln’s lack of reaction to the careless mess told Carter more than the frustration in Lincoln’s words and motions. He was too tired and too angry with himself to scold or lift a judgmental brow. That wouldn’t help them on this case or on the call with Kirk and Beverley. Carter claimed the chair next to Lincoln and angled toward his partner. “We might not have gotten out of there at all if you hadn’t intervened.”

  Lincoln didn’t look convinced. Eyes closed, he sighed and rested his head back on the top of the chair. “I’m sorry if I made that more difficult.”

  “You didn’t.” He poured Lincoln another shot, the tap of ceramic on glass bringing Lincoln’s gaze upright again. Carter set aside the bottle and slid the shot glass back in front of him. “You had my back, like a partner.”

  “Thank you.” Lincoln’s smile was small but true. Something Carter said had sunk in. Or the tequila had. Either way, Carter was glad to see the other man start to relax. “Been a while since I had one.”

  “Same here.” Carter picked up his own glass and held it out for a toast. They tapped glass rims, then threw back their shots. Carter relished the burn as it seared across his tongue and down his throat, warming him from the inside out. A good buffer for the conversation they needed to have.

  “I have my suspicions about what happened tonight,” he said, “but I want to hear from the expert. Was that Dr. Fear?”

  Lincoln shook his head. “Not their style. They wouldn’t get that close to getting caught, and it doesn’t fit the MO. They would take us first, then torture us. Moreover, I don’t think they sent that letter just to get us here and kill us. I think they want us to help them stop the copycat.” Lincoln leaned forward, forearms on the table. “All of that, however, is assuming we wer
e the targets tonight, which I’m not sure we were.”

  “The records,” Carter said, which was where his suspicions had landed. “Someone wanted to torch them, not us. But the fire and that being your fear...”

  “If we were the target, someone knows more about us than they’re letting on.” Lincoln dug the heels of his hands into his eye sockets, weariness manifesting again. “More likely that was just a happy coincidence for them and a horribly frightening one for me.” He lowered his hands and a smudge remained beneath one eye, soot that he hadn’t completely cleaned off his hands. It highlighted the lingering fear in Lincoln’s eyes. Fear he openly acknowledged and fear he’d faced, for Carter. “I’m not leaving you,” he’d shouted.

  Carter wasn’t leaving either, even if that prospect scared the shit out of him. He reached out, turned Lincoln’s face toward him, and dragged a thumb over the residue, wiping away the fright and replacing it with the same look he’d witnessed on the porch. The look that lured him closer and drew a breathy “Carter” out of Lincoln, the word ghosting over Carter’s lips.

  Followed by a much sharper “Fuck” as Lincoln’s phone rang, the shrill sound cutting through their breaths. Carter’s first instinct was to firm his grasp on Lincoln’s face and tell him to ignore it. His second was to say nothing and seal their lips in the kiss they’d been dancing around since last night, since eight years ago. His third was to drop his hand and answer the damn phone. The third won. He snatched the phone from the end of the table and answered the call from Director Beverley. “Agent Warren.”