by Jette Harris
(How could I possibly fuck up so badly?)
He clenched his teeth and hobbled to the driver’s door. In the distance, wheels screeched and metal popped as cars collided. His throat constricted and he twisted toward the sound. His breath came short and quick. Swallowing hard, he closed his eyes and forced his emotions down. He climbed into the driver’s seat and swung his leg in.
Pulling the Jeep to the back gate, he stumbled out, opened it, pulled through, then limped back to close it. He secured it with a shrouded disc padlock. Sighing, he leaned against the gate and stared at the house. Old wood didn’t burn well, but kerosene and vulcanized rubber did: The glass of the sunroom was dripping onto the corpses littering the floor. Thick, black smoke billowed, staining the carefree clouds. Tongues of flame lapped small holes into the roof.
The sirens arrived. Rhodes backed away from the gate as two patrol cars skidded across the lawn and into the back yard, leaving red clay tracks. Putting a hop in his step, Rhodes jumped into the Jeep and hit the gas.
****
Remington’s previously-forbidden tailgating skills benefitted them as they fell behind a Kennesaw Police Department vehicle, following it through the residential areas, then down a long road lined with woods. A column of thick black smoke marked their destination. Steyer’s chest was tight. He resisted pressing a hand to it for fear of distracting Remington. He didn’t want to risk a collision… or slowing down.
At the bottom of a hill, a clutch of police cars sat around the base of a large oak. One of the vehicles appeared to have collided with the tree. Remington kept his focus on the bumper before them, but Steyer craned his neck as they passed.
“What?” Remington asked.
“Kondorf had blood on his uniform.”
“He OK?”
“Looked like it.”
Once over the hill, the woods on their left gave way to a lush lawn enclosed by a wrought iron fence. The Hospitality House, a plantation-style manor, stood far back on the property and belched black smoke. Law enforcement vehicles parked along each side of the road. A few were inside the fence, parked on the lawn. Two fire engines sat in front of the house. An ambulance pulled through the front gate and parked on the side of the driveway. Remington pulled in behind it. He parked on the lawn opposite.
Every window they could see on the house was broken, with tongues of flame lapping away at the timber of the frames. A hole had burned through the roof on one side. The firefighters already had their lines hooked up. One was on the front door. As the agents climbed out of the car, the other line began to attack the hole on the roof.
Sargent Young stood among a circle of officers and deputies anxiously awaiting the all-clear from the fire department. Noticing the agents, she made a beeline across the yard. She cleared her throat and brushed the hair from her face before she spoke.
“According to the chatter, one unit witnessed a red SUV driving away from a gate in the back. They—uh—had to cut a chain to give chase, and lost visual. The path back there opens onto a fairly busy highway…” She heaved a sigh.
A Cheatham Hill patrol car shot through the front gates and slid to a stop behind the ambulance. Kondorf gave a shout as he jumped out from behind the wheel and popped open the back door. Byron stepped out and leaned into the back seat.
Over the sounds of the firefight, the officers, and the vehicles, sharp, panicked shrieking tore through the air. Young whipped around. A paramedic jumped out of the ambulance, had a quick exchange with Kondorf, and ducked into the back door with Byron. Without a word, she sprinted to her colleagues. Remington and Steyer followed at a more cautious pace. Steyer had trouble remembering to breathe as Young’s voice, low and comforting, reached them:
“It’s OK, baby girl… You’re safe now. He can’t hurt you anymore.”
After a moment, the screams faded.
Young kept her hand on Byron’s shoulder as he lifted someone wrapped in the blanket out of the backseat. A pair of small, pale feet stuck out, covered in dirt and blood. The paramedic led as he carried the bundle to the back of the ambulance and climbed inside. Young followed.
Byron stepped back out empty-handed. He backed away from the ambulance until he hit the cruiser. Sinking down against the car, he covered his face. His shoulders began to shake.
Remington and Steyer stood next to Kondorf a few feet from the open doors of the ambulance. Remington’s jaw went slack.
“Can you hear my voice?”
“Yes…”
“How many fingers am I holding up?”
“Two.”
“Do you know what year it is?”
“’06.”
“Good. Now, time for the hard one. Ready?”
“Yeah…”
“What’s your name?”
“Heather Stokes.”
Steyer grew light-headed. He reached out and gripped Remington’s shoulder. “I need to sit down.”
Remington patted his back and led him to sit next to Byron. Steyer reached out and patted the officer’s shoulder. Byron sniffled and raised his head. They watched as the EMT slammed all the doors, cutting off their view of the medic, Young, and Heather Stokes. Lights and sirens, the ambulance passed through the gates and carried its patient away from the Hospitality House.
To be continued in Part III: RUIN
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Want more?
Discover how the story started:
COLOSSUS (Run Rabbit Run 1)
Discover the beginnings of Avery Rhodes in Phoenix Rising:
Flint Ranch
Salvage
Also available from Jette Harris:
The Creepy Captivity Shorts
Nails
Housebreaking
Tears
Praying
Her
Table of Contents
Nails
Housebreaking
Tears