Page 13 of On Fire

Chapter Three

Dave Keller

The call from my kid brother, Luke, comes in at three thirty in the morning. He’s giving me a heads up to expect another call from Jack Carlson, the new Rockland police chief. Whenever I get these calls in the middle of the night, the first thing I think of is arson. Then car accident, then house fire, then station problem. Arson never used to even be on the list until last spring. But we did have an arsonist and we caught him—pretty proud of my little brother. Luke and Devon nailed the guy.

By the time Carlson calls and gives me details via the phone, I’m already in the car to go pick him up. We’re going to a TTX training. His houseboat is parked at the Portland Marina, and he needs a ride down. He’ll bring her back up afterward.

In the dark, the early morning chill seems off-season. But this is the coast of Maine and summer nights can be cool. I drum the steering wheel with my hand, going over all the details as Carlson shoves them my way via the phone.

When I ask what Jackson was doing in a gay bar, he explained he was with a friend.

A friend? I keep drumming the wheel.

Then I ask how he knew the vault was in the basement. That’s when Carlson's voice stops for a moment. Jackson had called Nic. Nic knew there was a vault in the building, told him to throw it in there, shut the door, and get out.

I stop drumming.

Nic. That would be Nic Silvano. The enigma from Colton Security. Tall, dark, and incredibly handsome. A man of action and few words. I push thoughts to more comfortable territory.

Jackson’s a good kid. Did some undercover work for Carlson. It makes sense Jackson would call Nic—the guy hired him off the street. I ignore the fact Nic knew the only safe place to explode a bomb in that building. Knowing the crowd who’s going to be at the tabletop, I hope others do too.

Pulling into Carlson’s driveway and still on the phone, I ask, “Who'd want to bomb a gay bar?”

The front door opens, and he skips down the front stairs. It’s light enough for me to see him shove his phone in his pocket while he opens the passenger door. “I don't think I need to spell it out for you,” he says, landing hard in the seat and slamming the door.

Nope. He doesn’t. No one has to spell it out for me. There’s an ugly truth behind an even uglier truth. People want to hurt people who are different. Pretty simple and pretty shitty.

΅

Here at the table-top training, most people are walking around in tactical or first responder gear. We’re going to start soon. I know or have come in contact with nearly everyone here. The simultaneous bombings of the bars has local law enforcement, fire departments, and the feds all working seamlessly together—as long as there’s coffee.

It’s not like on TV or streaming or whatever people do now. Something like this, something this big and orchestrated, and it’s all hands-on-deck.

Nine people died and nearly two dozen more injured. I think one of the reasons Colton Security is invited is not just because of their history but because of Jackson Dawes—he literally saved lives acting when he did.

We’re at the Portland PD, downtown, amassing in one of their training rooms. Chief Caleb Winston is in charge—an okay guy. Federal suits line up against the wall—I count eight—and it’s made Winston all business, which I like, but he’s a little too pumped.

I can tell—his throat is scarlet.

I know many milling around, but who I like working with has shifted, and yeah, it’s personal. I like working with Colton Security and now that the police chief was arrested in Rockland for corruption and Carlson was promoted, they are my people. Mateus Gutiérrez and Bryce Tucker, both with Colton, are hoofing it over here in just a few. Perfect.

Jack Carlson hands me a coffee, takes sip of his own and immediately burns his mouth. Carlson, walking around with his Columbo look on, in crumpled everything, points to the door. Finn Colton has arrived and is shaking hands with everyone in the row of suits. Savvy guy.

Then, as I'm sipping this cup of coffee I don't need, in strides Nic Silvano, instantly outclassing everyone in the room.

I thought he was going to stay in Boston.

The guy is smooth in his blue suit, little black handkerchief thingy in a chest pocket, his thick, dark hair cut short and in place. His beard is so close and so fucking even, I can't understand how he trims it.

My stomach bottoms out. The last time I saw him was on a beach when Devon Russo, Claire’s sister and my brother, Luke, renewed their wedding vows. Carlson officiated, and I stood there in an old brown suit and cried like a baby. Nic tried to chit chat on the beach afterward and after an awkward conversation over a piece of cake, I left. Later, I told Luke I had grit in my frosting.

I swear Luke knew I was lying.

I can't talk to Nic, except in gibberish. He is so fucking good-looking. He literally makes my belly quiver.

Suddenly his dark blue eyes shift to me. Casually. As if we meet all the time.

Fuck. He sees me.