Page 22 of Flint’s Strike

“Next round? We’re gonna catch whoever’s settin’ these fires, and you’ll forget all about this little partnership.”

His eyes crinkle at the edges. Pulling forward to the pickup window, he swipes his phone over the credit card reader, then glances over at me. “You’re far from forgettable, Parker.”

Well, shit. Now who’s the one flirting?

Chapter Eight

Eliot

By the time we roll into Cedar Park, the ice in our cups is mostly gone. Parker drains the last sip of her joyless black coffee and glances at her phone. “AJ—Chief Stone—said the building’s a distribution center. Handled heavy restaurant supply for almost ten years, but they’re switchin’ over to commercial HVAC components. It’s been empty for the past month.”

“Empty is good. Easier to collect evidence.” I stare up at the burned-out shell stretching toward the deep blue sky. Smoke stains the brick around the windows in ugly black streaks that tell me where the fire burned the longest—and where it didn’t bother to touch.

Yellow tape cuts across the parking lot. Three guys in uniform stand around shooting the shit in front of the barrier.

Killing the engine, I ease myself out of the truck. Heat rolls over me, so thick and damp, for a moment, it’s like breathing through a wet rag. Texas in June likes to remind everyone that Hell is real and we’re livin’ in it.

My leg stiffened up on the drive, and I take a couple of short, slow steps until my quad decides it’s on board with the idea of being upright. Out of habit, I reach for my gear bag in the truck bed with my right arm. Letting my left do the work usually leads to an argument as the old scar tissue pulls across my torso. It’s a fight I never win, and I’ve long since stopped trying.

Parker rounds the bed, glances at my kit, then lets out a low whistle. “You brought enough for a small army.”

With a shrug, I unfold a Tyvek suit. “I like to be prepared. And restocking the damn thing requires a mountain of paperwork.”

Her blue eyes catch the sunlight, and for a moment, I’m mesmerized. Until she gestures to one of the many compartments in the body-sized duffel.

“That explains the emotional support evidence bags.”

I pass her a hard hat. “Laugh all you want. You’ll be beggin’ me for leather gloves in about ten minutes.”

“Please.” She sets the bright yellow hard hat on the tailgate, pulls a pair of nitrile gloves from their box, and snaps them on. “I’m a Ranger. Tetanus fears me.”

“Pretty sure that ain’t how bacteria works.”

Her rich laugh is about to make me forget all about the crime scene we’re walking into.

“Fine. I’ll take a pair. Booster shots require paperwork too, and we definitely feel the same way about that part of the job.”

Our fingers brush as I hand them over. Damn if the sensation doesn’t shoot all the way to my dick.

What the hell. Focus, Flint.

Respirators, goggles, and radios are next. “I’ll be on channel four.”

“Gotcha. I’m gonna start with a sitrep from Cedar Park PD. That guy already looks annoyed enough to be useful.” She nods toward a uniform pacing beside the tape. “Probably the first officer on scene.”

“Good luck.”

Her mouth twitches. “You think they’re gonna be difficult, or I am?”

“Still gatherin’ evidence.”

That earns me a look hotter than the heat rolling off the asphalt. But then another laugh.

Worth it.

She clips the radio to the collar of the suit, leaves her respirator hanging around her neck, and tucks the leather gloves under her arm. “I’ll walk the perimeter when I’m done. You want me anywhere after that?”

“Southwest corner? Not much damage over there, but still worth checkin’ out.”