Page 23 of Flint’s Strike

She gives me a quick nod and heads for the guys standing in front of the yellow tape. My gaze locks on the curve of her ass through the Tyvek, and I wonder if I’ll get to hear that laugh again before the end of the day.

The Cedar Park guys wave me through without much fuss. Probably relieved to hand the building off to someone whose job it is to walk into places everyone else is trying to stay out of.

As I duck beneath the tape, I pass Parker standing with the officer in charge. He’s barely in his early thirties, with a sunburn crawling up the back of his neck.

Parker has her notebook balanced in one gloved hand, the other moving steadily across the page. The officer says something I don’t catch, but it earns him a dry chuckle.

Hell of a thing to notice right before walking into a crime scene. I’m almost jealous, until she flashes me a smile. “You’re on the clock, Flint. Don’t leave me hangin’ out here in this heat.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Adjusting the strap of my collection kit higher on my shoulder, I drag my attention back where it belongs, and start mapping the exterior.

Smoke staining tells more of a story than most people realize. The heaviest concentration is on the northeast side of the building, streaking up from a blown-out window close to the roofline, while the southwest corner’s almost untouched.

This fire started somewhere in the back half of the structure. From the little information Parker got from Chief Stone, the fire suppression system deployed, but something still burned long and hot enough to compromise the integrity of steel. Again.

Inside, the air is thick with wet ash, burned plastic, and suppressant foam. I switch on my flashlight and wait for my eyes to adjust.

Here at the northwest end, the forklift lane markings are still visible on the concrete. The break room’s mostly intact, the door hanging on by a single hinge. Another dozen feet, and a second door is propped open by a chunk of drywall. Some sort of office with a desk, chair, and water-logged papers littering the floor.

I round a corner, and the damage gets worse with every step. The ceiling tells the story first—smoke stains giving way to ash and char, then gaping holes where the tiles burned away completely. The steel struts are warped in spots.

Even through the N-95, I catch the distinctive scent beneath the smoke and chemical suppressant.

Naphthalene.

The chances of two unrelated fires using such a hard-to-find and even harder-to-process accelerant? About the same as my chances of becoming a shirtless underwear model.

I switch on my hydrocarbon detector and sweep it along the steel support beams. Three separate locations send it beeping off the charts. I take samples at each one, labeling the cans and tucking them back into my bag.

As I expected, the whole southeast corner is gutted—debris thick on the floor, ceiling gone in patches, the roof struts and load-bearing columns warped from the heat. I don’t risk another step. It ain’t safe.

Rather than go deeper into the building, I pull out my camera and start photographing what remains of the sprinkler system. Naphthalene might have ignited the flames, but the sprinklers should have put them out.

Chapter Nine

Parker

A bead of sweat rolls down my back. Shit. I should’ve waited to put on the damn Tyvek. It’s hotter than balls out here. My hands are soaked inside the nitrile gloves. If I’m not careful, my fingertips are gonna prune.

My pen wobbles against the paper. “Security cameras?”

Carter, the officer in charge, shakes his head. “Building was being renovated. Nothin’ of value left inside. Nelson”—he nods at the oldest of the three men— “talked to the management group. They were replacing the security system too.”

I make a note to canvas the neighboring businesses for exterior cameras. A vehicle in the parking lot at the wrong hour. A face. A shadow. No one thinks to check their own footage until someone asks.

Swiping at my forehead to keep the sweat out of my eyes, I glance past them at the soot-stained walls.

“Anything else that didn’t sit right⁠—”

A siren blares from somewhere inside the building.

Adrenaline floods my system, followed by complete terror. I’m frozen, barely breathing. My vision darkens at the edges. It’s only two seconds—maybe three—but in those few heartbeats, I’m back in the Box.

I press my hands to my ears, the notebook and pen tumbling to the dusty ground below.

The noise vanishes as quickly as it started, leaving me stranded in the aftermath, sucking air in through tight lungs, and trying not to let Cedar Park PD see how badly it rattled me.

“Fuckin’ A,” Carter mutters. “That’s been goin’ on all mornin’. Power to the building was shut off, but the alarm’s on a separate circuit.”