Page 9 of Flint’s Strike

I rip the respirator off the second I’m clear, hands braced on my thighs, and suck in air that’s too hot and tastes too much like smoke. It burns going down. My throat seizes, my lungs complain, but I don’t care.

Splinters dig into my palms. The metal bar is slick with sweat and blood from a dozen different cuts. Prying at the gap between the boards, I pray like I’ve never prayed before. “Come on, come on!” I scream against the never-ending sound vibrating through my bones.

Tires rolling over the broken asphalt drag me back to the heat and the sunlight and relative safety. Shit.

I’m not trapped in the Box. Not within sight of the border on the cult’s land. Not alone and concussed and terrified. I’m outside a burned out building in Round Rock. On the job. Caution tape flapping in the hot breeze.

Flexing my fingers, I stare down at the scars running across my palms. Some are starting to fade. Others are so deep, they’ll be with me forever. My throat is still too dry. I straighten and head for Nate’s car. I need my water bottle.

I’m halfway there when I notice the white pickup truck with the State Fire Marshal’s Office logo emblazoned on the side stopped just beyond the caution tape. The door opens, and a man gets out. Tall, lean, wavy hair that’s a little messy—like he’s been running his hands through it all day—and… Shit. As he reaches into the truck bed for his gear bag, his Wranglers make a solid case for themselves.

The view temporarily distracts me from the way my chest is still too tight and my legs feel like wet noodles.

Slinging the bag over his shoulder, he scans the scene, the deputies, and the caution tape before his brown eyes land on me.

He’s between me and Nate’s Chevy, and there’s no way around him that doesn’t make me look like I’m rabbiting. I square my shoulders as he strides over to me and offers me his hand.

“Eliot Flint. State Fire Marshal’s Office.”

I don’t look away. He’s reading me the same way I’m reading him. And that’d be fine if I weren’t still shaky, respirator dangling from fingers that aren’t completely steady, while my pulse tries desperately to remember what normal feels like.

“Parker Elmore. Captain. Ranger Division.” I manage to keep my voice level and my grip tight as I shake his hand. “My partner’s inside. I…need to grab a pen from the car.”

His gaze drops for a single second, landing somewhere in the vicinity of my shirt pocket, before sliding back up to my face. “You mean that pen?”

Shit.

“No.”

I sidestep him and beeline for Nate’s car. If I tried to explain—tried to come up with another excuse—he’d see right through it. Hell, I don’t know why I didn’t admit I wanted water in the first place. Except I’m a woman in law enforcement, in Texas, who just had to bail out of a crime scene. The last thing I need is to hand him reasons to question whether I can do my job.

Thankfully, by the time I manage a few gulps of lukewarm water, Eliot Flint and his Wranglers have disappeared inside the building.

Chapter Two

Eliot

Captain Parker Elmore walks to the ancient Chevy, respirator dangling from one hand, hips swaying in a way I shouldn’t be noticing. Her blond hair’s pulled back, a few strands escaping her braid from the heat. Star clipped to that Ranger double belt, sidearm on her hip, safety glasses pushed up on top of her head.

She just lied to my face.

Her blue eyes were clear when I called out her bullshit excuse. She didn’t look away. Just doubled down on the lie and kept moving.

She was steady on her feet. Controlled. Too controlled—shoulders tight, jaw set, but there was a slight tremor to her fingers when we shook hands.

Something in that building rattled her.

Moving to the passenger side of the Impala, she pulls a metal water bottle from inside the car and lifts it to her lips. I don’t want to stare, so I flash my credentials at the sheriff’s deputy, duck under the worst excuse for perimeter tape I’ve ever seen, and pull on my respirator.

The V-shaped patterns on the lobby walls point toward the baseboards. Fire rises. When the pattern inverts like this, it means the origin’s somewhere at floor level. Given the level of damage here compared to the rest of the building, I ain’t close to it yet, though. I take photos from three different angles, and move on.

Offices branch off the hall to the left and right. Smoke stains cover the upper walls and ceilings, but no structural damage in this section. The fire moved through quickly, but never took hold.

At the end of the hall, there’s a large, open space that might have been an atrium at one point. I’ll need to pull blueprints when I get back to the office. Or see if the Rangers already have them.

Fuckin’ hell.

Half the second floor came down. Steel beams twist around concrete chunks. Shredded and water-logged drywall is everywhere.