Page 72 of Crosscurrent

"Hold on. Hold on." David said, from Reagan's SUV, his voice tight. "You're starting an actual fire in an actual town. Somebody will call 911 the second it lights. People live here."

Exactly. Gabe's heart thudded against his ribs. This could absolutely work. "That's the plan, bro. Only we'll be the ones calling it in the second Wade sparks this up."

"I got this." Sophie chimed in.

"Block your number, Sophie," Reagan cautioned.

"Already done."

"Wade," Gabe said. "The dumpster's yours. Can you lose your friends?"

"Don't need to lose them." The sound of a turn signal, used with irony. "I need gas anyway."

Wade doubled back and pulled into the station at the north edge of town like a man with nowhere special to be. He parked at the far pump, angled so the rear seat faced the road, stuck the nozzle in the tank, and left Fake Owen sitting up in plain view with his drugstore readers and his slightly tilted air of impending lecture. Then he ambled toward the mini mart with the universal gait of a man looking for a restroom.

The Escalade drifted past once and settled at the curb across the road.

Then there was nothing to do but wait.

"Status on Owen," Gabe said.

"Third pass through the brochure," Tom said. "He's folded a corner. I believe he intends to actually take a cheese tour."

"He copes how he copes," Cara murmured.

A minute crawled by. Another.

"How long can Wade plausibly be in that restroom?" David asked.

"I'm not in the restroom," Wade said placidly. "I'm crouched behind a dumpster holding a flare."

“Yikes.” David’s voice rose. "That's so much worse."

The channel went quiet again.

A second later, Cara sat straight up. “Do you hear that?”

Gabe frowned, concentrating. He was just about to ask her what, when he heard it. An engine opened up on the hillside south of town. Small, two-stroke, furious. A chainsaw's noise with somewhere to be.

Cara pointed in the direction of the sound. "That."

“Skye.” He and Cara said it at the same time.

"Wade," Gabe called out. "Light it."

“Copy that.”

The fuel caught with a whump Gabe felt through the truck's floorboards, and the rubber went up after it — a column of smoke, black and greasy and absurdly tall, climbing off the tire shop lot like the town had a new chimney. Tom played his chord. Every car alarm on two blocks started testifying at once, out of key, out of sync, joined a beat later by the co-op's klaxon, which Tom had saved for last.

The sirens came quickly, Sophie's call having given the volunteer fire department a head start on the smoke itself. Tillamook on a Tuesday morning suddenly had everything happening at once, all of it two blocks west of the motel.

Neptune broke into action. The south pair, halfway across the lot toward the motel, stopped dead — then split, one running for the smoke, one spinning back toward their car. The east alley man came around the corner at a dead run, weapon-side hand pinned to his jacket, the smile gone. The clerk from the co-op was already on the sidewalk, filming.

And under all of it, getting louder, the two-stroke engine.

Skye roared down the hillside road and into the east alley on a pristine dirt bike, a helmet bungeed to the rack, a price tag whipping in the wind.

The fire door banged open before the bike had fully stopped. Whatever she'd told Owen in that lobby, he'd been ready. Then he saw the bike.