And singing her heart out.
I don’t understand.
I don’t get what’s happening.
Why she’s singing her heart out, when past the flickering flames I can just barely make out her face, the sweat beading on her brow, mixing with tears.
That’s why her voice is so thick.
She’s sobbing.
And my heart hits my throat like a bullet.
Especially when I see the side of her face, red like someone struck her.
Someone hurt her.
Someone hurt my girl.
“Peace!” I roar, reaching out, charging toward the steps.
Her head snaps up, her eyes widening, fear transfixing her face as her tear-bright gaze locks on me. “Blake, don’t!” she cries, the song breaking.
Too late.
I just don’t realize it till my foot comes down on the bottom step.
And I feel something snap under the sole of my boot.
Some kind of trigger, I realize—freezing far too late, sudden flashback, the feeling of a shell exploding too close on a hot, Afghan day.
But it’s not the earth around me that explodes.
It’s the snow around the temporary windbreaker fence built around the carnival grounds.
Plumes of snow rocket up in sharp blasts, followed by gouts of flame, jetting up in red-gold tongues from concealed devices beneath.
Holy fuck.
Those fence planks are just dry wood, not very dense, and—
And it’s like throwing a match into a stack of newspaper, they’re so flammable.
They go up instantly, illuminating like fireworks, flame racing up along the planks and spearing toward the sky in a roaring rush, wood crackling, a ring of flames completely encircling the carnival grounds in hellish light. Heat that melts back the snow so furiously the wetness doesn’t even have a chance to dampen the sparks.
The barrier that was supposed to protect the townspeople from the cold traps them in an orange-flickering cage of fire.
Dimly, I’m aware of screaming. Shouting.
People begin their stampede, shoving, pushing, rushing for the exits—only to break back with frightened cries as leaping walls of fire make them recoil, the heat beating them back. One man tries to rush it anyway, then stumbles, throwing himself down in the snow and rolling frantically, beating out the flames on his jacket while people grasp at his smoking frame and drag him back.
Shit.
I’m the fire chief.
I’m supposed to be taking control here.
Instead, I’m frozen, staring, the only point of stillness in the chaotic crowd.
This is my fault.
Because I was blind.
Because I let my biases rule me.
Because I was too goddamn naïve and trusted the wrong people, mistrusted the people I should’ve put some kind of faith in, let my own issues get in the way of keeping people safe, protecting the people I love.
And I still don’t know where the hell Andrea even is.
My hands form rigid fists at my sides. I hold in a scream. I’m just frozen.
Freaked that I might lose her, and lose Peace.
And suddenly my leg is all rigid pain, and I’m down on my knees, dropping as everything inside me locks up and pulls that tension in a paralyzing knot.
Hissing, I hit the ground hard, losing sight of Peace as I strike the frozen earth, clutching at my thigh.
No, dammit. Not now.
I can’t.
Fucking mind over matter, and it’s my mind making my matter act up.
All because I had a slow-motion half-second eternity of doubt, of fear, and I’m pounding at my thigh, but it ain’t doing a thing but driving that pain deeper like a nail in a coffin.
“Blake!” someone cries, only it’s not Peace.
Someone comes slamming into me, hard enough to nearly bowl me over, dropping to his knees in front of me and staring at me with total desperation.
Clark Patten.
He’s wild-eyed, scared, shaking me.
“Get up!” he gasps, begging me, pleading me. “You have to get up. You have to come. She needs you.”
I don’t even know what she he means, and it doesn’t matter.
All that matters is I can’t let my fucking body destroy me like this.
Or anyone else.
I grit my teeth, pushing past the pain, grappling at Clark’s arm, forcing myself up. It feels like I’m ripping my leg out of its socket, but I don’t have the luxury to care. He holds close to me, letting me steady myself on him, and I give him a tight nod as I brace my feet and start for the stage.
Peace.
I’ve got to get her free.
And then I’ve got to get this crowd under control and to safety.
Then I’ve got to get through the flames myself, to the fire truck outside.
Remember my duty.
Remember my calling.
And take it one step at a time, until everyone’s out of danger.
But Clark thrusts himself in front of me, staring up, shaking his head as he braces his hands against my chest to stop me.
“Let me help,” he says, already shrugging out of his jacket—fire-retardant material, I realize, just black like the rest of his clothes, a hazard of his job.
For a second, I can’t help but feel a spark of admiration in him, and I get it—why my daughter likes him. He’s mustering up all his bravery even when I can tell he’s piss scared.
“Andrea?” I growl. “Where is she?”
Then he says the words that make my gut ice over, that beat back the heat of the roaring flames to leave me completely cold.
“He’s got her,” Clark whispers. “Justin’s got her. He was calling her Jenna, and he...he was hurting her. I couldn’t get inside. I couldn’t get to her without him seeing me. He’s armed, Blake.”
I’ve never felt such pure murderous rage like what I’m feeling now.
Never felt such sheer certainty that I could kill someone with my bare hands without even half a second’s thought.
My anger is a wall of ice.
And strong enough that I swear to fuck, I’ll break Justin Bast into pieces against it.
Without hesitation.
“Where?” I bite off coolly, and Clark points over the rioting, shoving, out-of-control crowd, toward the far end of the carnival grounds.
“Inside a tent,” he whispers, then lifts his chin, tossing his head to me urgently. “Hurry. I’ll help save your girl, Mr. Silverton. Just promise me you’ll save mine.”
He doesn’t have to ask.
I trust him to beat down that little ring of fire and let me get her free of the flames.
And no one has to tell me to save my daughter.
For a moment, over his head, I catch Peace’s eye through the flames, slowly tightening around her. I know now that she’s bait.
Justin knew, though.
He knew I’d react to seeing Peace threatened, and charge right at the stage.
He used my own feelings against me.
He’s been using my own feelings against me—to lead me astray, to cloud my judgment.
No more.
I see clearly now.
And I see so clearly the faith in her big green eyes. She gives me a small nod, her lips trembling but her jaw firm, her shoulders square.
Then I slap him on the shoulder, and it’s go time.
The boy knows what to do. He’s charging in ahead of me, positioning himself near a natural sliver of a break in the fire. He crouches, letting the flames pour against his stretched out jacket, just long enough for me to fly right past.