Chapter 11 The Night the Sky Caught Fire
CHAPTER ELEVEN
THE NIGHT THE SKY CAUGHT FIRE
Late Afternoon—Colin’s Office
Colin flipped through the transfer packet, the rustle of paper nearly lost beneath the faint, mechanical sigh of the office vents. Everything was in order—incident reports, psych evaluations, the reassessment request—all proper and legal, and only parts of it true.
Across the desk, Detective Sergeant Raymond Price lounged back in his chair, one ankle hooked over his knee, eyes fixed on Colin like he was waiting for a match to touch gasoline.
“You knew this was coming,” he said, voice carrying the weight of too many years in interview rooms.
Colin didn’t look up. “Hell, I helped broker it. That doesn’t mean I have to like it.”
Price’s jaw shifted under a day’s worth of stubble. “You knew what we were buying.”
Colin did look up then, eyes hard. “I knew exactly what we were buying.”
Moreno’s intel had shut down a sex trafficking ring—boys and girls, some barely teens. He’d handed over three corrupt cops, two judges, and a defense attorney laundering cartel money. He’d given them what they needed to close the book on Hannibal Barrett’s murder.
All of it—for one transfer.
And for pulling the gun away from his and Joshua’s heads.
Colin reached the last page: Greensville Correctional Center—medium security. General population.
Price leaned forward. “The paperwork checks out. Clean record. Stable behavior. Psychiatric team signed off. It’s all there.” He tapped the corner of the page. “Signature line’s yours.”
Colin’s pen hovered, unmoving.
“We were never going to keep Moreno in Red Onion forever,” Price added. “That place is for powder kegs. He’s not even close. Not anymore.”
“He’s not reformed,” Colin murmured. “He’s contained. That’s not the same thing.”
Price didn’t answer.
Colin signed. He clicked the pen, pushed the file away, and stood. His chair scraped loudly in the stillness.
“Tell Greensville I want eyes on him,” Colin said. “Surveillance logs. Monthly reports. If he so much as twitches—”
“I’ll call you myself,” Price said, rising to match him.
Colin studied him, jaw tight. Then he gave a dry, humorless laugh. “A paper shield for Hannibal Barrett’s life. And for the kids we found in that basement. Hell of a world.”
Price’s face softened—just barely. “It’s the only kind we’ve got. And it’s the kind that keeps you alive.”
Colin watched him leave, the file tucked into his coat like a loaded weapon. Then he dropped back into his chair and stared at the closed door, chewing at a thumbnail.
One more piece of this devil’s bargain, signed and sealed.
Two months earlier, they’d made the deal: Moreno walked—partially—and in return, they’d get the biggest takedown of his life.
Sex trafficking ring dismantled. Corrupt officials exposed.
Barrett’s killer prosecuted. And Lexi, who had once threatened Colin’s life—and Joshua’s—would be moved from Red Onion to medium security, out of their crosshairs.
A trade. Peace at a price.
We’re safe now, Colin told himself. HE’S safe now.
That has to be enough.
That is enough.
He rose and grabbed his overcoat, then turned back to his desk. His hand hovered over his briefcase, then retreated. “Not this weekend,” he murmured. “This weekend is just for us.”
Fifteen minutes later, Colin pulled his red Mazda into the driveway, parking beside Joshua’s slate-grey Accord.
He took the porch steps two at a time—but didn’t make it to the door.
It swung open before he reached it, and warmth rushed out to meet him.
Strong arms wrapped around him, and the scent of ginger clung to his skin.
“You’re home,” Joshua murmured, lips brushing Colin’s as he walked them backward into the living room, holding on like he’d waited all day for this moment.
“Goddamn right,” Colin growled, tightening his arms around Joshua’s waist, returning kiss for kiss as they stood beside the couch.
“You hungry?”
Colin gave a husky laugh, clutching Joshua tighter against his body. His voice dropped, low and rumbling with anticipation. “Always.” His teeth closed over the curve of Joshua’s neck, smiling as he heard the pleasured hiss.
Joshua laughed, breathless. “Well, you’ve had a day.”
Colin pressed their foreheads together. “I’ve had three months’ worth of ‘days.’”
Joshua eased back from their embrace, fingers threading through Colin’s hair. “Let’s eat. Then the evening’s ours to do whatever we want.”
Colin gave a soft, half-frustrated sigh, and his arms loosened. “I know what I’ll want.” He followed Joshua into the kitchen, then paused, leaning over the sink to peer through the porch windows into the backyard. “Who’s on duty tonight? Do you know?”
“Pretty sure it’s Sarah and Daniel,” Joshua said, turning a salmon steak with practiced ease. “I spoke to Sarah earlier, and she said she’d be around tonight.”
Colin nodded, chewing on his lower lip.
“When d’you think they’ll terminate our security?”
“I dunno. I doubt we’ll have them for much longer.”
Joshua slid the salmon onto plates alongside a colorful burst of vegetables, then moved toward the dining room. “Come sit down.”
Colin gave a small grunt of acknowledgment, but his eyes lingered on the dark yard beyond the porch windows. Then he turned, smiling. “Yeah, babe. On my way.”
Sarah Mitchell squirmed in the front seat of her vehicle, trying to find a comfortable position. The seat claimed to be ergonomic, but whoever designed it clearly hadn’t worn a Glock, a vest, and two radios. She muttered under her breath and shifted again, cursing the job’s worst enemy: downtime.
In the backyard, Daniel Lopez swept the perimeter, eyes alert for anything out of place.
A shadow. A shift. A flicker of motion. He stopped next to Colin and Joshua’s cherry trees and sighed.
Turning toward the house, he caught a glimpse of Joshua at the kitchen window, his eyes flicking to the side as he talked, his smile huge.
“Must be Colin,” Lopez muttered. “No one else makes him smile that big.”
After dinner, Colin and Joshua reclined on their comfy, oversized couch, snuggled close as their favorite television shows played in the background.
Joshua lay sprawled across Colin’s chest, his head tucked against his shoulder.
His eyes were closed, barely aware of what was on the screen.
Tired from a long day, he sank into the warmth of Colin’s arms, and the solid strength pressed against him.
Colin rubbed his cheek against the silk of Joshua’s dark curls, his gaze unfocused, the screen little more than a flicker in his periphery. When Joshua shifted, nestling in closer, Colin’s arms instinctively tightened.
He’s safe, he told himself. And that’s worth any price I’ll ever have to pay.
A half-hour later, Joshua lifted his head and smiled. Despite Colin’s amorous intentions, he was fast asleep. Joshua brushed a stray, sandy curl from his forehead. He’s had a tough few months, Joshua thought gently. He needs rest more than sex right now.
Carefully, Joshua eased himself off Colin’s body and stood, pressing a soft kiss to his husband’s forehead. “C’mon, darlin’. Time for bed. Time to rest.”
Colin staggered upright, barely awake, leaning into Joshua as they made their way upstairs.
While Joshua slipped out of his clothes and pulled on his pajamas, Colin peeled off his own shirt, letting it drop to the floor.
He slid into sweatpants and a soft T-shirt, then crossed to Joshua—close enough to feel the warmth of his skin.
With a sigh, Colin cupped Joshua’s face and pressed a slow, lingering kiss to his lips before crawling into bed, sheets cool against his bare arms.
As Joshua got into bed beside him and nestled close, Colin managed one final thought before sleep overtook him: We’ve got the whole weekend. I’ll make it up to him.
Sarah—12:02 a.m.
Sarah Mitchell tightened the strap on her vest, rolling her shoulders as she stepped out of her vehicle.
She drew in a lungful of cool night air, grateful to finally stretch her legs.
Surveillance was hours of boredom punctuated by seconds of adrenaline—tonight felt like all the former, and she was more than ready for her shift change.
She rounded the side of the garage and moved quietly toward the front of Colin and Joshua’s house, senses alert. Her eyes scanned methodically—windows, bushes, the quiet street beyond. She’d almost completed her perimeter check when something made her pause.
A car, she thought. Parked just beyond the driveway, it sat dark and silent, engine off but pinging faintly with cooling metal. Her pulse quickened.
She keyed her radio mic with one thumb, never taking her eyes off the vehicle. “Possible approach, front yard,” she murmured, sending the alert straight to nearby units. Her voice dropped into a clipped command. “Daniel—front yard. Now!”
The driver’s door swung open, slow and deliberate.
A male figure emerged, shadowed by the moonlight.
He hunched slightly, arms tight at his sides, something heavy in his grip.
A glint of metal. A wrapped, bulky container.
The weight of it obvious even at a glance.
Sarah’s heart kicked harder, adrenaline sharpening her senses.
He moved toward the house, footsteps deliberate, shoulders tight with tension, every movement betraying the strain.
Shit. He’s heading for the porch.
Her hand dropped to her Glock. “Stop! Police! Hands up!”
The figure spun sharply toward her, caught off guard. A flash of confusion crossed his face, quickly replaced by cold determination. He didn’t throw it. He set it down—just beneath the front window, near the door.
Her breath caught as she saw it clearly in the porch light: A pressure cooker bomb.
He was already backing away, turning, running.