Chapter Seven Nothing Left to Burn
Chapter seven
Nothing Left to Burn
Reece stood at the perimeter tape, helmet tucked under his arm, fire gear hanging heavy with sweat and soot, and breathed . He ached all over. Muscles pulled tight, head throbbing from the inside out after hours spent dragging hose lines and hauling bodies through smoke-thick corridors.
But it wasn’t the physical exhaustion that had him rooted to the spot.
It was the aftermath.
Miller had taken it worse, though.
He’d gone down hard when the mezzanine gave way, the rotten beams collapsing under the heat like a house of cards. And the way he’d curled in on himself, his breathing sharp and shallow, Reece knew that pain went deeper than broken bones and purple bruising.
The paramedic on scene had worked Miller through it.
Not Trent, thank God. Reece wasn’t sure he’d be able to work properly if Trent had been near to the danger zone.
But this paramedic, older and more experienced, had checked for fractures, monitored Miller’s breathing, eased him out of that spiralling panic before it rooted too deep.
Oxygen mask strapped on, a firm grip on his shoulder, calm words cutting through the noise.
Stay with me, mate. You’re safe. You’re out. Breathe.
Reece stood nearby, fists clenched at his sides, knowing exactly what was happening in Miller’s head.
Because it was happening in his too.
They nearly hadn’t made it out.
Debris smouldered behind the cordon, skeletal beams blackened and twisted, the warehouse’s remains creaking like bones too stubborn to fall. Reece had pulled his mask off half an hour ago, but the smoke still clawed at his throat, dry and acrid.
Another fucking attack on his town.
And not just any warehouse. This was the old West Dock Distribution Centre. Officially marked disused. Unofficially? Everyone on the frontline knew better. A black spot. A ghost site. A place where paperwork went missing and CCTV never quite reached.
It was Radley territory.
Everyone knew it.
Whatever had been hidden in that warehouse, anything that might’ve finally tied it to Graham Radley, the golden man in the designer suit everyone on the front line knew was knee-deep in Worthbridge’s dirtier dealings, was gone. Burned to ash before CID ever had a chance to touch it.
Reece clenched his jaw, tasting soot and fury. This wasn’t just arson. It was control. A warning. A show of power from a man who didn’t need to get his hands dirty to keep his crown.
And Worthbridge?
It would keep whispering the name Radley but never say it too loud. Because in this town, people like him didn’t just break the rules.
They wrote them.
What the fuck were the police doing? What were they waiting for? The whole town to burn before they got their arses in gear?
Speaking of which…
“Well done.” That familiar voice from behind made Reece turn.
Freddie Webb stood there, high-vis vest dulled with grime, his face drawn but calm in that steady way of his.
“Thought you’d be long gone by now.” Reece rubbed at the back of his neck.
Freddie tipped his head towards the smouldering wreckage. “Someone’s got to stop the glory hunters from crawling through the tape. Can’t have half of Worthbridge trying to turn this into their personal TikTok content.”
A faint, humourless smile tugged at Reece’s mouth. “Yeah. Can’t have them falling through the floor joists and giving you lot even more paperwork.”
Freddie moved to stand beside him, hands on his hips, eyes tracking the lazy spirals of smoke still rising from the wreckage.
“That wasn’t some insurance scam.” Reece swept his helmet toward the wreckage. “Fire moved too fast. Whatever was in there didn’t just burn, it was erased. And whoever lit it knew exactly what they were doing.” He turned to Freddie. “That wasn’t bad luck, Fred. That was a message.”
Freddie nodded once, eyes on the charred ruin. “It’s a clean-up. Evidence. Records. Maybe even bodies. Whatever they were hiding in there, it had to vanish before we got close.”
Reece’s shoulders locked. “Radley?”
Another nod. Tighter this time.
“Higher-ups have been circling him for months,” Freddie said.
“But the man’s a ghost when it comes to any trail of paperwork.
Untouchable. He’s got half the town eating out of his hand.
Council seats, charity awards, bloody school sponsorships.
Every time we get near him, it’s one of his runners who takes the fall. ”
Reece scoffed, bitter. “And now this?”
“This,” Freddie darted his gaze to ensure no one was listening in, “is a warning. We got too close. Someone in that warehouse knew something. And now they don’t.”
Reece stared at the ruin, smoke curling against the sky. “He owns the town on paper and burns it underneath. We play by the rules. He writes them.”
Freddie didn’t answer.
He didn’t need to.
Because they both knew Graham Radley wasn’t just above suspicion.
He was the storm hiding behind the gold plaques and press photos.
And Worthbridge was drowning.
Freddie glanced sideways at him. “Watch yourself, Reece. You’ve already got that look. Like you’re about to throw yourself headfirst into someone else’s fire.”
Reece huffed a bitter laugh under his breath. “Don’t I always? ”
“Yeah, and one of these days, you’re not gonna walk back out of it.”
“Maybe.”
“You alright?” Freddie levelled his gaze with Reece’s. “Saw you out there. You didn’t stop. Not once.”
“Appreciate the concern, mate. But your boyfriend’ll clip me round the ear for talking to you.”
Freddie rolled his eyes with a small grin. “One, he’s not here. Two, long as you keep those calloused hands to yourself, he’s got no beef with you.”
“Received. Loud and clear.” Reece dragged a filthy glove across his forehead, smearing soot rather than wiping it away. “Saw you two at the pub last week. Looked good… happy.”
Freddie smiled. A stupid lovesick grin hitting Reece square in the gut for reasons that had nothing to do with wanting him.
That ship had sailed. And sunk. Fast.
They’d started as a casual thing. About a year or so ago. Called each other up when they were lonely or wired. Then they tried a few dates. Even had that one reckless day, the all-day shagathon at Freddie’s place, when they half-convinced themselves it could be something more. Maybe even exclusive.
Then Freddie had gone and confessed his undying love for his old best mate from school, who waltzed back into town looking like every unfinished chapter Freddie had ever written.
And Reece?
Yeah, he’d sort of let slip, somewhere between the third orgasm and the walk of shame, that he’d been with Trent. It had only been that one time then. The sauna. But he’d said he’d felt something. And thought that maybe he wanted to explore it further. Go for a one-man only type thing.
Freddie had laughed it off. They’d agreed they were better as friends. And Freddie had told him to go for it with Trent. So Reece had. And he’d not been with anyone other than him since then. But now he’d come to the agonising realisation that those feelings?
Yeah…they were one sided.
He’d had that drummed into him.
Loud and fucking clear, too.
“Don’t tell me the famous Reece Morgan is envious of a little domestic bliss?”
“Go fuck yourself,” Reece shot back, but the corner of his mouth twitched upward despite himself.
“Still not budging, is he?”
Reece looked at him. “It wouldn’t work, anyway.”
“Not like you to give up without a fight, though.”
Reece looked away, his throat tightening before he could respond. But Freddie’s radio crackled to life, cutting through the moment.
“Control to PC Webb—possible lead on that warehouse fire. Informant’s come forward. Requesting immediate presence at West Dock precinct.”
Freddie met Reece’s eyes again, the easy warmth from moments before cooling into something sharper.
“Looks like we might get somewhere.” Freddie tapped his shoulder. “Go get some rest, Reece. You look wrecked.”
The crew had finished anyway. So Reece took off to climb behind the driver in the engine, resting his helmet on his thigh, fixing his gaze out the window as the charred skeleton of the warehouse disappeared from view.
By the time they rolled into the station yard, his gear felt twice as heavy, and his limbs moved as if filled with concrete .
They held the debrief in the operations room. A circle of battered chairs surrounded with the sour tang of sweat and smoke-dampened fabric.
Station Manager Ahmed stood at the front, tablet in hand, face drawn and serious. “Alright, lads. Let’s keep it tight,” he started. “Incident review. What went right, what went wrong. Welfare check after.”
The rundown was clinical and when Ahmed’s eyes landed on Reece, he paused a beat longer.
“Morgan, you took point on that northeast corner sweep. Anything to add?”
Reece scrubbed a hand through his damp hair, exhaustion dragging at every word. “Fire was moving too fast. Heat signatures too high before the alarms even went. Whoever set it knew exactly what they were doing. Place was packed with accelerants.”
Ahmed gave a grim nod, jotting something down. Then his eyes lifted again, locking directly on Reece.
“You’re off rotation for a week,” he said plainly.
Reece sat up straighter. “But we’ve lost Miller. I’m next up.”
Ahmed cut him off with a raised hand. “We’ll cope. No arguments. You’re burned out. I can see it, everyone else can see it. Take the week. Rest. Recharge. I want you back only for the community day next weekend. That’s it.”
“You’re benching me?”
“You’re no use to anyone if you break.”
Reece let the protest die before it even reached his lips.
He didn’t have the fight in him. Not tonight.
So he changed back into his leathers, got back onto the bike, and rode home on autopilot, the familiar roar of the engine doing nothing to drown out the noise in his head .
He wasn’t chasing anything tonight. Not a distraction. Not a body to fall into. He wanted his bed and the hope that, for once, sleep might come easy.