Chapter Five
The arson crew ran like clockwork.
Blast settled into the shadows across from Becca's block at nine p.m., his bike tucked behind a dumpster in an alley with clear sightlines to Sawyer's Blooms. The neighborhood was quieter than it should have been—too many dark windows, too many empty storefronts, too many families who'd already gotten the message and moved on.
The florist's lights were still on. Third floor, the apartment above the shop. He could see her silhouette moving past the window, and something in his chest pulled tight at the sight.
She was still here. Still fighting.
Stubborn woman.
At ten o'clock exactly, the black sedan rolled onto the block.
Blast raised his phone and started recording. The sedan cruised past the burned-out laundromat, slowed in front of Becca's shop, then continued to the bodega ruins at the end of the block. The driver's window was down—male, late thirties, the kind of face that looked bored with destruction.
Tony Reznik. Blast had pulled the name from Scout's contacts earlier today. Frank Dvorak's primary fire starter. The guy who'd personally torched every building on this block.
Reznik completed his circuit and disappeared around the corner.
At eleven, two more vehicles arrived.
A gray pickup parked at the north end of the block. A white sedan took the south. Both drivers killed their lights and settled in, running the kind of counter-surveillance that screamed professional operation.
Blast photographed their positions, their plates, the timing of their rotations. Every forty-five minutes, one of them would drive a slow circuit while the other held position. Classic two-man watch pattern—the kind of setup that would spot anyone approaching the block from either direction.
Anyone except a man who'd spent four years reading hostile terrain in Iraq.
He watched for three hours, cataloging every detail. The lookouts changed shifts at two a.m.—fresh faces, same vehicles, same pattern. Reznik drove past again at two-thirty, this time with a passenger who pointed at Becca's shop and said something that made Reznik laugh.
Blast's hands tightened on his phone.
The florist's light went out at one a.m. He imagined her lying awake in that apartment, listening for the sound of breaking glass or the smell of smoke. Counting the hours until she could open her shop again and pretend everything was normal.
She shouldn't be alone up there.
The thought hit him harder than it should have. He'd known her four days. Bought flowers he didn't need, asked questions he already knew the answers to, watched her hands shake and then steady and then shake again.
Four days, and he was already thinking about her safety like it was his responsibility.
Get a grip, he told himself. She's a job. A problem on the edge of Wolf territory.
But the thought didn't stick. Couldn't stick, not when he remembered the way she'd laughed at his joke about sunflowers, or the fire in her eyes when she'd told him she was surviving, not waiting.
A text lit up his phone at two-forty-five.
Still there? Scout's number.
Watching the watchers, Blast replied. They've got a solid operation. Two-man surveillance, rotating shifts, primary doing drive-bys every few hours.
Alpha wants a briefing.
Tell him I'll have a full picture by morning.
He stayed until four a.m., when the night shift packed up and the block went quiet. The florist's apartment stayed dark, but he could see the faint glow of a phone screen through the curtains.
She wasn't sleeping either.
Blast caught her closing the shop the next evening.
He'd spent the day pulling intel on Dvorak's operation—sixteen men, just like he'd told her, plus connections to three different development companies that had been buying up South Side properties for the past decade.
The pattern was clear: offer lowball buyouts, burn out anyone who refused, flip the land to luxury developers who didn't ask questions about how the properties became available.
Becca was the last holdout on her block. The only thing standing between Dvorak and a clean sweep.
"You're here late," she said when she saw him leaning against his bike.
"Thought you might want an escort home."
Her eyes narrowed. "I've been driving myself home for four years."
"And for four years, nobody was running surveillance on your block.
" He pushed off the bike and moved toward her, close enough to see the exhaustion carved into her features.
"Tonight, someone is. Two vehicles, rotating shifts.
Professional counter-surveillance designed to track everyone who comes and goes. "
She went pale. "They're watching me?"
"They're watching the block. But yeah—" He reached out, couldn't stop himself, and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. "—they're watching you."
She didn't pull away. Didn't flinch at the contact. Just stood there, looking up at him with those tired eyes that held too much fear and not enough sleep.
"I can't just stop living my life because someone's parked outside my window."
"Nobody's asking you to stop. I'm asking you to let me drive you home."
"Why?"
Because I can't stop thinking about you alone in that apartment. Because the way Reznik laughed when he looked at your shop made me want to break his jaw. Because you've got more backbone than half the men I served with, and I'll be damned if I let some arsonist take that from you.
"Because it's dark, and you're tired, and my bike's faster than your car if anyone decides to follow."
She stared at him for a long moment. Then, impossibly, she laughed.
"That's a terrible reason."
"It's the only one I'm giving you."
"What about my car?"
"Scout'll pick it up. He owes me a favor." Blast held out his hand. "Come on, florist. Let me take you home."
She hesitated. He could see her weighing the options—the fear, the pride, the bone-deep exhaustion of fighting alone for too long. He waited, hand extended, not pushing.
When she finally took it, her fingers were cold.
He pulled her toward the bike, grabbed the spare helmet from the saddlebag, and helped her strap it on. Her hands fumbled with the chin strap, and he reached up to adjust it, his fingers brushing her jaw.
She sucked in a breath.
"Hold on tight," he said. "I ride fast."
"Why doesn't that surprise me?"
He grinned and swung onto the bike, feeling her settle behind him. Her arms came around his waist—tentative at first, then tighter as he kicked the engine to life.
"Where am I going?" he called over the rumble.
She gave him an address in Bridgeport, and he pulled out into traffic with the feel of her pressed against his back.
Reznik's sedan passed them two blocks from her shop, heading toward Pilsen.
Blast noted the license plate and kept driving.
Her apartment was a third-floor walkup in a building that had seen better decades.
Blast walked her to the door, checking sightlines out of habit, noting the fire escape that led down to an alley with too many shadows. Not a great defensive position, but better than sleeping above her shop with Dvorak's crew watching.
"Thank you," she said at the door. "For the ride. And for... everything else."
"Haven't done anything yet."
"You've done more than anyone else has." She fumbled with her keys, not meeting his eyes.
"The cops told me there was nothing they could do.
The fire marshal said the investigations were ongoing.
My insurance company is 'reviewing' my claim from the last fire, which means they're looking for a reason not to pay. "
"And I told you I'd find out who's funding Dvorak."
"You told me a lot of things." She finally looked up, and the vulnerability in her expression hit him like a punch. "I just don't know why."
Blast stepped closer. Close enough to see the freckles across her nose, the dark circles under her eyes, the way her pulse jumped in her throat.
"Because you're still standing," he said. "Because you didn't run when everyone else did. Because you looked at me like I was a problem to be solved instead of a threat to be feared."
"You're not a threat?"
"Not to you." He reached up, cupped her cheek with his scarred hand. "Never to you."
She leaned into the touch, just slightly. Just enough for him to feel it.
"I should go inside," she whispered.
"You should."
Neither of them moved.
"Blast—"
"Lock your door." He made himself step back, dropping his hand. "Don't open it for anyone you don't know. I'll be back in the morning."
"For more flowers?"
"For you."
He walked away before he could do something stupid, like kiss her in the hallway of her crappy Bridgeport apartment. His bike was parked at the curb, and he sat on it for a long moment, staring up at her window until the light came on.
Then he called Alpha.
"I need a meeting," he said when the president picked up. "Frank Dvorak's running an arson operation on the edge of our territory. Sixteen men, professional crew, developer funding. They're targeting a flower shop owner in Pilsen—last holdout on a block they've already burned half to the ground."
"Why do we care about a flower shop?"
Blast thought about Becca's cold fingers in his hand, the way she'd pressed against his back on the ride home, the fire in her eyes when she'd told him she was surviving.
"Because she's not going to run," he said. "And because the guys trying to burn her out need to learn that this territory isn't for sale."
Silence on the line. Then Alpha's voice, low and considering.
"Bring it to church tomorrow. Full briefing."
"Yes, sir."
Blast ended the call and looked up at Becca's window one more time.
The light was still on.
He'd make sure it stayed that way.