#2
Not toward the road — Slick was there. Not toward the fence — Bustout had his man down and was already turning. Cutter ran sideways, toward the back storage bay, toward the narrow gap between the bay wall and the main building where the fuel drums sat in a row.
Dana's fuel drums. The ones she kept for the shop's generator, the cutting torches, the parts washer. Dana knew where every one of them was in the dark.
Cutter didn't.
He hit the first drum at a dead sprint and it went over with a sound like a church bell struck with a hammer, and the diesel inside geysered across the concrete.
Cutter stumbled, caught himself, and spun into the gap — and found Dana standing at the other end of it with the fire extinguisher leveled at his chest.
She'd boxed him in. While Jackpot and the brothers closed on the fuel men, she'd moved through her own shop the way she moved through an engine — by memory, by feel, knowing exactly where every obstacle was — and cut off the only escape route the arsonist had.
Cutter snarled and flicked the lighter.
The flame caught.
Dana hit him with the extinguisher.
Not the spray — the canister. Thirty pounds of pressurized steel swung from the hip with the full force of a woman who'd spent twenty years on breaker bars. It caught Cutter across the forearm and the lighter went flying, and he screamed and grabbed his wrist and stumbled back into the gap.
Into the gasoline he'd poured along the base of the wall.
His boots hit the fuel and slipped, and he went down hard on one knee in the pooling gas, and his other hand — the one that wasn't broken — scrabbled on the concrete and found the lighter where it had landed.
He was grinning. Blood on his teeth, pain in his eyes, and he was grinning, because fire was the only language he spoke and it was right there in his hand.
He flicked it.
The gasoline went up with a sound like a giant inhaling, a blue-white sheet of flame that raced along the base of the wall and found the pool Cutter was kneeling in.
Dana was already moving. She'd dropped the canister and lunged back into the bay, and Jackpot was there — he'd crossed the lot at a dead run the instant the lighter hit the ground — and he caught her by the waist and hauled her clear of the gap as the fire roared up the wall behind them.
Cutter screamed.
It was a sound that didn't belong to a human throat — high, raw, animal — and it cut off as fast as it started. The gasoline burn rolled over him in the gap between the buildings, fed by his own accelerant and the diesel from the toppled drum, and he went down in it and didn't get up.
Jackpot had Dana against his chest with one arm banded around her waist and the other hand on the back of her head, pressing her face into his shoulder. She was shaking. He was shaking. The fire crawled up the storage bay wall behind them and threw their shadows forty feet across the lot.
"I'm okay," she said into his cut. Her voice was steady even though her body wasn't. "Let me go. My inventory's in there."
He didn't let her go. Not yet. He held her for three more seconds with the fire popping and the smoke rolling over them, and the word that had been sitting in his chest all night came up louder than before.
Mine.
Then he released her, and she grabbed the extinguisher off the ground and went to save what she could.
* * *
The fire ate the storage bay and most of what was in it.
Dana worked the extinguisher until it was empty and then ran a hose from the shop and fought the blaze with water and guts while the brothers dragged inventory clear of the flames.
Tires, cases of oil, boxes of brake parts — she directed traffic in the smoke, pointing and shouting, knowing where everything was in the dark.
The two fuel men were down and zip-tied behind the dumpster. Bustout sat on an overturned bucket nearby, watching them the way a man watches something he's deciding whether to finish.
Cutter was in the gap. What was left of him. Nobody went to look.
By the time the fire burned itself out, the storage bay was a blackened shell and half of Dana's inventory was ash. The planted frame that Cutter had come to blame the fire on sat in the wreckage, a useless piece of evidence that would never frame anyone for anything now.
Dawn came up gray through the smoke.
Dana stood in the wet char with soot on her face and her arms and the hose still running in her hand, breathing hard, looking at the ruins of the bay she'd stocked with twenty years of sweat and saving.
Her shirt was scorched along one sleeve.
Her hair had come down and hung in soaked ropes against her neck.
She was alive.
Jackpot crossed the lot to her. His boots crunched in the ash and the broken glass, and the hose was still running and the water was black where it pooled.
He stopped in front of her and looked at her — the soot, the set jaw, the dark eyes that were wet but not crying, not even close — and he reached out and wiped a streak of ash off her cheekbone with his thumb.
She didn't pull away. She leaned into his hand, just barely, and the touch changed from a gesture into a hold. His palm opened against her face, and she turned her mouth against his wrist and breathed there for a moment, and neither of them said anything.
Behind them, Slick was on the phone handling the mess. Viper was doing something quiet with the fuel men that would make them forget they'd ever worked for Salas. Bustout was dragging what was left of the night into a place where it wouldn't be found.
The shop still stood. The bays were untouched. The sign her father had painted thirty years ago was smudged with smoke but readable.
MERCER'S.
Dana pulled back from Jackpot's hand and looked at the sign, and he watched something settle in her face — not defeat, not grief, but the hard bright clarity of a woman who had just survived the worst thing a man could do to her livelihood and was still standing in the middle of it.
"I'm going to need new inventory," she said.
Jackpot looked at her. The adrenaline was still screaming through both of them, and the fire was still smoking, and the sun was coming up over the flats like it didn't know what had happened here, and this woman was already thinking about what came next.
"Yeah," he said. "You are."
Her eyes came to his, and the heat between them in the smoky dawn was a different kind of fire entirely — the kind that didn't burn things down but built them up, slow and dangerous and nowhere close to finished.