Chapter One #3
She held on tight, then turned to him. “What about your girlfriend? Why aren’t you out with her tonight? A handsome man like you should be kissing someone at midnight.”
He raised an eyebrow, glanced at Brian, back to his mom. “I don’t have a girlfriend, Mom.”
Hadn’t for…well, a very long time.
“Well, why not?” She swatted his arm. “You’re too good-looking to be alone.”
“I’m not alone.” He gestured around the room. “I’m here with you. Where else would I be?”
Her eyes softened. “You’re a good boy, Hale. Always have been.”
Brian cleared his throat. “So, how are you settling in at the Southwold precinct? Old Town Renegade must be a big change from the big city of Denver.”
“It’s good. Different.” He took a sip of lukewarm cocoa. “As deputy chief of operations, I’m overseeing patrol operations, coordinating with other agencies, handling major investigations.” He shrugged. “Keeps me busy.”
“And close to home.” Brian’s gaze slid to Patricia.
“That too.”
On the television, people were dancing, kissing, celebrating the New Year.
His mother clapped her hands together and held out her arms to him. He got up and kissed her forehead. “Happy New Year, Mom.”
Brian got up too and took her hand as Hale’s radio crackled.
As he grabbed up the radio, Hale watched Brian kiss her forehead and then help her up into a sweet dance.
“All units, we have reports of an explosion at Grand Mesa Mall, center court. Multiple injuries, casualties report. Fire department en route. Repeat, explosion at Grand Mesa Mall—”
“Go,” Brian said, turning to him. “I’ve got her.”
His mother looked at him. “Abe, you need to go.”
He blinked at her. “Mom—”
“It’s okay, son,” Brian said.
He grabbed his badge and service weapon from the lock box in the hall table drawer and clipped them to his belt.
“Brian—”
“I’ll stay until you get back. Go do your job.”
Hale squeezed his mother’s shoulder as he passed. She caught his hand.
“Be careful.”
“Always am.”
He was in his truck before the next scanner update came through. The night air was cold, tasting of woodsmoke and snow. Fireworks popped in the distance.
His radio crackled as he drove. More units responding. Fire department on scene. Ambulances requested—multiple needed. This was bad.
He hit the lights but not the siren. The streets were mostly empty.
He’d heard about the Grand Mesa Mall’s New Year’s Countdown Festival. Shoot—there would be families. Kids.
Please let none of the casualties be a child.
His gut tightened, and he pressed the memories away.
Emergency lights painted the mall’s white facade red and blue. Smoke rose from the center court, thick against the star-filled sky, souring the air—so clearly, the atrium had broken.
Hale pulled into the lot and jogged toward the entrance. Wrenched open the door.
The smell hit him first—propane, scorched fabric, melted rubber, blood. Then the sounds: people screaming, crying, shouting. Water hissing against hot metal. Radio chatter overlapping.
Smoke hung in the air under the emergency lights as he ran to the center court.
Hoses snaked into the room, firefighters spraying down what looked like a food kiosk.
Police from all Renegade precincts herded people from the area, others tending to people on the ground.
EMS had also arrived, paramedics treating people.
He caught sight of a sheet draped over a couple bodies.
The glass ceiling reflected everything—lights, smoke, panicked movement. Water pooled on the tile floor. The Christmas tree in the center of the ice rink lay in shreds on the ice rink, ribbon and ornaments littering the space. A couple other food trucks had caught fire, from the looks of it.
People ran in every direction. A child screamed for her mother. A man sat against a planter, blood-soaked cloth pressed to his head.
The source seemed to be a burned-out shell of the barbecue truck—blackened, twisted. A smaller Christmas tree beside it was scorched on one side, ornaments melted.
Hale moved into the scene.
“Who’s in command?” He flagged down the nearest officer. Officer Kincaid, according to her name tag.
“Fire captain’s coordinating suppression, sir. No police command structure established yet.”
“I’m Deputy Chief Hale Brooks. Get a perimeter established. I want everyone back at least fifty feet from that truck. We don’t know if there’s a secondary explosion risk.”
“Yes, sir.” Kincaid moved immediately, calling to other patrol units.
He spotted a couple paramedics working on at least six people in the triage area near the fountain.
A fire captain, Bennett on his coat, approached, helmet under his arm, face grimy with soot. “Who are you?”
“Deputy Chief Hale Brooks.” He offered his hand. “What’s the status?”
“Fire’s out. Propane tank explosion on that barbecue truck—Rocky Mountain Barbecue, according to the permit.
” The captain gestured toward the wreckage.
“We’re checking for secondary hazards now, but I think we’re clear.
Main concern is structural—that glass ceiling took some impact. Support columns near the blast zone.”
Hale looked up. The ornate glass ceiling showed spider-web cracks radiating from the center court, and at least one panel bore jagged edges. “Evacuation?”
“In progress. Mall security’s clearing the stores. Most people were here for the festival—center court crowd.”
“Casualties?”
The captain’s jaw worked. “One confirmed fatality. Paramedic named Chase Neil. Threw himself over a civilian to protect her from the blast.”
“The civilian?”
“Injured but alive. Hero saved her life.” The captain’s voice roughened. “Chase is a local. Single. Great guy.”
“I need casualty accounting. Injured, deceased, witnesses. And we need to start interviews—who saw what, when. This is a crime scene until we determine otherwise.”
The fire captain nodded. “Agreed. We’ll need a full investigation. Equipment failure, human error, negligence—could be criminal.”
“I’ll coordinate with your investigator. Who was in charge of this event? We need a list of the vendors, the vetting and safety protocols.”
“Starr Events, according to the paperwork.”
Starr.
A flash of burgundy caught his eye. Someone moving through the debris field, too close to the destroyed truck.
“Ma’am!” Hale was already moving. “You need to get out of there!”
She didn’t seem to hear him. She stumbled over twisted metal, caught herself, kept moving toward the blast zone.
Hale broke into a jog. “Ma’am, you need to—”
She turned.
Blonde hair wild around her face, streaked with ash. Green eyes wide with shock. A face he’d memorized in high school, kissed under the bleachers, watched walk away—
No. But of course she’d be here. Amidst all the chaos and trouble. And running into danger.
“Rosie?”
Her lips parted. For a second, she just stared, as if frozen.
No, as if she’d seen a ghost.
Yeah, maybe she had. He deserved that, probably.
“Hale.”
Not a question. More of a statement. Sounded a little like dread.
Or judgment.
Still, he couldn’t seem to move his hand from her arm. Behind them, firefighters shouted. Water hissed. The radio on his belt crackled.
Then she frowned and backed away from him. “What are you doing here?”
“I could ask you the same.”
But he knew, and it all clicked. Starr Events, right? The burgundy fabric of her blouse was torn at the shoulder, covered in soot. Her Starr Events credentials hung around her neck, the plastic cracked. And her hand—a terrible bloom of red suggested a burn.
“This is my event. I planned this. I need to—there are people hurt—”
“You need to get out of the danger zone. And get that hand looked at.”
She frowned, then her mouth opened as if to say something, but his radio crackled.
“Deputy Chief Brooks, we need you at the south perimeter. Possible structural concern.”
He met her eyes. “Stick around. We’re going to need to talk to you.”
Then he left her, not looking back.
Well, that was sort of his MO, wasn’t it?