Chapter 8 #2
“Hold a sec.” Carter withdrew his phone and, kneeling next to Lincoln, snapped a few pictures of the screen. “Not sure it’s legible, but maybe in conjunction with the paper records, we can sort it.”
Lincoln restarted the computer. “Hopefully this does the trick anyway.” He spun half around, keeping one eye on the computer, the other on Carter, who retreated to the table of boxes. “What’d you pull?”
“Accident records from the past twelve months. Let’s see if Zia’s accident in Apex, or any other here, involved a car with matching paint. If you find something there”—he gestured at the computer—“it’ll make this go quicker.”
Lincoln checked the rebooting computer. “Almost there.”
And then suddenly they were the opposite of almost there, the computer screen and every light around them flickering out.
“Well done, L.” Carter clapped. “You killed the power.”
“Me?” Lincoln rocketed out of his chair. “It’s all those fucking lights out there.”
“You are so the Grinch.” Carter’s smirking face appeared in a cone of light cast by his phone flashlight. “And Larry mentioned earlier the breaker box needed replacing.”
“See, it’s not my fa—”
Glass shattered, the direction of the lobby.
“What the fuck was that?” Lincoln started toward the door.
Carter grabbed him by the biceps. “Wait, I don’t—”
A different sound cut off Carter’s words, one that made Lincoln’s heart crash against his ribs.
The distinctive crack, strike, and sizzle of a flare.
Lincoln recalled flares from Academy and from the handful of roadside crime scenes he’d visited. He fucking hated them. Hated the creepy magenta glow, the constant hissing, the smell of nitrate and chemicals burning down.
Burning. Something was burning.
Panic rose, fast and furious.
Who the fuck was out there?
What the fuck was burning?
How the fuck were they—
Carter cut him off, a hand over his mouth.
“Shhh,” he whispered into Lincoln’s ear, and Lincoln realized he’d been rambling his fears aloud.
Carter lowered his hand and circled Lincoln’s front with his arm, pulling him back against his chest. “I left my weapon in the car’s glove box. Do you have yours in your bag?”
“House,” he wheezed between failed breaths. His weapon was still in its case, locked in the office safe where Carter had put it last night.
“Need you to breathe, L.”
Lincoln shook his head. He didn’t want to. Didn’t want to inhale the fumes from the flare. Didn’t want to smell the world burning around him. Didn’t want to experience that reality.
“I will get you out of here,” Carter coaxed, “but you need to stay with me and you need to stay calm.” He loosened his arm and rotated Lincoln around to face him.
Eyes adjusting to the dark, Lincoln sought out Carter’s face, the task made terrifyingly easier as the light of the flare grew brighter, the person carrying the flare drawing closer.
Carter lifted a hand and cupped his cheek, his thumb skating over the scruff Lincoln hadn’t had time to shave that morning. “This is nothing compared to the week Elena was born.”
The reminder snapped Lincoln’s world sharply back into focus.
Elena. He couldn’t leave her. He had to get out of here.
He blinked away the cresting fear and sucked in a giant gulp of air.
Hand behind his neck, Carter drew him forward, anticipating Lincoln’s smoke-induced cough and muffling it against his shoulder.
“Someone is coming this way,” he said against Lincoln’s temple, then muffled a cough.
He cleared his throat and started again.
“I don’t know what they’re going to do with the flare, so when that door opens the rest of the way, I need you to give me enough light with the phone to disarm them. Can you do that?”
The fire alarm finally went off, startling Lincoln and restarting his fear, blood racing and pounding in his ears, a counterbeat to the wailing sirens.
Carter squeezed his neck. “Come on, Professor, stay with me.”
Face buried in Carter’s shoulder, Lincoln ignored the smoke and focused on the man instead. Two Ivory-scented inhales later, Lincoln lifted his head. “Give me the phone.”
Carter handed him the device. “Maintain cover, if we can.”
Lincoln nodded, snatched his bag off the table, and hustled next to Carter by the wall behind the partially ajar door.
Just in time, as the door was kicked the rest of the way open and the flare hurled through, over the desks and into the stacks.
Lincoln ignored the streak of red and the burst of light that erupted behind them, keeping his focus on his partner instead, lighting Carter’s path as he used the door to ram their assailant, delivering a swift hit before swinging out and directly engaging the attacker.
A man, that much Lincoln could tell. As the reddish-orange glow behind them grew brighter—Lincoln ignored why—he continued to light the area ahead, doing as Carter directed while cataloging more details about their attacker.
Close-cropped dark hair, dark eyes, White, mid to late thirties.
Shorter than both him and Carter. Not as bulky as Carter but definitely bigger than Lincoln.
The stranger fought back, not immediately caving to Carter’s offensive.
He had some fighting experience, or self-defense maybe, but it didn’t take more than a minute for Carter to get the upper hand.
“L, get out of here! I’ve got him.”
“I’m not leaving you!”
That’s when the man went for his knife. It had been holstered on his opposite hip, out of view, but as he yanked it free and lifted it above his head, readying to bring it down at Carter, the blade caught the flames Lincoln couldn’t ignore any longer.
Except this time he didn’t freeze. He couldn’t.
His partner’s life depended on it. “Knife!” Lincoln shouted, then tossed the phone, flashlight up, onto the ground between them and launched himself at the assailant, using the messenger bag and laptop inside it as a club.
The hit knocked the stranger off-balance, giving Carter a chance to spin away from the slashing blade.
But in doing so, he kicked the phone—toward the flames.
Which were bright enough now that they didn’t need the extra light anymore. But the picture of the vehicle records—
“L, no!” Carter’s cough was almost as harsh as his grip around Lincoln’s wrist. “We have to get out of here!”
Lincoln spun back around and through his wet, stinging eyes saw their assailant had escaped. “Fuck, go.” He shoved at Carter’s side. “Go get him!”
Carter wouldn’t release his wrist. “Not leaving you either! Let’s go!”
“The phone, the files . . .”
“Lost cause. You’re not!”
An explosion rocked the building, and flames crept through the door along the ceiling.
That was all the convincing Lincoln needed.
“Let’s go!” They hit the hallway and slammed on brakes.
The bullpen was in flames, no exit that way.
A door slammed the opposite direction and cold air gusted around Lincoln’s ankles.
Glancing down, he noticed the drops of blood leading the same direction.
He shifted his grip, hand in Carter’s. “This way!”
Arms above their heads, buffering the encroaching heat and smoke, they raced around the corner and spied the emergency exit ahead.
Running flat out, they hit the door at the same instant another explosion rocked the building, the momentum and force shoving them the rest of the way outside, into the cold, dark winter.