Auszug. © Genehmigter Nachdruck. Alle Rechte vorbehalten.

The Protector

Tyndale House Publishers

Chapter One

The kitchen smelled of something nasty, the sharp smell of burntcleaning supplies making Jack's eyes water. Limp bananas were nowhanging over a bowl whose apples looked like cooked mush. Couponsfluttered from the counter to the floor, turning to a sodden mass in thestanding water. Pictures on the refrigerator had bled away color in theheat, leaving behind the ghosts of people barely discernible.

The big calendar on the wall beside the phone had been reducedto darkened, curling pages. A family's life, documented in dates andtimes and appointments, gone. Jack let the light linger on the calendar,the month of November half marked off with Xs, today's date of the fifteenthhighlighted by something now illegible in bold red ink. Theirvacation dates, he guessed. Thanksgiving was next week and they hadchosen to travel early. He was grateful they had not been caught in theinferno.

This was so incredibly senseless. The fire looked like it had been set.

Jack could feel the weariness wash over him again, and behind it,building, the tick in his left eye that showed his growing anger. He'dlike to find the man responsible for this and deck him.

A wisp of gray caught his attention as the house breathed. Somesmoke was coming through the central air ductwork. Jack touched hisradio. "Nate, check the utility room again."

"On it."

Jack walked through what had once been the patio door, steppingout into the night. The massive spotlights from the fire engines in frontof the house cast strange shadows onto the backyard through holes inthe house where windows had never been intended.

Popcorn.

Jack stopped in his tracks when he spotted the white kernels lyingat the edge of the deck protected from booted feet by the waist-highwooden railing. The building anger surged and fury swept throughhim. Someone had stood and watched the house burn, had come preparedto enjoy the sight. It was a signature he'd seen before.

The white kernels were scattered, dropped as though stragglersfrom an overflowing fistful. Jack searched the area. A few of theunpopped grains that had been flicked into the flames lay burnt withhulls split in two. Jack had hoped with a passion this particular arsonistwas going to stick to his nuisance fires of grass and trash. Instead,he'd just escalated to his first house.

Fire was supposed to be an accident, not a weapon, not somethingenjoyed. Jack kicked a smoldering chunk of wood ripped from a windowframe away from the evidence. His job was turning into that of a cop.

He hated arsonists. Painful experience from his past had taughthim how ruthless a fire starter could become. Destruction of property.Innocent victims. Injured firefighters. They had to find this guy beforesomeone got hurt.

He could fight a fire, but fighting a man ... Jack felt like his handswere tied and he hated the feeling of being helpless. He was anO'Malley. He wasn't a man to duck trouble. He preferred to go after it.This was clearly trouble. How was he supposed to go after a man whochose to be a coward and hide behind a match?

Thanksgiving was coming, then Christmas, and he had enough onhis plate already with his sister Jennifer fighting cancer to want to addthis kind of tangle. The holidays were like waving an invitation to maketrouble. He couldn't be two places at once. They had to stop this guysoon. But it was tomorrow's problem.

Around him the firefighters from Company 81 were pulling hoseand shouting to be heard over the sound of a power saw. They wereaggressively searching for hot spots within the burned-out house andtrying to find the source of that smoke still rising like a wavering cobrainto the air.

Somewhere in the ruins this fire was still alive. Jack pulled back onhis gloves and looked over the ruins of the house with an experiencedeye. A decade of fighting fires had taught him well, for it was not a forgivingprofession.

Fire was an arrogant beast. If in control, it challenged with ferociousdisdain anyone who approached. If forced to retreat, it liked tolie low, patiently waiting, then exact a painful revenge.

They'd find it. Kill it. And another dragon would be slain.

"Cole." Jack got the attention of the fire investigator.

There were few men who could dominate a fire scene just by beingpresent; his friend Cole was one. Six-two, one hundred and eightypounds, prematurely gray at forty-two, Cole Parker had made captainat thirty-six, a decade before most. He now led the arson group. Jacktrusted the man in a way he trusted few outside his family.

"What do you have, Jack?"

With his flashlight, Jack illuminated the popcorn.

Cole, a big man with a big shadow, stilled for a moment, thenwalked over to the deck.

"He's escalating," Jack said.

Cole bent to pick up a kernel. "We knew he eventually would. Fivefires in seven weeks, he's not a patient man."

"He's ringing fires around the new boundaries of the fire district,"Jack suggested, knowing it was at least a clue to figuring out who the manwas they had to stop. The smaller, older fire stations had been closingover the past months, their engines and crews dispersed to expandedhub stations. The reapportioned equipment better reflected the newhousing construction and demographics of the area, but nothing couldchange the reality that more territory in each district meant longerresponse times. This firebug knew how to take advantage of the change.

Cole just nodded. "A dangerous man playing a dangerous game."He ate one of the popped kernels. "Salt. He's bringing his own refreshments."

"I really didn't need to know that."

His friend rose gracefully to his feet. "I thought this had the soundof one of his. Late at night, edge of the district." He looked over at Jack."Gold Shift."

The implication that his shift was being targeted hadn't escapedJack's attention. They worked twenty-four hours on, forty-eight hoursoff, yet all the fires had been fought by his shift, none by Black or RedShifts. Jack would not easily admit he'd started to sweat when the tonessounded. It was hard to hold his trademark good humor when someoneout there appeared determined to make sure he was going to face flames.

Cole brushed his hands on worn jeans. He'd been paged to thescene from his home. "Tell me about this fire."

"It was in the walls."

First on the scene, Engine 81 had pulled up as smoke began topour from the attic vents and around the eaves. Jack had pushed hisway into the front hallway, shining his light, and had watched the paintbubble from the heat inside the walls. No flames had been visible, butas soon as he had poked his ax into the wall, the dragon had leapedout, roaring. "We had a hard time getting water onto the face ofit."

Nate on the nozzle, Bruce pulling hose, they'd lost precious timecutting into the walls. With no moon and the neighbors' homes a distanceaway, the fire had not been reported until it already had a goodhold. Jack had been thinking it ignited because of an electrical shortuntil he saw the intensity of the fire. He illuminated the smoke line andburn pattern with his light as they...