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Justine grabbed my arm.
“Jack. What’s happening?”
“Get dressed, Justine. We may have to leave.”
I turned on the light, grabbed the phone from the nightstand, called 911. I gave my name and address as I walked to the east-facing window of the bedroom.
I saw the pale light of the morning sun—and smoke curling through the bars of the gate. The fire was real, and it was burning outside between my front yard and the highway.
I said to the 911 operator, “There’s a fire, big one. I don’t know what’s on fire.”
“Fire department is on the way.”
I pulled on my jeans, grabbed my gun, jammed it into my waistband, stepped into a pair of moccasins.
“Jack!”
“I’ll be right back.”
I smelled smoke in the house, but the front door was cool. I opened it and walked outside into the stench of burning rubber and plastic that set off little explosions like land mines along the neural pathways of my brain.
I had no doubt that I was in Malibu standing in front of my house, and at the same time, I was back there, carrying Marine Corporal Danny Young over my shoulder and away from the burning aircraft.
Danny was a spectacular young man, funny and brave and filled with hope. I had talked to Danny as I carried him, told him that he was going to make it.
I thought I was telling him the truth.
But the truth was that we both died that night. I was the lucky one. Del Rio brought me back.
Now Justine shouted to me from the doorway.
“Jack! Be careful.”
“I will,” I said. “Just, please, go inside.”
I walked through the gate toward the fire that was being fanned by the sea breeze, gaining strength and momentum, starting to roam and consume new ground. It was alive, leaping up the trunks of palm trees, catching the husks and fronds as it burned.
I was so transfixed by the blaze, I stopped and stared. The concussive wave of the explosion blew me off my feet and dropped me down hard.
I was back there again.
Chapter 9
I WAS ON my belly, my cheek flat on the grass.
Justine was patting my face, calling my name. I looked past her to the fireball, what was left of my Lamborghini. It crackled with flames and the roiling smoke obscured everything downwind from the fire.
Justine hugged me. “Oh God, Jack. Get up, get up now.”
I groaned, said, “Ah, shit. My damned car.”
Justine gripped my arm. She helped me up and now she was crying. “Your eyebrows are gone. Eyelashes too.”
“They’ll grow back.”
“I don’t care about your eyebrows, Jack. Your car exploded. You could have been killed.”
She was panting as she looked at me, eyes wide with terror. I reached out, enfolded her in my arms. “I’m okay, sweetheart.”
