“The assailant had a flare, which he used to light fires on his way to the records room where we were. He threw the flare into the stacks, which caught fire right away.”
“The fire originated in the breaker box.”
“Maybe, but that wasn’t the only fire.”
“‘Attacked,’ you said?”
The doubt lacing Larry’s question seared through the fog that had settled over Lincoln. “You think Carter got those busted knuckles, that cut, from a ghost? Or me?” Lincoln held up his hands, displaying both sides. “No wounds and no blood.”
“Sorry, sorry,” Larry said, hands lifted to match. “Just trying to get the order of events straight. Where were you during all of this?”
“Out of the way,” Carter replied. “This is what I’m trained to do.”
“I was holding the—Fuck! Your phone.” Lincoln whipped his gaze back to the burning building. “It’s in there, with the?—”
“We got out alive,” Carter said, cutting him off.
And saving him, Lincoln realized the next second, from blowing their cover. One error tonight was bad enough. He’d lost the phone with the picture of the vehicle records. The computer was undoubtedly destroyed in the fire. Ditto the paper records. If the former weren’t backed up remotely, they were back to square one, maybe without even that much. “Fuck!”
Carter grasped his chin and drew his face around. “We got out alive,” he repeated. “That’s all that matters.”
His bright green eyes almost convinced Lincoln.
“Anyone we need to call for you two?” Larry asked.
“Shit, Elena. If she sees the news . . .”
“Elena?” Larry asked.
“His daughter,” Carter answered, “from a previous marriage. You have your phone still?” At Lincoln’s nod, Carter squeezed his shoulder. “Go call her.” His gaze swept the parking lot. “I don’t see any news vans, but just in case.”
Lincoln didn’t need to be told twice. He stood, dug his phone out of his bag, and walked the opposite direction from the blaze, not looking back. Watching a fire burn was what had started this phobia in the first place. There’d been a fire in his hometown one afternoon when he was very young, and his grandmother, who’d looked after him and Trina while both their parents worked, had gone out to see it and taken them in the stroller with her. He hadn’t realized that was why he was so afraid of fire until five years ago when he’d found pictures from that day in his recently deceased grandmother’s belongings. He had no recollection of the event, but his subconscious did.
“Dad,” Elena answered. “What’s going on?”
The fire faded away. “Just needed to hear your voice.”
“What just happened? Who do you?—”
Carter laid a finger over Lincoln’s lips, silencing him. With his other hand, he gestured around the inside of the Forester and mouthed, Could be bugged. Lincoln nodded, and Carter lowered his arm, wincing slightly. The cut hadn’t needed stitches, just a few butterfly bandages, but they pulled at his skin, and with the adrenaline wearing off, the abused arm muscles and his bandaged knuckles were starting to ache.
Before Carter could draw back completely, Lincoln caught his wrist. Open, he mouthed. He pointed at the glove box, then gestured at the back window. Could be tails. You drive, I’ll cover. Lincoln had been in a daze after they’d escaped the smoldering station, but the call with Elena had calmed him considerably and he’d calmed further as they’d distanced themselves from the burning building.
Good thinking. Carter flashed Lincoln the digits for the code on the glove box—a custom modification since he did practically live in his car and needed a locked safe for his weapon.
Lincoln punched in the numbers, opened the box, and withdrew the Glock. He quickly familiarized himself with the weapon, then shifted sideways in his seat, a view front and back. “Let’s go home,” he said aloud. “It’s been a long night.”
No argument there. The trip to the house was thankfully uneventful. And silent, neither of them chancing a word. Carter parked in the driveway next to the Wrangler, returned as Susanne had promised. He turned off the engine and signaled Lincoln for continued silence. Lincoln handed him his weapon with a nod before grabbing his bag and exiting the car.
Carter followed, eyes roaming their surroundings. Nothing looked out of place or disturbed. No broken glass, no tracks in the snow, no smoke billowing from the house. On the front porch, he pulled Lincoln into his arms. To any tail or any nosy neighbor, it would look like an intimate moment between husbands. For a second, Carter believed it too, Lincoln stepping into his embrace and laying a hand naturally on his chest. Carter’s heart thudded under the touch. A touch that was almost stolen from him tonight before he’d ever gotten a chance to know it. Fuck. He shuddered, and Lincoln’s eyes flickered up, filled with more than Carter could discern, but the vulnerability, trust, and desire he could pick out of that honeyed stare made him want to do things that were indecent in public. Things that Lincoln would probably regret in the morning. Carter lowered his chin before Lincoln could see how much he wanted all those things. Things that in any event would have to wait until they cleared the house and reported in to Beverley.
“We need to check the house,” he whispered. “We clear the office first. You get your weapon out of the safe and clear the ground floor while I head upstairs. I’ve got a bug sweeper in my suitcase. I’ll sweep up there, then downstairs, then meet you back in the kitchen.”
“Got it,” Lincoln confirmed but he didn’t step back. Hand lingering, he leaned into Carter instead.
Heat bloomed, radiating out from every point where their bodies brushed, hotter than the fire that had chased them earlier. Except Carter didn’t want to run from this blaze. Angling his face, he brushed his lips over Lincoln’s cheek, the stubble setting off sparks that erupted into gooseflesh across his skin. God, all those things he wanted were right there.
“We need to get inside,” Lincoln breathed, even as his fingers curled in the front of Carter’s sweater.
