Page 108 of The Burning

“No.”

He curses, his face contorting in pain as he shifts. I catch sight of his right arm, the Kimber in his hand, realize he’s trying to pass it to me. He forces his arm and weapon past the tangle of metal.

“Four rounds left,” he tells me. “Make them count if you need it.”

I take the pistol, tuck it into my waistband. “Do you have your cell?”

“Console,” he says. “Can’t get to it.”

“Are you injured anywhere else?”

“No.”

I look at the destroyed dash. The bowed steering wheel. The buckled steel of the roof pressing down on him. There’s zero space for him to maneuver or crawl out, and I have no idea how I’m going to extricate him.

“Kate, there’s a pry bar in my gear box in the back. See if you can get to it.”

I scan the woods behind the building as I go to the back of the Tahoe. No sign of either man, but the hairs prickle at my nape. The rear of the vehicle isn’t as damaged as the front, but the door pillar post and rear window pillars are folded like accordions. The door has come unlatched, but when I try to open it, steel grinds against steel.

“Shit.” Spreading my feet, I bend my knees and powerlift it. To my relief, it screeches upward enough for me to reach inside and pull out the equipment box. Bending, I set it on the ground, flip open the lid, rummage until I find the pry bar. Back at the driver’s-side door, I bend to make eye contact with Tomasetti. “You’re going to have to crawl out this driver’s-side window,” I tell him. “There’s not much room.”

“Free up my arm and I’ll get it done.”

The last thing I want to do is risk further injury to his arm, but with Hofer and Raber unaccounted for and no help on the way, I’ve no choice. Carefully, I insert the long end of the bar so that the tip is between the steering wheel and roof.

“Not enough leverage,” I tell him.

“Don’t need much.”

Grasping the pry bar tightly, I force it downward, using both hands, putting my weight into it. The steering wheel creaks. The roof groans like bending iron. Face contorted in pain, Tomasetti withdraws his arm.

“See if you can get the door open,” he growls.

“Yep.” I step back, jam the pry bar between the door and frame. Steel grinds as I pry it open. I get my first glimpse of his predicament. Tomasetti’s body is contorted into an agonizing position. I watch as he maneuvers his arms toward the door. Using his uninjured arm to push his body along, he forces his head and shoulders through the impossibly small space. He growls out a curse when his injured arm flops. When his shoulders are free, I set my hands beneath his arms and pull. Using his legs, he pushes off, forcing the rest of his body through.

I try to lower him to the ground, but he’s too heavy and lands awkwardly. Groaning, he uses his uninjured arm to support the injured one. My stomach roils when I get my first up-close look at it. His forearm is clearly bowed. There’s fresh blood soaking through his shirt. Compound fracture, I think, and I go to my knees beside him.

“I’ll fashion a sling—” I begin, but he cuts me off.

“Hofer.” Face screwed up and wet with sweat, he lies still, shaking; then he looks up at me. “Raber. Where the hell are they?”

“No sign of them. No movement.”

He glances toward the Tahoe’s destroyed interior. “My cell’s in the console. Get it.”

I go back to the opening and bend, reach inside. I can’t see the console, so I feel around the seat. Safety belt, torn vinyl from the seatback, and the remnants of the airbag are in the way, so I dig past all of it. Finally, my fingertips brush the console. I force my shoulders through, go deeper, find the cell phone, and I back out.

Tomasetti has gotten to his feet and is leaning against the rear fender, cradling his injured arm, his eyes on the building and wooded area beyond. His face is shockingly pale, and despite the cold, his forehead is beaded with sweat.

“That was one hell of a rescue, Chief,” he says.

“You can thank me later.”

Never taking my eyes from his, I call 911. Relief flares when the dispatcher informs me the nearest sheriff’s deputy is six minutes away. I ask her to send an ambulance and disconnect.

Aware that the Kimber is tucked into my waistband, I go to Tomasetti, set my hands on either side of his face. “Don’t ever do that to me again,” I whisper.

“If I’ve any say in the matter, you can bet your ass I won’t.”