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Her heart thumped. Trevor’s surface was polished, but she simply didn’t believe he could grow that much, which probably wasn’t fair. But he’d burned her so badly, and so many others had scorched her too. Trust didn’t come easily.
Trevor said something under his breath. She spun to him. “What?”
He shook his head. “Nothing. Just caught my finger.” He held up his right hand, palm out, and curled all his fingers into his palm except his pointer finger. “Want to kiss it and make it better?”
She wrinkled her nose. “No. Groceries aren’t clean.”
“Good point.” He washed his hands. His special phone rang, and he grabbed it without bothering to dry off, stomping away. “Mills.” Before he could get up the stairs, he stopped. “He did? He must be desperate. On my way.” He spun to her. “Lock up. Stay in my bedroom and watch the cameras. Koslov’s at the bakery, and my boss can’t find Young or Davidson.”
Her heart thumped. “Where’s Deb?”
Pulling his pistol, he checked the chamber and the magazine, then returned it to the concealed holster. Saying nothing, he ran to the kitchen, ducked under the sink, and unlatched a panel, revealing a hidden safe. He loaded magazines in his coverall pockets and slid his new backup pistol into a holster on his prosthetic leg. Bounding to his feet, he trotted to the back door. “Make sure everything’s locked and get upstairs, now, Sam!”
She followed to the back door. “I’ll do this one first.”
With his hand on the doorknob, he hesitated, then spun. Grasping her shoulders, he pulled her into his arms, holding her tight, and dropped his lips to hers. Before she could react, he pushed her away and ran out the door. “Stay safe, Sam.”
Shivering, Sam locked the door behind him, checked all the others, and then trotted up the stairs. In Trevor’s bedroom, she perched on the bed and opened his laptop, swiping through their security cameras, but saw nothing out of place.
Trevor hadn’t answered her question about Deb’s location; she was supposed to be at the bakery. They were painting the trim and installing new shelving, so Michael had to be there with her. Plus, after everything they’d gone through, Michael wouldn’t let Deb out of sight. But once they’d finished the major reconstruction of the bakery, they’d replaced the interior cameras and alarms. If Michael believed Koslov had given up on the bakery, he might let subcontractors finish the work, rather than doing it himself. Deb might be alone or with strangers.
Sam had access to the bakery’s surveillance, but Wiz told her to only use her computer or phone, not Trevor’s. But Trevor didn’t want her computer on his network, probably to avoid giving the FBI easy access to her files. Plus, his computer had special software to hide his network access; hers didn’t. Glancing at the house cameras, she trotted to her bedroom, grabbing her phone and battery, and then returned to Trevor’s room. Even with Wiz’s security software, turning on her phone was risky. If anyone, like the Bratva, was doing local electronic surveillance, they might pick up her phone signal. But that would mean they suspected she was at Trevor’s.
Or she might be close enough to the surveillance on her house. Koslov’s people were gone, but they’d left cameras and listening devices mounted on trees and her neighbors’ houses. The FBI didn’t want to remove them and raise suspicions. If those sensors included cell phone signal monitors, her phone would probably get picked up. She didn’t want to get caught, but she had to know if Deb was safe. And Trevor.
The plastic rectangle was smooth and unusually light, the flat battery cold and heavy for its size. Even if she logged on, she could only watch, not do anything. But files could be lost or corrupted. If she watched, she could call 911; maybe the sheriff would take her seriously, even if he was doing the minimum for Deb and Wiz. But that would reveal her presence in Marcus for sure; she was almost positive the sheriff was dirty, along with the District Attorney. And Sharlene Murphy and the Marcus City Bank, of course.
And then there was Trevor; if he was going to Deb’s rescue, he’d be in danger, too. But again, the only thing she could do was watch and notify the authorities. And testify later, if everything went wrong.
Downstairs, glass shattered. Sam slapped at the keyboard on Trevor’s laptop; she’d been thinking so long the screen went dark. In front of the house, two men with black ski masks over their faces stood in front of an old, rusty sedan. One held a lighter, the other lifted a bottle with a rag dangling from the opening, and fire sparked. He lobbed the bottle into the air; glass crashed.
They were torching Trevor’s house! As the men drove away, Sam slid the battery into her phone and dialed 911. When the woman asked what her emergency was, she replied. “Fire! Fire at 524 Bedford Street, the big Queen Anne under construction. Two men just threw flaming bottles through the windows and drove away!”
Before the operator could ask her anything, she hung up. She grabbed both laptops and pulled Trevor’s personal weapon from his nightstand drawer. Skittering to her room, she threw both computers into her go-bag, adding a few personal items from her makeshift bedside table. She slung the pack on her back and raced down the stairs. Maybe she could put the fire out—Trevor had industrial size fire extinguishers.
But at the bottom of the stairs, the heat drove her back. The fire had spread faster than she thought possible. In the parlor, flames engulfed the temporary window shades and licked at the new crown molding, along with the stack of baseboards she’d just painted. The dining room was equally bad. She sprinted to the back door, grabbing the keys to Trevor’s hidden SUV.
Hand on the doorknob, Sam paused. If the Bratva had figured out she was in Trevor’s house, they’d be waiting. But the alternative was dying in the fire. The Marcus emergency siren wailed; the fire department was on the way. But it was unlikely they’d get there in time to save her. Or she’d get the firefighters killed. She had to get out!
Sam ran to the front. The fire had spread, but slower in the front parlor. She took a deep breath and sprinted around the staircase to the family room at the back of the house, but the back porch was on fire, too.
She returned to the back hall, the hot air scorching her lungs. Trevor had shown her the hidden half-door to the root cellar under the stairs, but she hadn’t gone down there. Near the back door, she dropped to her knees and fumbled for the latch usually concealed by a piece of baseboard, designed for the toe of a shoe. She found the protruding metal and shoved, the door almost hitting her face, the click of the mechanism lost in the whooshing flames.
Still on her knees, she spun, shoving the hidden door wide with her leg and feeling for the ladder rung with her right toe. After finding it, she went down two steps and pulled the door closed behind her. Cool, dank air rose around her, scented with dirt and decay. Still panting, she grasped the top rung with her left hand and pulled her phone from the pocket of her leggings. One-handed, she hit the power button and swiped the flashlight on.
At the bottom of the ladder, rough stones covered the floor, her light illuminating only the small area below. She descended, the fire roaring above her, sirens faint but getting louder. Maybe they could still save the house. But she couldn’t chance surviving in the ancient structure, and she didn’t want to put the firefighters at risk. She climbed down, turning to illuminate the bare dirt room. Trevor said there was a way out but hadn’t specified where. It couldn’t be that hard to find, though.
In the dimness beyond the ladder, a steep narrow ramp led upward, sloped to allow wheelbarrows or carts full of produce for storage. Her way out; it should emerge below the kitchen window. Maybe she’d survive after all. She scrambled up the cobblestone ramp, feet catching on the rough rocks. At the top of the steep ramp, a solid wood door blocked her way, a closed padlock dangling from the loop through the hasp.
Trevor hadn’t told her about a lock! She yanked, but the padlock didn’t budge. She turned the bottom up; it was a four-number combination lock. She entered Trevor’s birthday, then his birth year, but it remained shut. He should have told her the combo! It must be something she knew. Her fingers shaking, she turned the dials to her birthday; the lock opened. Sliding the lock from the loop, she yanked the hasp off and pulled hard, but the door didn’t budge.
It shouldn’t be locked on the outside unless someone just did it. She pulled and pulled, until her fingers ached, her calves burned from the odd angle on the ramp, and she panted. She had to get out! Smoke would roll in, or the flames could eat through the floorboards. She didn’t want to die! Unable to pull any longer, she turned, resting her backpack against the rough wood slats to take the pressure off her calf muscles. The door gave way, sending her stumbling up the ramp, into the side yard. So stupid to panic—all she had to do was push.
Fingers clamped on her upper arm and pulled. Sam yanked, spinning away—after surviving all that, she wasn’t going down without a fight!
Chapter eight
Trevor jogged away from Deb’s Bakery, grateful he hadn’t had to kill Special Agent Young. If Aviss and Geo Pappas hadn’t found Young’s family, the outcome might have been much, much worse. But Trevor’s job wasn’t done; Young was just another cog in the Russian mob’s machine. And they had to find Davidson.
