Jack O'Malley is a fireman who is fearless when it comes to facing an inferno. But when an arsonist begins targeting his district, his shift, his friends, Jack faces the ultimate challenge: protecting the lady who saw the arsonist before she pays an even higher price.
Introducing the O'Malleys, an inspirational group of seven, all abandoned or orphaned as teens, who have made the choice to become a loyal and committed family. They have chosen their own surname, O'Malley, and have stood by each other through moments of joy and heartache. Their stories are told in CBA best-selling, inspirational romantic suspense novels that rock your heart and restore strength and hope to your spirit.
The Protector
By Dee HendersonTyndale House Publishers
Copyright © 2005 Dee Henderson
All right reserved.ISBN: 9781414310596Chapter One
The house was a total loss. Firefighter Lieutenant Jack O'Malleyshone his bright light on the dripping walls, looking for anythingthat would provide a source for the smoke he was still chasing.Second floor beams above him groaned as the building settled. Fire hadshattered what had once been a beautiful, well-kept home. It was likewalking around inside a sarcophagus. The place felt like it was dying.
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 walked.
"Center of the house?" Cole speculated.
They slogged across the yard now turned into mud by the hours ofstreaming water. Jack stopped by a dogwood tree. "I think so. Therewas too much ambient heat to assume it started on the second floorand worked down within the walls, not enough fire scarring on the sidingto show an origin point in an outside wall."
Arson for profit didn't fit this guy's pattern-probably a guy-Jackdecided. It didn't feel like the work of a young offender either. Thesefire locations were carefully planned. And it was odd for a fire starterwho did it for enjoyment to acquire the taste late in life. "Think he'safter the press attention?"
"Bold enough to stand around after the fire starts and flick popcorninto the flames, arrogant enough to set fires frequently. Now escalatingin the type of fires he sets. Yes, he wants the attention-ours, themedia's, and ultimately the public's."
"We'll have a panic on our hands if we don't stop him before thepress connects the fires."
"Not to mention copycats."
Smoke twisted in their direction, the heavy ash particles makingJack cough. "What time is it?"
Cole sent him a sympathetic smile. "Something after 2 A.M."
Two and a half hours. Jack felt like he had run a marathon. The fireturnout coat sat heavy on his shoulders and it stuck and rubbed at hisneck as he moved. The last hours had turned his blue uniform shirtand cotton T-shirt under the coat into a sweaty mass. Jack knew hecould forget any idea of sleep tonight. It would be dawn before they gotthe fire mop-up complete.
His left knee was still complaining about the force of the impactearlier when he dropped from the engine to the asphalt street withmore speed than care. The initial sight of the house with smoke beginningto pour from the roof vents had made him push faster than safety would dictate.
It might have appeared haphazard to the spectators watching theirarrival, but the company had executed a well-coordinated attack on thefire. The crew from Ladder Truck 81 had gone after the roof and ventilatedthe fire; the men from Engine 81 had surged to lay hose and getwater on the face of the fire; and the crew of Rescue Squad 81 had hitthe ground reaching for air tanks, ready to go in if people were trapped.
The drills and teamwork had paid off; no time had been lost duringthe attack. There were benefits to working with the best. And a fewdrawbacks. First engine on the scene, last engine to leave.
He'd kill for a shower. The smell of smoke and sweat was a stenchhe didn't mind as long as he was moving and was downwind of himself.
"You did a good job of knocking it down."
He was pleased at the praise for Cole didn't give it lightly. "Thanks."
Jack would prefer to be on the roof or pulling down scorched plaster,even coiling hose, than to be the guy tapped to manage the scene.But the captain of Company 81 had been called to the site of a chemicalspill, so the job passed to Jack.
He retrieved two bottles of ice water from the rescue squad andhanded one to Cole. As he drank, Jack scanned the few remainingspectators-neighbors hurriedly dressed, a couple kids entranced atthe sight of the red engine and ladder truck, local media, a cop blockingthe street from thru traffic.
Some firebugs were watchers. They acted just so the firefighterswould get called out. They'd stand and watch the battle, their own personalentertainment. No one stood out among those gathered.
Jack turned back to the house and watched guys turn a nozzleback on to deal with a pocket of fire found smoldering in the wallbetween the garage and the breezeway. "This isn't going to be his lastfire."
"Safe wager."
"Any ideas?"
Cole drank deeply, then shook his head. "No ideas, no assumptions,no conclusions. You know how this job is done."
Jack did. It took patience he didn't have. "My men are at risk." Hiswords were quiet because he knew the memory Cole carried, knewhow the words would resonate.
Cole reached over and squeezed his shoulder.
Jack didn't know if he ever wanted to make captain, knowing howmuch the privilege and burden of command had cost his friend. Colehad led Company 65 before moving to head the arson group. He'dmoved because an arsonist had made it personal. Jack wanted to askabout Cassie, about Ash, but found himself in this situation hesitant tovoice the names.
"Lieutenant?" A firefighter from Truck 81 stepped to the open frontdoor. "You're going to want to see this."
The heat from the floor came through his boots. Jack could hear the fire, arushing sound, huge, consuming. Every step took him closer to it. The hallwayturned and he felt the stairwell post. He started up the stairs. There wassomeone still in the house. They had to get her out.
The smoke was coming down in rolling waves. Fire brightened the darknessahead of him, surging through the smoke in licks of vicious flames.
The heat was too intense.
The smoke was too low.
No one in this house could still be alive.
It was a grim realization that firmed with each step and by the sixth stepJack stopped. He wanted to rush through the flames, he desperately wantedto change reality. His sister Rachel would be crushed at the news her friendwas dead, and Tabitha's husband-Jack couldn't change what had alreadyhappened. He was responsible for his men's lives. Jack put out his arm, stoppingBen, the lieutenant of Black Shift who had taken the place of the rookieon Jack's crew for this attempted evacuation. "There's nothing we can do."
Bruce and Nate in the rear of the group turned at his words to lead theway out. Ben Rohr hesitated. Jack squeezed his shoulder. The lieutenant wasthe veteran of the group, in his early forties but still had more fires under hisbelt than Jack had ever seen. He understood how torn the man was to turnback from a victim-there was no choice. Ben headed down the stairs.
The fire roared behind Jack, reaching out to touch the back of his heavyfire coat. It had already claimed a victim. They couldn't afford to give itanother. Jack felt the post at the bottom of the steps and turned the cornerinto the hall as the fire roared down the stairway landing and part of the ceilingbuckled.
The sound of sirens screaming outside provided direction. Jack followedthe noise toward the door they had entered. Water slapped against the side ofthe house, hissing as it turned to steam. Men rushed to meet them and clippedshakes of heads passed the painful word. Hard hands slapped their shoulders,counting them. "Last man," Jack shouted. "Drown it." The firefighter on thenozzle nodded and pulled hose into the doorway, then opened it.
Jack pushed off his gear. The night air felt cold after the oppressive heat.They would join the fight to stop the fire, but it would be a grim fight with nogood outcome. People, property-they had already lost both. How was hesupposed to tell his sister that Tabitha was dead? The thought of doing so wasenough to drive the sickness deep.
Neighbors, cops, and spectators had gathered to watch the scene andJack saw the reaction as word a neighbor had died swept through the crowd.
"We could have made it," Ben said, staring at the flames, absorbed inwatching them.
Continues...
Excerpted from The Protectorby Dee Henderson Copyright © 2005 by Dee Henderson. Excerpted by permission.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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