Controlled Burn (Blackbridge Security 8)

“Are we up to date on our tetanus shots?”

“Yes,” Deacon says without humor in his voice. “I made Jude verify earlier after Wren pulled the address up on satellite view.”

“My man!” a guy says when he pulls open the door.

He can’t be any younger than twenty-two, and he’s the definition of dude-bro from his hipster clothes to his haircut, the one that looks both shaggy and somehow expensive at the same time. His shirt is too small for his frame, showcasing a tribal tattoo on his bicep. I snort at the sight of it, betting this guy whined to the artist the whole time he was getting it done. He’s all gym muscle, probably never seen a day of physical hard work in his life.

Deacon holds out his hand to shake, but the guy claps it and pulls Deacon to his chest, smacking him on the back in a familiarity I know isn’t actually there.

Deacon backs away, that tiny muscle above his right eye twitching as he puts some distance between the two of them.

The guy inches toward me, and unlike my boss, I don’t have the patience.

“Touch me and die.” My threat is as thick as my accent, but the guy just grins in my direction like I’ve told a joke.

“Come on in but watch your step. There’s camera equipment and cords all over the place.”

I follow Deacon, my eyes darting across the room. The air is thick with recently burned wood, and I see another area of staging when I glance in the living area to see the walls around the fireplace scorched. The lengths some people will go to get views, but I guess you have to get creative when it’s your source of income. At least he’s doing something more than what I know a lot of middle-aged guys are doing—dancing and taking their clothes off for all the thirsty women on the internet.

I grin, thinking of ways to tease Deacon about Anna following this young guy and being obsessed with his videos. I have no doubt the dude-bro does videos without his shirt on.

“The safe is down in the basement, but first, the paperwork we discussed.”

Deacon takes a clipboard from the guy, and I take another one.

Reading through the form, I see that we’re agreeing to no claim of the video or royalties that might be earned for the video.

I look to Deacon. “I’m going to be recorded?”

Deacon smiles, knowing it will irritate me. “That’s the agreement.”

I scowl. “And what are you charging?”

“Ten thousand,” Deacon says with a smile. “And financials have already been taken care of.”

Translation—the job has already been paid for, now sign the paper, and get to work.

Deacon signs, and I do the same.

“What do you suspect to make off this?” Deacon asks as we descend the rickety stairs into the basement.

Dude-bro turns and grins when he clears the last steps. “More than I paid.”

He points to the corner of the room, and I want to cry with the damage done to the antique safe. I can tell it’s over a hundred years old just by the brand and design, and this is one of those kinds of safes that the house was probably built around rather than it being carried into the house after construction.

BRANDON D. GILES is printed across the top to indicate who the original owner was.

“What in the world did you do to it?” I ask as I walk closer, lifting my hand to trace some of the damage.

“All sorts of things,” the guy says with laughter in his voice. “I have personal protective equipment for you over here. I won’t be able to post videos if you aren’t wearing it. YouTube has stupid rules about safety.”

Frowning, I turn around and face the guy as I drop my tool bag and open it. I pull out my safety glasses and hardhat, donning both before glancing at Deacon. I give him a look that makes my dissatisfaction clear before turning back to the mangled safe. It looks like they tried to set it on fire, using some sort of explosives if the dent in the concrete under it is any indication. There are scratches all over it. The brand logo is nearly unreadable.

“Maybe keep the cussing to a minimum. The fewer bleeps I have, the better ratings I get.”

I’d never cuss at a safe, but I have a few choice words for this guy.

Taking a deep breath, I whisper an apology to the safe because it feels like it’s warranted. I have great respect for these things. They’ve survived the Great Depression, several wars, and even now, it’s holding strong against a guy willing to tear it to pieces to find out what’s inside.

Getting on my knees, I run my hands all over the thing before sweeping my fingers up the underside. There, my fingertips run over a small metal tag, and I have to grin.