No White Knight

Because I’m already pulling out, fishtailing across the lot, and hitting the street.

Libby’s just a glimpse of hot, furious blue eyes in my rear-view mirror.

Damn, I hate turning my back on her like this.

But my whole livelihood is going up in smoke as we speak.

I’ve got to do everything I can to stop it.

* * *

By the time we get there, Blake and Rich and a few other people on the local volunteer fire crew already have the blaze under control.

It’s not soon enough.

This was the big job that was going to shore things up while I worked on landing that mega mall contract.

We were clearing out the charred ruins of the Paradise Hotel and erecting a new commemorative tourist center.

Now, it looks like some jackass decided to reenact the Paradise Hotel fire from all those years ago that wrecked the place.

Not only are the building supplies we’d had stacked up torched, but the equipment we’d staged here has been scorched to blackened husks, too.

Mother fucker.

That shit cost a fortune.

I had to take out a small business loan to even lease it all at first after my New York defeat, and it took forever to pay off the loan. Even longer to finally lease out the equipment to full ownership.

Now I’ve got to replace it all when I don’t have the cash. I’m not even sure I’ve got the time.

The insurance alone will be a nightmare and a half, if I can even get reimbursed in time before ruining myself in premium hikes.

Did I say ninety-nine problems?

More like nine fucking hundred.

Blake’s standing at the edge of the ruined site, his fireman’s coveralls pulled down and tied around his waist, his grey t-shirt covered in sweat and soot and grime. He’s a dirty mess, but he always is when he’s firefighting. It’s how you know he did his damnedest.

I appreciate that he did his damnedest for me.

His expression’s grim as I step out of the Benz and jog up to him with Alaska on my heels, taking in the smoking desecration. It’s ash and cinders everywhere.

Rich picks through it to take the hose to a few more spots that are still glimmering with orange embers.

I just stop and stare, then drag my fingers through my hair, swearing.

“Fuck.”

“Yeah,” Blake says, growling under his breath. “That just about covers it, man. Tell me you’ve got insurance?”

“Not enough for this,” I say. “But it’ll be a start. Hopefully. What the fuck happened?”

“Smell that.” He sniffs, demonstrating. “Take a good, long whiff.”

I do—and almost choke.

At first all I get is this general burned smell, but then there’s something else behind it.

Gasoline.

“…someone did this?” I choke out, rage igniting in me hotter than any fire. “Someone burned down my fuckin’ site?”

“Unless you left any equipment running with a gas leak…”

“No,” I snarl. “Everything here was brought in by truck. None of the big stuff was even fueled up. We drain tanks when we park equipment for the long-haul, and this was a slow job. Basic safety.”

“Thought so.” Blake folds his arms over his chest, staring fiercely at the site. “Real sorry, bro. If it’s arson, it can’t be worse than the last time—”

“Don’t remind me,” I growl. Like I could ever forget how last time led to me saving Blake’s ass before he got turned into a charred mess himself.

I want to puke.

“Sorry,” Blake mutters. “Bad memories. If we’ve got another spree starting—”

“Sure hope not.” I shake my head. “Let’s hope this was something personal against me.”

“You? Who’d have a reason to set your shit on fire?”

“Uh, besides every scorned woman I’ve ever slept with in this town?” I snort. “I don’t know. I could make a list, but it’d be long. Plenty of people who don’t like me around these parts.”

“Hmm.” He goes silent for a bit, then grunts. “You find a dead body and start asking questions about it being connected to Galentron…then someone burns down your biggest construction site.”

“You think there’s a connection? Galentron’s after me?”

He sighs, then shakes his head. “Honestly, nah. Galentron’s got no stake in this. Warren and Doc couldn’t find any dude named Gerald Bostrom ever involved with that company, and they dug deep. I don’t think the stiff’s connected to them. This is something else. It’s you, Holt.”

I let my gaze drift over the twisted ruins of what was my pride and joy.

“What does that mean?” I ask, a bitter feeling sinking inside me.

“Not sure,” Blake says. “This feels personal, just like you said. Like someone wants to hurt you. Punish you. Get back at you for something.”

“Yeah,” I say. “The question is, who?”

A terrible knot in my gut says there’s one good guess.

11

Off That High Horse (Libby)

Good thing I didn’t get my hopes up—or else I might’ve forgotten what a shit-stomping crapsack Holt Silverton is.

I can’t believe his nerve.