Lean Mean Thirteen (Stephanie Plum 13)

I straddled the open window, the truck moved in, I swung my other leg over, sucked in some air, and jumped. I hit the metal roof feetfirst and lost my balance. I went to my hands and knees, looking for something to grip, clawing at air. I slid over the side of the trailer and grabbed a strut as the truck drove away from the building. I hung like that, flopping around and swearing, for just a couple of seconds before my fingers released and I crashed to the ground.

I was spread-eagled on my back with all the air knocked out of me. I had cobweb vision. The truck engine chugged in my ear, and Randy bent over me. His face was inches from mine, the sun framing his Wild Man of Borneo hair in a glorious corona.

I couldn't speak. The air hadn't yet returned to my lungs. “Un,” I said.

“What should I do?” he asked. “Should I feel for broken bones? Maybe around your rib cage. Loosen your clothes.”

“Unl”

“It was worth a try,” he said. “A guys gotta try, right?”

“I'm assuming I'm not dead.”

“No. You're just a little scratched up and…”

“And what?”

“And nothing.”

“You're looking at my hair. What's wrong with my hair?”

“It's a little… singed.”

I closed my eyes. “Shit.”

“You're not gonna cry, are you? My girlfriend always cries if I say the wrong thing about her hair. I hate that.”

I made an effort to get up, but I was in pain everywhere and not making much vertical progress. Finally, Randy got me under the armpits and dragged me to my feet.

“I don't suppose you found the guy you were looking for,” Randy said.

“Hard to tell.”

“Are you waiting around for the police and the fire trucks?”

“Do you think they will come?”

“Not unless we call them.”

Tm not inclined to do that."

“Me either.”

“Thanks for getting me out of there,” I said to Randy. “That was a really big truck.”

“It's a double-decker car hauler. We use it to… uh, haul cars.”

The warehouse was an inferno, completely engulfed in flames, the heat stinging my skin. Black smoke billowed about a quarter mile into the sky.

“It's a decent fire,” Randy said, looking up at the smoke. “We might get some action on this one.”

I limped to the Buick, managed to get behind the wheel, and did some slow breathing. I sat for a couple of minutes, collecting myself. A bay door to the body shop opened, and the car hauler rolled out. The shop had cleaned up for visitors.

I got the Buick started and followed the hauler to Route One. Sirens screamed in the distance, but we were traveling away from them. When we reached Route One, the hauler went north and I went south. I took the Broad Street exit and drove back to my apartment. Rangers Porsche and my purse were still at my parents' house, but I wasn't going to retrieve them looking like this. I'd lost about an inch of hair, and the ends were scorched black and frizzed. I was cut and scraped and blistered and sore. I was going to take a shower and crawl into bed and stay there until my hair grew back.

I stepped out of the elevator and slowly propelled myself down the hall, leaving smudges of soot and blood. Before the day was over, Dillon would be working on the carpet with his rug shampooer. Mental note: Get a six-pack for Dillon.

I opened my door, trudged inside, and almost keeled over when I saw Ranger. He was sitting in my living room, in my only good chair, his elbows on the arms, his fingers steepled together in front of him. His face showed no emotion, but he was radiating anger. I could have popped corn on the invisible energy Ranger was throwing.