Page 5 of Wrecker

I yelled until my throat was sore, but nobody came.

Drifting in and out of awareness, I finally heard a deep voice barking orders.

“Help!” I screamed as loudly as I could. “I’m over here! Please, help me!”

“Silence,” the man roared. “I think I heard her.”

“You did,” I squeaked, my voice giving out at the very worst time possible.

Refusing to give up, I tapped my broken phone against the doorframe, tears streaming down my cheeks. It seemed like hours later when broad hands cleared debris to my left as though it was nothing.

All I could see of my rescuer was that he was big and fierce.

He shouted something I couldn’t make out, and then his eyes locked on mine.

They were sharp. Fierce. Full of fury.

I wasn’t alone.

Relief washed over me so hard I almost sobbed.

Then everything went black.

3

WRECKER

Iwas halfway into the Chattanooga city limits when the blast lit up the sky. Fire bloomed in the distance—red and orange licking up into the purple and pink hues of the sunrise.

A minute later, I could see the garage—blown apart like a fucking matchbox. Concrete and steel skeletons shearing sideways. Sirens already screamed in the distance.

Fuck. I was too late.

My gut dropped.

There was no reason to believe that Peyton had been there when the building blew, but something inside me shouted to get there as fast as possible.

The sun had barely clawed its way above the skyline, but the air was already thick with smoke. The wreckage smoked heavily, and ash floated in lazy spirals through the morning light. Sirens wailed down side streets, and radio static cracked over handhelds. I pulled up slow, cutting the Harley’s engine.

Her car was here.

Around the corner from the garage, like it had every damn right to be there, parallel-parked tight and precise. There wasn’t a scratch on it, and the sight of the untouched vehicle made mystomach turn because that meant she’d still been inside when the building gave out.

“Fuck,” I growled under my breath, swinging off the bike.

My boots hit pavement hard as I stalked toward the barricade line, weaving between orange cones and yellow tape, and pushing past a huddle of EMTs who instinctively stepped aside. Bodie, the fire chief, spotted me, squinted against the smoke, and then let out a breath like he’d probably been holding it since the blast.

A police rookie stepped in front of me with his version of an authoritative expression.

“Sir, you can’t be here. Go back behind the barricade.”

I was about to tear the little shit a new one, but the chief jogged over and tapped the kid on the shoulder. “I wouldn’t piss off the demolition expert, boot. I suggest you get to know our allies so you don’t insult another one.”

The kid’s eyes went wide, then he nodded and scurried away.

“Wrecker,” Bodie greeted with a grim smile as he shook my hand. “Damn good timing.”

“Wish I’d beat the fucking fireworks,” I muttered, scanning the scene. “Garage go fast or slow?”

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