Page 117 of Precious Hazard

Somehow managing to keep the phone pressed to my ear. My field of vision: the living room, utterly consumed by flames.

“It’s the same,” I whisper. “The fire. It smells the same.”

I jump out of my SUV, my gaze flying to the house beyond the blocked gate and the remnants of a bullet-riddled vehicle. The flickering orange light dances inside, while thick smoke billows from the broken windows, turns the blood in my veins into ice.

No!

The thunder of my beating heart drowns out the sounds of the chaotic gunfight all around me as I race toward the raging inferno.

“Tara!” I yell into the phone. “You need to get out of the house. Right now.”

Pain tears through my arm as a bullet grazes my shoulder. I block it out. Don’t even stop to shoot back. There are almost a hundred and fifty yards between me and the burning house. And my wife is inside.

“Do you hear me, Tara? Can you get out?”

She takes a shallow breath. “I can’t forget it.” Her tone is strangely serene. Peaceful, even.

“Tara!” I roar, hoping it will jar her out of the obvious stupor she’s in. She’s probably in shock, panicking. The night Greta lit the fireplace in Tara’s bedroom, my wife appeared to be rooted in place until I wrapped my arm around her.

“This smell. This… hellish heat. It was the same on the night we lost Dina. My parents. Twenty years. Twenty years and I can’t forget.”

A man with an automatic weapon is kneeling on the ground to my right, using Tara’s helicopter as his cover. He’s changing the magazine and getting ready to open fire. I shoot him in the head as I continue to run. “You have to get out of there,gattina! Please!”

“Drago should have taken Dina out first.” Tara’s voice remains calm, as if she doesn’t even hear me. “I cried. She didn’t. So he picked me. He chose the wrong sister. Dina would still be alive if I’d been braver, then Drago could have picked her instead of me.”

“Tara!” I yell, desperate to get through to her. There are now fewer than twenty feet between me and the front door.

“I messed up.” Her voice is so small, so mournful. “I always mess up.”

At the far edge of the driveway, I notice Tony supporting a woman as they flee from the house. For a split moment, I think it’s her. But no, it’s Greta.

“Where is she?” I roar as I run to them.

My housekeeper looks up, her face ashen. “She’s”—she coughs—“she’s still inside.”

Crushing fear squeezes my heart, spreads into every cell of my body faster than the flames destroying my home. I take off, closing the distance, and kick in the front door.

Thick, black smoke and unbelievable heat surge into my face. I toss the gun and lift the flap of my jacket over my nose, stepping inside.

Seems that most of the Molotov cocktails were thrown through the living room windows, because the whole area to the left of the front door is engulfed in flames. The blaze has spread along the entire span of the west wall, consuming drapes and furnishings, climbing to the ceiling.

Urgent calls replace the sounds of gunfire outside, and I recognize Nino’s voice among many others, yelling my name. Screaming for me to get out.

I’m not going anywhere without my wife. Even if it means we both burn to ash inside the damn house.

“Tara! Answer me, baby. Where are you?” I shout into the phone, but no sound comes from her end of the line.

The flames have reached past the main stairs, eating their way across the other side of the ground floor. We’re mere moments from the whole thing turning into a life-size furnace, and I can’t see her! Can’t find my wife! With all the smoke and blistering heat, I can’t see shit.

The phone.

I still have the phone.

Half blinded, I barely manage to cut the call, then immediately hit redial. Smoke fills my lungs, and I stumble, praying I’ll hear the ringing over the crackle of flames and the beating of my own heart. Access to the second floor is completely blocked by a floor-to-ceiling wall of fire.Madonna Santa, please, please don’t let her be upstairs.

A faint melody, only just audible over the frantic noise. From somewhere in the kitchen. I turn around.

There. Just behind the breakfast bar, curled on her side, my wife lies on the tiled floor. Thank God the blaze hasn’t yet reached her.

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