Page 34 of Arsonist’s Match (Blaze and Badge #1)

H e hunkered in his basement-level room—his safe place, cut off from the world. Dark. Dank. Familiar. Like where he’d been banished to as a kid, just to get him out of the way. But the cave-like room had given him a space of his own in which to think. To plan. To burn.

“Can’t believe it. The feds, breathin’ down my neck.” He paced, yanking his hair in frustration.

They’ve got nothin’ on you, answered a voice in his head . Relax. Just fishin’.

Was it his fault that his mother was a drunk and the man of the house used him as a punching bag when he was a boy?

That must have been why he struggled to get ahead.

He wasn’t dumb—that much he knew. But his parents didn’t care.

The last time he got smacked, he’d struck back.

Standing up for himself had made him feel powerful.

In control. And it had felt good. Naturally, he’d been kicked out of the house and forced to manage alone.

Alone—wasn’t that the truth! Friends were merely people who wanted something from you. Maybe they’d give you a nickel, expecting a dime in return, but the lot of them were nothing but fair-weather companions. Let it rain, and they scattered like roaches.

Locked in that basement as a child, he’d found comfort in fire.

The way flames danced. The way they ate.

His anger, his resentment, his powerlessness—he fed all of it to the fire.

Paper, leaves, whatever would burn. It might’ve bit him once or twice, but fire never left him.

He knew how to give it life, to help it grow, or keep it contained.

He could count on combustion to behave as he expected it to—no sudden shift from kind to cruel, no lies, no leaving him.

Fire was rel iable, always there when he needed it to calm or soothe, rage or reap revenge. It was his only friend.

Pay attention! Why can’t you do anything right? The spiteful words he’d heard all his life roared in his ears. Failure. Screwup. Get outta here, freak!

He slapped his hands over his ears and crumpled into a chair at his tiny table. A half-eaten bowl of tepid canned ravioli sat there, mocking him.

“I am not!” he thundered back. “I showed you—I showed you all!”

Yes, you did. And they won’t catch you. You must stay cool. Behave. Act innocent. Don’t let them see.

But what if they saw through his disguise?

What if, instead of a powerful man, they saw a frightened little boy, locked in his basement?

The more his thoughts dwelt on the sharp FBI agent in charge, how he could be caught, the more anxious he became – scorpions skittering under his skin—biting, stinging, burning.

In futility, he clawed at his arms with nails gnawed to the quick. A cigarette? Fire!

Shoving the disgusting bowl of pasta to the floor, he grabbed his favorite terracotta pot from across the table, tore paper, filled it, and flicked his metal pocket lighter.

The smell. The faint crackle. The heat. The mesmerizing dance of the flames.

At last, he could breathe, and his anxiety waned.

They had all wronged him. The world was against him. Let it burn. Maybe it should all burn. But not yet.

“What do we do about the feds? They’re on to us.”

No. They’re just askin’ everyone questions. You saw. You aren’t the only one. If they had anything, they’d be busting in searchin’ our place. You’re safe here , the voice in his mind consoled.

“So what? I just sit back and wait?” He shredded a cereal box, feeding torn pieces to his fire pot. For years, it had been enough. Then everything had snapped. He needed more.

How far will you go?

“People have already died. What’s a few more? How many life sentences can they give me?”

Staring a t the hypnotic twisting of the flames before him, he rubbed a hand across his chin. Considering. Hungering to feel. Needing to keep safe. Only fire kept him safe. It always had. It would again.

“I’m all in. No choice. Act or die.”

The voice, constantly echoing in his brain, kept silent. No matter.

“I’ll devise a plan,” he told himself, head cocked in deliberation. He dragged a finger along his jaw, then flicked it through the column of flame leaping from the pot.

You did it before, returned his invisible companion . Accelerant. Fuel. Ignition. It’s easy. Just be sure the woman agent is there. Feed her to your fire. With her gone, the others can’t catch you.

He lit the last scrap of the cardboard, holding it, moving it in a slow twirl, until the fire skimmed the pads of his fingers. Only then did he release it into the burning pot. It was true, he’d lost his temper with the HR woman. The others had been collateral damage. But to plan a murder?

Power, invincibility, and the thrill of the challenge rushed through him like a firestorm.

His eyes brightened, his heart racing. “We can do this!” he declared, slamming a fist on the table.

The pot rattled, embers stirring. Flames leaped higher, cheering him on.

Emboldened, the firestarter got to work.

The next morning

As soon as Flash left her shift, she hopped on her motorcycle and rode to Lone Star Manufacturing to meet Athena and Bonnie. Captain Jake didn’t mind keeping Snuffles at the station a while longer. No sense exposing her little dog to danger.

She was glad she’d been able to convince Athena over the phone that she should be there too.

Nothing in heaven or earth would have kept Flash from coming—it was just, this way Athena wouldn’t be mad about it.

And it definitely h ad nothing to do with a twinge of jealousy over Bonnie Ballard spending time alone with her girlfriend.

Nope. Not at all. Flash’s foremost intention was keeping Athena safe.

Not only did the burnt-out ruins of a crumbling factory present a throng of safety hazards, but what if the arsonist showed up?

Nothing left to burn, but he could have a gun.

Yes, guns were Athena’s arena, and she could take care of herself.

It all made intellectual sense. Flash still needed to be at Athena’s side—just in case.

Flash arrived first, parked at a safe distance, and began a slow circuit of the crumbling concrete and half-standing steel.

The roof was gone, edges charred black, piles of ash compressed by water from the firefighters’ hoses.

Scorched shrubbery. Broken glass. A chair’s metal frame warped from intense heat.

Much of the odor had since blown away, but it still hung to scattered piles of debris.

She pictured it ablaze—orange glow against a midnight sky. Screaming workers, sirens, and the rush of water trying to tame the inferno. Two people died, she recalled.

You can’t save them all. The words rang hollow in her chest. Then came the scrape of tires over gravel.

Flash turned around, relieved to see Athena and Bonnie exit the fire investigator’s pickup truck. Picking up her pace, she strode to meet them.

“Flash,” Bonnie greeted. “Athena told me you were meeting us here.”

“I know this is your turf,” she said to Bonnie, “but I wanted eyes on the scene. Athena said it was cool.” She risked a glance at her sexy, all-business FBI agent—black slacks hugging curves, sensible shoes for once. She had to wrangle her wandering thoughts to focus on the task before them.

“Right,” Bonnie concurred.

“What’s the sense you get from here?” Athena asked as she sidled up beside Flash.

“It burned fast,” she deduced. “Station Twenty-one would’ve hit this in under ten. They’ve got an engine and a tower truck, so would have had a hose on the roof and more going in the front. But look at the extent of the damage.” She waved a hand at the burnt-out shell with a missing exterior wall.

“I agre e,” Bonnie said. “We identified three points of origin—the office, a closet, and a storage room, all laced with accelerant. But only the office had the signature sparkler. I suspect he used a slow-release flame at the other ignition points, like a cigarette in a matchbook or something easily consumed in the blaze. Maximum damage would come from a near-simultaneous detonation of the three sites.”

“My question,” Athena stated as they stood on the edge of the ruin, “is how our unsub walked around in there, setting those fires, when workers were present? The previous buildings were empty, so no risk of getting caught. This is different. It’s like he needed a bigger thrill, more danger endorphins. ”

“When we interviewed the survivors, the night supervisor said that Lone Star operates around the clock. They just keep a smaller crew in overnight,” Bonnie relayed.

“And nobody recalled seeing a person who stood out as not belonging. No suspicious activity, either. The security guard who escaped unharmed said a key card was required for entry.”

“But if he broke in or simply followed an employee through the door …” Athena speculated. “Maybe he was wearing a uniform, a cap, looked like he fit in. Can we go inside?”

“Yes, but watch your step, and don’t stray from me,” Bonnie instructed.

Flash would rather scoop Athena up in her arms and carry her than walk beside her over piercing shards of glass, sharp metal tips, soggy globs of ash, and other perilous impediments littering the floor.

She resisted the urge, but, when something smooshed under Athena’s foot, throwing her off balance, Flash caught her elbow to steady her.

“Here’s the primary point of origin.” Bonnie stopped at a warped aluminum frame surrounded by piles of blackened rubble.

Recognizable was a metal trash can and the same “V” burn pattern Flash had spotted at Synergy. She kneeled on a smooth spot, sniffing the can. “BBQ lighter fluid.”

“The lab will give us a definitive answer,” Bonnie replied.

“The arsonist must have waited until the night manager left the office, or maybe he lured him out,” Athena speculated. “What exactly did he say?”

Bonnie pu lled out her phone, scrolling through notes.

“He said, ‘I was called to the floor when a worker’s machine froze up. When I headed back, I saw the office engulfed in flames. The alarm should have gone off and sprinklers kicked in, but they didn’t.

That’s when I ordered everyone to evacuate. ’”

“He tampered with the safety system too,” Athena reasoned. “This took a lot of planning, and only a week after the last fire. You’ve got to wonder if he has help.”

“Not from a firefighter,” Flash replied. “Surely not, right?” She met Athena’s gaze with worry and denial.

“We have to stick to evidence,” Athena said, though doubt flickered in her eyes. “Inspector Ballard, where did you find the items you retrieved?”

“Here.” Bonnie pointed to a spot near the trash can. “I couldn’t tell if they were important or not, but prefer to err on the side of thoroughness.”

“Always a smart move,” Athena commended.

Upon hearing another vehicle, Flash glanced through a yawning hole in the front wall. The FBI crime scene crew.

“My backup,” Athena said. “They’ll know what might hold a fingerprint or where some uncharred DNA could be found. Our guy really did a number on this place. I hoped to find more to go on.”

“That’s arson for you,” Flash muttered. “If the fire doesn’t eat it, the water drowns it. But they could find something.” No point dousing Athena’s hopes.

Athena looked up, rotating in a slow circle as she studied the destruction surrounding her. “I know you rush into places like this while the fire’s hot,” she commented. Taking a steadying breath, she added, “I remember being in one myself, not so long ago.”

This was excellent therapy for Athena—facing the scene of a fatal fire after having been in one, losing Agent Cruz to it.

Flash wanted to reach out and take her hand, squeeze it, remind her she wasn’t alone.

But Bonnie and the CSI team. She understood Athena couldn’t appear weak—human, even—in front of them.

When their eyes met, Flash saw everything—confidence, appreciation, and that unshakable sense of partnership.

“Inspec tor Ballard, thank you for escorting me to see for myself,” Athena said, angling toward the exit. Tension eased from her shoulders as she exhaled a breath she probably hadn’t realized she was holding. “Flash, do you mind? Can’t risk a twisted ankle,” Athena said, extending her hand.

Warmth rose in Flash’s cheeks, but she kept her grin to a minimum as she took Athena’s hand.

“No, we can’t have that, Agent Bouvier. I’ve got you now.”

I’ll always have you.