Page 35 of Arsonist’s Match (Blaze and Badge #1)

Two days later

H e lit a cigarette, inhaled, and let a ribbon of smoke swirl from his lips. Why didn’t people like this smell? Sure, it wasn’t the clean scent of a bonfire or indoor burn pot, fueled by wood products alone. Still, it was comforting. Satisfying.

Flicking through channels on his TV, he stopped at a news report about the Houston fires.

“Investigators are calling them arson and have connected Lone Star to the destructive blazes at Synergy Warehouse and Nutty Smooth Peanut Butter. No arrests have been made. We must assume the Sparkler Firesetter remains at large.”

Pride burned in his chest as scenes of the scorched, crumbling frame of the factory played across the screen. My best work yet , he boasted, taking a swig of his Wild Turkey.

“A tropical depression formed in the Caribbean is moving west toward the Gulf of Mexico,” stated the TV news anchor.

“Hopefully, it will bring us some much-needed rain,” commented the co-host. “Let’s see what meteorologist Ken Nguyen has to say.”

He flicked it off. Who gives a damn about weather? When it stays hot too long, it rains. When it rains too much, it gets hot again. Another drag, and memory pulled him under. Steel.

He’d go ne to Little Rock because his uncle had a job at a construction company, said he’d put in a good word.

He’d shown up, clean and presentable, with a resume and everything.

Showed off with the nail gun, sander, cement.

Anything they wanted. Uncle Nick assured him the bosses were impressed—he was a shoo-in.

Days went by. A week. Nothing. He checked back at the office. “Oh, sorry, dude. The position’s been filled. Good luck. You’ll find something.” Asshole smiled, patted him on the shoulder, like everything was fine. It wasn’t. Rent was due. Electric bill to pay. He had to eat.

Knight’s Construction had asked for it. Disrespect like that had to burn. They couldn’t call and let him know? Left him hanging? Waiting? For nothing? And what had Uncle Nick done?

“Sorry, kid. I thought they’d hire you. Hey, when are you leaving? I might need my couch back.” Practically shoved him out the door.

“How do you like having no job?” he grumbled to his glass of bourbon.

Shreveport was the kicker, though. His sister had suggested he look for employment where she lived—even let him crash at her apartment for a week. The steelworks wasn’t the only place he’d struck out, but the others were nice about it.

“Sorry. Your qualifications look great, but we just aren’t hiring now. Downsizing, really. Good luck.”

“It was her. That bitch with the attitude.” He ground his teeth, feeding his rising heat with another shot from his glass.

Sign said hiring . Liar. Guy at the front ushered him in, gave him a form. “Why don’t you go back and talk to Ms. Knowles? We need someone ASAP.”

He’d felt confident, promise busting out of his pores. He handed her the form, took his seat with a charming smile. Why wouldn’t she want to hire him?

Her sharp features twisted like the wicked witch—arsenic for breakfast—a bottomless pit where a soul belonged.

Before long, her ugly mouth spilled the phrases, “Don’t meet our standards.

” “Lacking experience.” “No references.” Culminating with, “It’s our policy to hire Shreveport residents before a Texas transient. ”

Trans ient? It was the match. How dare she? He wasn’t homeless or destitute. He was trying to find a stinking job, for Christ’s sake!

Her insults stung, boiled, and festered. Gritting his teeth, he’d stormed out. Drove around. Parked overlooking the muddy Red River to think. Plan. Burn, yes, but what about the bitch?

Thinking back, he realized it was his rage.

It could have gotten him caught. But she had it coming.

He went back, waited in the parking lot.

Dragged her behind a dumpster, knocked her out.

He put her in her car and drove away. Had to park close by but make everybody think she’d gone home.

Scared when she woke up. He was in charge then.

Felt good. Powerful. Especially seeing her eyes when he lit his sparkler and tossed it into the accelerant-soaked rags.

He’d squirted lighter fluid on her too, just to behold her terror.

But later, he felt bad. “Bad boy!” his mother’s voice had chastised him. When he was over his fury, he didn’t want her to be dead. Couldn’t be undone. Had to live with it.

Lone Star was different. He hadn’t killed those people on purpose.

They should have moved faster. Everyone else got out.

Wasn’t his fault. Yeah, he’d cut the wires to the alarms and shut off the sprinklers.

He wanted the grandest blaze of his life.

Watched from the shadows. Unseen. Untouchable.

The lights, sirens, engines, the all-consuming inferno— his inferno. Not his fault those people died.

But the FBI woman. That was different. If he killed her, it would be murder. A law enforcement officer. Bigger manhunt to find him.

“I don’t know if it’s a good idea.” He snuffed out the butt of his cigarette in the tray. Darkness filtered through the narrow, high window of the basement. He couldn’t see the moon from here. Never could.

You have to, demanded the voice in his head. It’s the only way to protect yourself. She doesn’t understand. She’ll lock you away forever. No more freedom. No more fires.

Panic seized his chest. “No more fire?”

You know you can’t have matches or a lighter in p rison.

“What if I feel bad afterward again? What if it doesn’t work? What if I get caught?”

It’s a risk. But you love a good risk. Adrenaline. Endorphins. Think about the spectacular fire when you finally send her off in a blaze of glory. What? Do you think she wants to die some old woman with cancer or heart disease? You’ll be doin’ her a favor.

“Maybe.”

You haven’t been caught yet. You won’t be.

“I’ve been lucky.” He drained the rest of the amber liquid from his glass.

Or maybe you’re just talented. Aren’t people supposed to use their talents?

He chewed his nails. Stared at the black TV screen.

You have a plan. Courage! Follow through. It’s the only way.

“It’s the only way.” He flicked the lighter. Birthed a flame. Watched it dance.

A week since the last task force meeting

This time, the task force met on Athena’s home turf in the fourth-floor conference room of the Houston Field Office. She pulled Agent Paulson in to slightly balance the table in a room full of firefighters.

“We knew you’d want this report ASAP.” Fire Marshal Zapata, sharp and official in his dress blacks—badge, rank, and affiliation prominently displayed—passed a folder to Ballard, who handed it to Athena. Chief Burks and Captain O’Riley, less formally attired, rounded out the group.

Athena opened it, eager for some good news. Her unit kept pressing the arson-for-hire angle, giving every suspect another pass, but they still lacked hard evidence

“It appears the arsonist left a few things behind this time,” Ballard commented. “We figure it was because he was in a greater rush to escape unseen since workers were present.”

Athena re ad while Zapata elaborated. “The screwdriver and wire cutters were too scorched to render DNA or fingerprints. Bonnie collected them from the office floor near the point of origin, and the night manager swore they weren’t his.

These were identified as Snap-on brand, and Lone Star only keeps Matco tools onsite.

In addition to the expected BBQ lighter fluid, rag fragments our investigators dug from the ash also tested positive for trace amounts of oil and gasoline—a deviation from the earlier scenes.

Charred remains of mechanic gloves were also recovered. ”

“But here’s the really interesting part,” Ballard said. She leaned over, peering at the report, and pointed. “A nametag.”

Studying the evidence photo, Athena pursed her lips, squinting. “I can’t read a name.”

“No,” Bonnie admitted, “but since it was a metal name tag instead of plastic, it came through the blaze fairly intact. The lab used a chemical solution to clean it up—Bubba’s Tire & Auto.”

While Paulson began tapping away at his laptop, Captain O’Riley filled in the details. “We tracked it down to a defunct business on Alabama Street in the Third Ward.”

Close to Firehouse Eight, Athena recalled. Flash.

Chief Burks picked up the story. “The building has been derelict since a tire fire severely damaged it five years ago. It was deemed an accident. The owner collected his insurance money and disappeared, making the property a burden to the city of Houston.”

“Did you know,” Paulson asked as he stopped on an article, “that there are more than a thousand dangerous buildings in Houston? Abandoned, dilapidated fire hazards. This says the condemned shop on Alabama Street was slated to be demolished over a year ago.”

“Yeah, but it’s still there,” Zapata grumbled, impatient aggravation warping his distinguished face.

“There’s a long and complicated process for the city to demolish a neglected building,” explained Burks.

“They started it with an injunction against the owner a year after the fire. The property had become overgrown and a magnet for trash du mping. Guy sent a letter saying he’d take care of it.

Six months later, when the city reached out, its letter came back nondeliverable—guy moved. No forwarding address.”

Zapata raked a hand over his short hair. “Ever since Hurricane Harvey, the city has been backlogged with damaged, deserted buildings to deal with.”

“Despite all that,” Ballard stated, “Bubba’s Tire & Auto is still standing—barely. We took a drive-by. It’s boarded up, graffiti on the walls, but still there.”

“The real question is,” Athena queried, “how does it connect to our arsonist? Did he used to work there? Did a relative own the place? Does he live nearby? Most of the Third Ward is residential.”

“I’d be happy to go with you to check it out.” Ballard’s eyes lit up.

Athena hesitated, her mind flipping pages in her mental notebook of worst-case scenarios.

Recalling the summer fiasco at the derelict Grove Immediate Care Hospital, she shook her head.

“We need to treat this like a trap. I can see dropping the tools, racing out before he’s caught, but not the nametag.

He wouldn’t have been just wearing a pin from a shop that’s been out of business for five years.

That was an intentional plant, either as a taunt or a lure.

He’s devolving. Maybe subconsciously, he wants to get caught, or he’s setting us up.

Paulson, research. Surveillance. Let’s get cameras on site and a team cruising the area. We aren’t walking into another trap.”

“Smart move,” commended Chief Burks. “But it would also be advisable to have someone from arson investigation along when you do go in to identify suspicious materials, ignition devices, and the like.”

“Just let me know when you’re ready to proceed,” Ballard said with a brisk nod. “I’d like to be on your team.”

So would Flash, Athena thought.

“I’ll let you know.” She pushed up from the table. “Thank you for this. It’s our best lead yet. And keep on top of any business fires. It’s been over a week, and he’ll be itching to strike again.”

“Will do,” Zapata concurred.

Athena sh owed them to the door and said her goodbyes. I’ve got to get it right this time. No repeat mistakes. No one else is dying on my watch.