Page 48 of Fire and Smoke (Nothing Special #9)

Lawson (Law) Sheppard

Law stood in front of the hazy mirror in the precinct’s locker room, looking dazedly at the Kevlar vest constricting his breath and the black cargo pants tucked into his boots.

His reflection stared back at him, wild-eyed, pale, and with a sheen of sweat glistening on his forehead.

He gripped the edge of the sink so hard his fingers ached.

He’d barely slept. He’d lain awake in Wes’s basement, the city sirens howling outside, praying the mission day would hurry and come and go.

Wes’s absence gnawed at him like an infected wound.

He’d tried to force himself to focus, but his mind kept veering to the west coast.

He imagined Wes in a high-tech workshop provided by one of the biggest production companies in the world, with goggles pushed up in his hair as he welded sparks into brilliance.

Law wondered if Wes was thinking about him.

God, I miss you so fuckin’ much.

He swallowed hard and let go of the sink. He had work to do.

He flipped open one of the metal lockers and stared at a row of slender, matte-black bombs nestled into the foam lining like precious artifacts. He reached in and cradled one in his palm, running his thumb over the engraved letters…

A-25 SMK SHLD

It wasn’t Wes’s fire, all roaring gold and thunder, hurling itself into the sky like a living creature.

But it was his, and it was pretty fucking badass.

He’d tried to replicate some of Wes’s pyrotechnic flourishes in the last few days—small flash papers to temporarily blind, ring-of-flame illusions—but he’d kept screwing up the chemical ratios, creating shockwaves that had almost taken his eyebrows off.

So he’d focused on perfecting his smoke instead.

He’d designed new vials to douse any chemicals hurled at the team or used to blow up evidence and smokes that could absorb certain airborne toxins.

He also had dense walls of vapor that would kill visibility for anyone firing at them. With Free’s transparent composition eyewear to see through it all, they should have a huge advantage.

His biggest design that had wowed the entire team were the colored plumes the SWAT team would use to mark cleared rooms and escape routes.

Law swallowed around a dry throat and tucked the last of his devices into his belt.

Please let it be enough and let this be the end.

He left the locker room and entered the narcotics department briefing room, which was four walls of chaos.

Men and women in full black raid gear clattered past him in heavy boots as they quadruple-checked their weapons and snapped magazines into place.

The teams resembled a battalion of dark warriors concealed behind black helmets and face shields.

The various outlets of radio chatter—precinct dispatch, local news, traffic, and weather reports—overlapped like tips of a knife stabbing at his temples.

This was real…maybe too real.

Across the room, God and Day stood in a corner, foreheads pressed together, eyes locked as if they were speaking a language only they understood.

Nobody bothered them.

Law stared at them for a long moment. It was what love looked like when the world was falling apart. It made envy and want twist in his soul.

“All right, listen up!”

Law tried to focus as Syn’s voice boomed over the scattered conversations.

“This is our last chance to get Mercer before IA pulls the plug on us. No cowboy shit! No free-balling it. We do this clean, totally by the book, and fast. And God help the bastard who misses their comm check-in.”

The room roared with whoops and curses.

Law barely heard any of it. The sound echoed around him like he was underwater.

Captain Hart stepped up beside Syn, his gaze scanning the room.

“Free is handling all surveillance from base command. He’ll have eyes on every exit, all bodycams, building schematics, and he’ll be monitoring digital chatter in real-time. If anyone tries to text or call out of that building, he’ll intercept it.”

Hart shifted his steely eyes to Law. “He’ll especially be watching you and Wes.”

Law jerked his head up so fast his neck cracked.

Wes?

The steel door to Free’s vault hissed open behind Hart.

Free emerged first, expression intense, his black sleeves shoved up over tattooed forearms, dark eyes shining like chips of onyx. Wes followed close behind him, flipping his Zippo open and shut.

He was in full gear. Combat pants snug around his thighs, heavy black boots, vest molded to his lean torso. A matte-black helmet shadowed his eyes, but a familiar grin curved his lips.

He had a massive duffel bag hanging from one shoulder, rattling with the weight of metal and explosives inside.

Law’s heart slammed so violently into his ribs he thought one might break.

For a second, the entire room blurred out, and all he saw was Wes.

The man who’d once painted the LA sky with fire just for him.

Law couldn’t breathe, his throat closing around the rush of emotion.

He wanted to scream, “What the fuck are you doing here? You’re supposed to be safe in LA, waiting for me to prove myself worthy of you.”

But instead, he just stared, blinking, mouth cinched tight to keep from breaking apart.

Wes didn’t look at anyone else as he crossed the room, not stopping until they were face-to-face.

He dropped his duffel at Law’s feet. And with a stern glare and molten-hot affection, he leaned in, voice low for only him to hear.

“You really think I’d let you go through the fire alone?” Wes let out a soft growl. “I never have, and I never will.”

Law clenched his fists until his knuckles cracked, fighting back the urge to drag Wes into the nearest empty hallway and kiss him senseless.

Instead, he managed to rasp, “I thought you—”

“Had your back, like always.”

Law swallowed the burning ache in his throat.

For the first time in days, he felt steady. He had confidence.

He was ready to do this.