Duty To Protect. Beth Cornelison

to the emergency operator, explaining the situation and her concerns, she watched the man shred a T-shirt and poke a strip of cloth into the end of one of the beer bottles.

      Puzzled, Ginny squinted for a better look at his odd behavior, just as the man flicked a lighter and lit the cloth on fire. Alarm bells clanged in her mind. Something was very wrong with this picture.

      “He’s burning the strips of shirt, like they were a…”

      Fuse.

      The word filtered through her mind as, numbly, she watched the man hurl the bottle at the front window of the women’s center. She heard the crash of shattering glass.

      Screams.

      Boom.

      The concussion of the firebomb wasn’t loud or especially powerful, but the horror of what was happening was enough to render her legs useless for a moment.

      Knees wobbling, she gasped for a breath and panted into the phone, “Not beer! Gasoline. He has gas in the bottles! He’s throwing Molotov cocktails at us! Our building’s on fire!”

      “Stay calm—”

      The man took aim at Ginny’s office.

      Quickly, she ducked and rolled under her desk, covering her head. The top pane of her window shattered, the beer bottle crashing against the opposite wall. A small fireball blasted her office. Heat seared Ginny’s arms and cheeks, but her desk protected her from the worst of the fire. The acrid scent of gasoline and smoke filled her lungs.

      Covering her mouth and nose with the neckline of her blouse, Ginny scrambled out from under her desk. She assessed the damage, searched for an escape route.

      Flames licked her office door, spread across the floor as the gasoline-soaked carpet was gobbled up by the fire.

      She turned to the window. Shoving it open wider, Ginny gasped for fresh air. With her office door blocked by flames, she’d have to remove the screen that covered the lower half of the window, and climb out.

      She glanced across the front lawn of the women’s center to the sedan. The crazy man, who had apparently launched all of his homemade firebombs, was climbing into his car.

      Keeping a wary eye on the vehicle, Ginny fumbled with the latch on the screen. The rusty lever wouldn’t budge.

      Her eyes watered from the heat and smoke. Her lungs seized, and she coughed. Gagged. Wheezed.

      Still the latch stuck. Taking a step back, she kicked with all her strength.

      The screen popped loose and hung drunkenly by one corner. Gripping it with both hands, she yanked the mesh out of her way.

      As she scrambled to hoist herself up to the window ledge, a woman’s shout snagged Ginny’s attention.

      Annie Compton ran out onto the lawn with her smallest child in her arms. Members of the center’s staff had also congregated on the front lawn, safe from the fire. Before Ginny could sigh in relief that the staff and her client seemed to be safe, Annie separated herself from the group and charged toward the departing sedan.

      “How could you do this, Walt? You’re insane!”

      “No, no!” Ginny whispered under her breath. “Don’t provoke him. Don’t—”

      The sedan’s tires squealed as it whipped a U-turn, fishtailed, then roared back toward the women’s center.

      “Annie!” Ginny screamed, her heart in her throat.

      Walt Compton punched the gas and sped straight for his wife, who held their baby in her arms.

      Ginny’s breath stuck in her throat. Time seemed to stretch, events passing in slow motion.

      Walt drove over the curb, across the lawn.

      Annie screamed. Jumped out of the car’s path. Almost.

      The front fender clipped her, and she spun. Stumbled. Fell.

      The momentum of Walt’s sedan kept the mammoth car rocketing forward. Toward the women’s center. Toward Ginny’s office window.

      Panicked, Ginny reeled backward, tripping over her metal trash can. Staggering. Clambering to get out of the sedan’s path.

      Walt’s car plowed through the front wall with an earsplitting crash. Wood splintered and metal tore with a screech. Broken glass sprayed the room.

      The front wall of the women’s center caved inward under the vehicle’s assault. Tumbling drywall and splintered siding showered down on Ginny in a perilous, painful barrage. A tall filing cabinet tipped toward her. Amid the fallen rubble, she tried desperately to crab-crawl out of the way.

      But couldn’t.

      The heavy cabinet toppled onto her, crushing her arm.

      Blinding pain streaked from her arm and radiated through her entire body. When she tried to suck in enough breath to cry for help, smoke clogged her lungs and made her cough.

      She was pinned down. Bleeding. Terrified.

      And trapped in the burning office.

      Adrenaline kicking, Riley Sinclair pulled his face shield into place as he jumped from the pumper and wove through the chaos at the Lagniappe Women’s Center.

      His buddy and fellow firefighter, Cal Walters, trotted up behind him. “Is that a car in the front wall?”

      “Looks like. Dispatch said a guy was tossing Molotov cocktails through the windows. A pissed-off husband or something. I’d lay bets that’s his car, his coup de grâce.”

      “Which means he could still be trapped in the car.”

      “Exactly.”

      “I’m on it.” Cal jogged toward the imbedded car. “We may have a man inside down here!” he shouted toward the guys on the line. “Give me a blanket of water!”

      Riley headed over to where his captain stood talking to a frantic dark-haired woman.

      “—is still inside!” Riley heard her shout as he approached.

      His gut tightened. “Captain?”

      Captain Shaw turned a grave expression toward Riley. “She says they haven’t found one of the counselors yet. She may still be inside.”

      “That’s her office! Where the car hit!” The woman gestured wildly toward the wrecked sedan.

      Despite the adrenaline charging through his blood, Riley’s heart slowed. His breath stalled in his lungs. He jerked his gaze toward the crumbled front wall.

      Flames engulfed that section of the women’s center, fueled by the oxygen pouring through the car-created hole in the siding.

      Chances were slim anyone could still be alive in that office.

      But for Riley, a slim chance was good enough. His heart kicked, and his pulse thrummed.

      He spun toward the frantic woman. “What’s her name?”

      “Ginny. Ginny West. Oh, please, help her!”

      Riley shoved his breathing apparatus over his nose.

      Captain Shaw caught his arm, growling, “Sinclair, the building’s too involved. I can’t order anyone to go in.”

      Riley nailed his boss with a stubborn glare. “Then I’m volunteering.”

      The captain scowled. Sighed. Nodded.

      Gritting his teeth, Riley hurried across the lawn, already adjusting the valve to start his flow of oxygen.

      As he approached the smashed sedan, Cal was coming out, shaking his head. Cal turned toward Riley as he raced up. “There’s no one anywhere in or around the car. Whoever was driving is gone, vanished. He—”

      “There’s still