Combustible (A Boone Childress Novel) by CC Abbott Page A

Nagswood, a wide place in the road on Highway 12
    "That's only ten miles away," he said quietly. "Nobody has a chance of getting there first." Since Lamar had put him on probation, he had been chafing at the bit for another chance to prove himself.
    No heroics this time. Rules and regs, just like Lamar wanted.
    "I'll follow the speed limit," he promised as he started the truck. His turnouts were on the seat next to him, and the hooligan tool was on the gun rack.
    He radioed Julia, who was working dispatch, cringing a little when he did. If he’d known how great the date with Cedar was going to be, he never would’ve had sex with Julia. Now, seeing her would be even more awkward.
    "I'm 10-76 and running 10-39,” he said, meaning that he was responding. "I have an ETA of ten minutes."
    "You're first responder," Julia replied through the static. "You know the drill. Status report only. Don’t take action till the Captain gets there."
    "Roger that."
    He glanced back at the barn before leaving. If he needed any reason why he should follow directions, there was a fresh load of horse apples directly outside the mare's stall to remind him. There was nothing like a pile of steaming manure to inspire better behavior.
     
     
     
    Like the Tin City property, the house in Nagswood was set well off the highway, down a mile long dirt road that was so overgrown with yaupon trees and loblolly bays, it was difficult to navigate. If not for a For Sale sign, marked SOLD from Landis Commercial Real Estate, he might have missed the whole road, and he definitely would've missed the sharp left turn through a hedge row, even though there was a thick column of smoke already rising into the blue sky.
    A few yards beyond the road, a stream cut the boundary between this property and the next. The ground looked scorched in a few places near the edge of the creek. It was lined with electrified wire and two large signs warning trespassers that violators would be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law. No Trespassing signs were ubiquitous in this part of the county. The growth of the towns in the east had forced wildlife west into this area. The hunters followed along behind, and property owners found their weekends destroyed by early-morning gunfire and the baying of Treeing Walkers, a breed known for their ability to flush out small game. Reading, though, was not one of the dog’s abilities, and they, along with their owners, ignored the signs.
    " Number 17 on site," Boone said as he parked the truck next to an old tobacco barn a hundred yards from the house. There was another truck already there, a half-ton pickup with dual rear wheels. Three firefights stood beside the truck. They were already dressed in yellow turnouts with orange piping, the uniform of the Atamasco Volunteer Fire Department.
    "Roger," Julia replied.
    How, Boone wondered as he called in his arrival, had they gotten there before him? Did they drive like bats out of hell down the highway or were they just hanging out in a part of the county so remote, there was no cell coverage. Math wasn't Boone's forte, but something wasn't adding up.
    "The Atamasco VFD's already on the scene," he told dispatch, more than a hint of disappointment in his voice.
    "That's real quick," Julia said. "Lamar called in right before you. He says to radio in a status check."
    "Roger that." Bean clicked off the radio and pulled on his turnouts. He grabbed his helmet and the hooligan, then walked across the patchy grass field toward the other firefighters.
    As he approached, the leader said something to the other two, and they moved toward the house. They split up and took either side of the building. Boone wasn't sure what procedure they were following, but something didn't seem right.
    "You got here quick," Boone told the leader. "Thought I'd be first responder."
    T he leader, who sported a mop of black hair and a threadbare beard, wore a blood-red shirt under his unbuttoned yellow fire coat. His eyes