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

were hidden under wraparound sunglasses. When he stepped up, his head barely reached Boone's chin, but he was broad and stump-shaped so that he looked bigger. "Looks like you thought wrong."
    The other two vollies wore hand-me-down turnouts, and sweat-soaked T-shirts. Their hair was stringy brown and hung down past their necks. They looked exactly alike.
    "Atamasco is a long way from here," Boone said.
    "We're out hunting the Black River, all right? Not that it's any of your goddamned business."
    Boone drew back like he had been backhanded. The man's antagonism came of nowhere. There was something familiar about his face, though, the way his teeth jutted forward from a pronounced prognathism. "Boone Childress, Frisco VFD."
    "I know who you are, rookie. My kid brother Dewayne goes to school with you."
    So that explained the animosity. Dewayne had an older brother, Eugene, who Boone knew was with Atamasco. The brothers looked nothing alike, except in the shape of the mouth. That's why he had seemed familiar.
    "What's the situation?" Boone turned to the fire.
    Loach spat tobacco juice onto the ground a few inches from Boone's boots. "Farmhouse is on fire. Looks like it's going to be a total loss."
    Ignore him, Boone thought, be professional. "I'll do a visual assessment for my captain."
    "Don't waste your time. The house's been empty since tobacco died."
    "You know the owners?"
    "Doesn't everybody?"
    " Not everybody," Boone said. "So you know this area pretty well?"
    " Who says? Ronnie! Donnie! Y'all done yet?"
    "You just said—"
    "Shut it up, rook. I got a fire to take care of."
    Nobody could walk up to a house that looked like ground zero in Hiroshima and instantly assess the extent of the situation. The dots didn’t connect. But other ones did. A deserted farmhouse. An isolated location. A fire burning so hot and fast, it was a loss before the first responders reached it.
    "Keep a safe distance and let the professionals handle this." Loach said and spat tobacco juice on the ground again. This time, it hit Boone's boot.
    Boone kicked the wad of tobacco juice back at Loach. "This is a pitiful excuse for an investigation, if you ask me."
    He grabbed Boone's arm around the bicep. "Didn't nobody ask you."
    Boone sidestepped, rolled his arm over Loach's, and pushed hard on his straightened elbow. "I'm not in the mood for dancing," he said.
    "Let go of me, ass wipe, or I'm filing a complaint with your captain."
    Boone released Loach and then offered his hand. "No hard feelings?"
    He looked Boone over like he had lice. His eyes narrowed and he leaned so close, Boone could smell his breath. It stank like lighter fluid. "I wouldn't shake your hand if you was a native-born President of the United States, you goddamn socialist."
    Boone held up his hands and backed away. Loach obviously had issues, and Boone wasn't having any part of them. His orders were to give the Captain a status, and that's what he intended to do.
     
     
     
    After he finished the visual inspection, Boone returned to his truck and radioed Julia. "Got an ETA on the tanker or the Captain?"
    "They 're still ten minutes out. Cap says for you to call him on the radio."
    Boone thanked her and then called Lamar. "Got your status update, Captain."
    "What's the situation?" Lamar said back through the static.
    "We have a level three fire on a single residence, stick built, approximately one thousand five hundred square feet with multiple stories." Boone stretched out the mic cord as he stood on the sideboards of the truck. "The fire has spread to all areas, and flames are coming through the roof in three, no check that, four different areas."
    "Ex terior fuel sources? Heating oil tanks? LP?"
    Firefighters feared LP, l iquid propane. A pinhole leak and a random spark could create an explosion strong enough to blow down a house. A LP tank for a barbecue grill could swell to twice its size and become a poor man’s claymore, blowing jagged chunks of shrapnel straight through