Emerald Fire by Monica McCabe

even reached the Fire .
    “You ready?” her uncle whispered.
    Her heart had stopped beating when they’d trussed up the pirate, her nerves felt like sandpaper, and fear hovered just beneath the surface, threatening to explode. So, yeah, she was ready. “Let’s go.”
    They began creeping toward the pier.
     
     

Chapter 8
     
    Finn circled the storage building, then tried the front door. It was unlocked, and he shook his head, grateful for their lax security. A nearby yard light shone in through a small window at the back, barely enough glow to reveal the shed was a catchall. Sunburned buoys, old life vests, broken oars, stuff you’d expect hanging around a boat repair shop. But it was the fuel containers that he zeroed in on. Diesel, cans of propane, and welding oxygen tanks, things that made him smile in wicked delight.
    He’d learned a lot of things in his naval spec-ops training. Mainly, that a life of one high-risk campaign after another wasn’t for him. Unlike his fellow soldiers, he didn’t thrive on life-threatening operations, adrenaline, and military deployment. He’d completed his assignments, and based on the multiple commendations, he was good at it. But he had never fully committed. And if you aren’t in it one hundred percent, you risk the lives of the men who served with you. So he got out.
    The military training had stuck with him, however, and the detonation skills he picked up were about to come in real handy. He lifted each of the five-gallon jugs of diesel, gauging their level. Two were close to full, one less than half. It was enough. Finn set to work, piling the propane cans and oxygen tanks in the center of the floor. Next he raided the shelves for life-vests, shop rags, anything flammable, and created a ring around the fuel cells. He finished the job by splashing a liberal amount of diesel over the whole pile, dousing the wooden shelves and walls for good measure. Diesel burned slow. He would’ve preferred the more volatile gasoline, but then again, he needed a few minutes to get to the yacht before the explosion.
    The last jug he used to pour a liberal trail out the door, going heavy on the doorframe. He wanted a double bang, so he scattered a line of dry tinder and oil-soaked rags toward an old Ford pick-up parked about ten feet from the shed, then splashed the truck and fuse line with the remaining fuel.
    He twisted one of the dirty shop rags around a stick like a torch then soaked it in the diesel. He stood at the apex, one line to the shed, one to the truck and paused. This was it. Once he lit the torch, the advantage of surprise was over.
    But it would go with one hell of a bang.
    He hoped Chloe and Jonathan had made it to the yacht. Diesel might be slow burning, but he had a short fuse here. Once he dropped the torch, he figured he had three minutes tops before the flames reached the inside of the shed, maybe another five before the propane and oxygen turned into the Fourth of July.
    He stood stock-still and listened to the camp. All was quiet, so he could only assume his partners were successful. Now it was his turn to pull through. It felt odd working as a team again. He hadn’t since he left the Navy, preferring to work alone. Two more souls to worry about drastically changed things.
    So did stealing from pirates. He’d never done that before either, but wasn’t fool enough to believe they were going to get away with the Emerald Fire easily, even with a towering inferno for a diversion.
    He pulled out a lighter. After one last glance around, Finn struck the flint and watched flames eat up his torch. One deep breath later, he dropped it onto the pile.
    He waited, watching, making certain he had ignition. When the fire snaked its way to within a foot of the door, he took off.
    Moving as fast as he dared, he dodged from one hiding spot to the next, aiming for the pier. A stack of old lumber sat a hundred feet or so from the start of the dock. Finn dashed behind it and took one