Chapter One
The slap, slap, slap of his shoes hitting the pavement
echoed in the fog that crept over the sleeping city.
He was slicked with sweat and his lungs burned with each
laboring breath, but still he ran faster, punishing his
body, punishing himself, as he fought the urge to look over
his shoulder. It never seemed to matter how fast he ran,
because his past continued to haunt him.
Shane Quincy knew all about ghosts and personal demons. He
knew about the terror of the innocent and their screams that
still filled his head. He knew about heartbreak and sorrow
because it plagued him with every breath he took. And most
of all, he knew about fearโfear that clawed its way up from
the pit of his belly and left a bitter taste in his
mouthโand horrors so devastating they could break even the
toughest FBI Hostage and Rescue Sniper.
And he had been the toughest. The best the FBI had ever had
to offer.
He slowed his steps as a heavy drizzle blanketed the
deserted New Orleans street and hunched over, propping his
hands on his knees as he gasped for breath and tried to ease
the aching in his chest. He knew from experience that the
ache would never go away, but he tried just the same.
For two years his routine hadnโt changed. The nightmares
would come, waking him in a cold sweat with the taste of
bile rising in the back of his throat. The covers would be
damp and twisted beneath his restless body and his senses
would be primed. But the echoes of the screams were only in
his imagination, so heโd slip on his sweatpants and a
t-shirt, leave his empty apartment, careful not to disturb
the dark-haired woman he shared the third floor with, and
heโd run for miles through The Big Easy. Fast and hard, as
if he were running for his life. And in some ways he was.
The drizzle turned into a downpour and Shane laughed
bitterly as he raised his face to the sky. He began running
again, this time at a slower tempo, and turned left off of
First Street onto Prytania, where the historic mansion that
housed six different apartment units was located. He never
would have been able to afford the place when he was working
for the FBI, but heโd found out very quickly after heโd
turned in his resignation that private security paid a hell
of a lot more than working for the government.
His skin was chilled and his dark hair, which was in
desperate need of a trim, dripped into his eyes as he typed
in the security code for the wrought iron gate that
protected him and the other residents. Only four of the six
units were currently occupied, the effects of Katrina and
Rita still making people wary of putting down roots. There
was a young couple on the first floor, both of them
attorneys at a large firm, a tenured professor at Loyola on
the second floor, and the woman whoโd moved in a couple of
months ago across the hall from him.
Shane wasnโt afraid to admit that the new neighbor had given
him a restless night or two after sheโd first moved in.
Apparently a peaches and cream complexion, raven hair and
pale blue eyes were enough to jump-start his libido after a
long hiatus. He hadnโt wanted a woman in two years.
Not since Maggie had died.
But he wanted his new neighbor, and because of the fierce
need that had caught him unawares, he did his damnedest to
stay out of her way. He didnโt know anything about her and
it didnโt look like things would ever be any different since
sheโd never gone out of her way to say more than a lukewarm
hello. The same could be said about all the neighbors, which
in his opinion made it the perfect place to live.
Along the outside of the building, freshly painted, white
wooden stair cases led to each level of the house and split
in different directions to each apartment door. Shane was
almost to the third floor before he smelled the smoke. The
rain and the wind had dampened the scent so it was barely
recognizable, but it was there. He was sure of it.
He raced the rest of the way to the third floor and saw the
licks of flame taunting him from the windows. The sight was
hypnotic, the reds and oranges of the fire as it danced a
path of destruction. The front door and one of the windows
was open, feeding the inferno with much needed oxygen so it
spread quickly through the rooms, up the thick drapes and
onto the ceiling. Black smoke billowed out the open window
and door, and he cursed himself for leaving his cell phone
on his nightstand. He heard the fire alarms shrieking and
hoped the other tenants made it out safely.
He didnโt pay attention to the splintered wood on the open
door as he charged into the smoke and biting flames to see
if his neighbor was still inside. His adrenaline was pumping
and he didnโt miss the irony of the situation, that a
failure such as himself would be put in the role of hero
once again. He hadnโt been able to save anyone in a long
time. He could barely save himself.
The apartment was a mirror image of his own, and he ran with
familiarity down the long hallway to the bedrooms at the
back. Paint blistered on the walls. Black smoke blurred his
vision and clogged his lungs, so he ducked down on his hands
and knees and crawled the rest of the way to the bedroom.
The fire wasnโt contained to one area but seemed to be
everywhere at once, racing toward some unseen finish line
where the prize was utter destruction.
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