Flames
Flames
A round-robin novel by the authors of the Mansion, in honor of the heroes of September 11th, 2001.
Chapter Nine
Listening intently, Marisol heard the same murmur she'd heard earlier --
but now she also heard a soft but definite static crackle. She knew that
sound like she knew her own voice. She and Jack were alone with an open
walkie-talkie. What had sounded like whispering voices now hummed with the
unmistakable wheeze of a live frequency.
She breathed a short-lived sigh of relief -- short-lived because though
she and Jack were in no immediate physical danger, their every word was being
monitored. And the danger of the unknown -- who was listening and why --
posed an even greater threat.
Marisol quickly tossed out her first instinct to switch off the receiver
and get the hell out of the cave. Keeping the signal broadcasting was all she
and Jack had going for them at the moment. Once they broke the connection,
they'd lose that meager safety net and would be free-falling into whatever
flames were consuming the true purpose of FEMA's training exercises.
They needed to get out of here, and now. Out of the cave, yes. But out of
Harrisburg as well. At least until they could figure out what was going on
with Marcus Winters and Dinah Lou-ee. And with McGregor, O'Malley and
Spanelli, for that matter. No way around it; she and Jack were in a United
Nations of trouble.
And there was only one person she trusted enough to turn to for help.
She squirreled around on the cave floor, squinting into the gloom until she
focused her fuzzy gaze on Jack. He'd hoisted himself into a sitting position
and, eyes closed, now leaned back against the cave wall. She scooted as close
as she could, backing up to him until her fingers found the slashed opening
of the utility pocket in his uniform pants. "C'mon, Boy Scout," she whispered
under her breath. "You've gotta have a knife in here. Don't blow my faith in
your preparedness motto now."
"It's in the other pocket." His whisper was low and gravelly. "And yeah.
I'm happy to see you."
Marisol glanced up into a pair of the most beautiful bleary eyes she'd
ever seen, remembering how awkward she'd felt when she'd asked him if he'd
been happy to see her the moment she'd mistaken the bulge of Dinah's gun in
his pocket for a more intimate response to their kiss.
Looking at him now, however, climbing across his lap to dig into his
pocket for the knife, she knew he was feeling a mirror of her relief that
they were both alive, and that they were alive in one another's company -- in
the company of the only other person either one could count on to be true to
what their uniforms stood for.
She couldn't name another man who, in these same obscene circumstances,
would provide even a hint of the hope that had flared to life inside her at
the sound of his voice -- and at the look in his eyes. A look that told her
anything was possible so long as they had one another to lean on, to depend
on.
Right now, at this moment, Marisol knew Jack Bennett was the partner
she'd never found on the Philly P.D. He respected her. He trusted her. He was
willing to work with her as an equal, to fight at her side to bring their own
personal terrorists to justice.
And she was afraid she was falling in love.
"Okay, Bennett."
She purposefully kept her words simple, not wanting to draw undue
attention from whoever was listening in. And she kept her tone neutral, not
wanting to expose the emotional turmoil that common sense told her was
nothing more than a prelude to "terror sex", a connection providing the
comfort and closeness human beings craved in times of danger, chaos and fear.
That had to be what she was feeling. That was all she'd allow herself to
feel. She was going to make detective, and she did not need a relationship in
her life.
Using the blade to carefully slice through what she swore was a parachute
cord binding Jack's wrists, she turned and let him return the favor. Once her
hands were free, she pressed her finger to his lips and, with her other hand,
fished a mini-Maglite from her own utility pocket and sent an arc of light
toward the walkie-talkie.
Jack nodded. Digging into yet another hidden pocket, he quietly pulled
out a Dodge Ram key ring, wrapping his big hand around the dangling keys as,
silently, he used his expressive eyes to let her know he wasn't having any
more of the sitting-duck routine. And then he asked, "How're you feeling?"
"More than a little dazed. Not to mention working on a hell of a
headache." The second was totally true. The first was more a dramatic
exaggeration for their listening audience. "How about you?"
"I'll be okay. As long as I sit here and don't make any sudden moves.
Hell, make that any moves, period." Gingerly, he laughed. Equally gingerly,
he got to his feet. He gestured toward the cave entrance and inclined his
head, his eyes clearing, growing sharp and focused as he signaled for Marisol
to head that way.
Nodding once, she made light on her feet and backed toward the entrance.
"Sounds like a plan. The no-sudden-moves thing, that is. I feel like I've
spent a hard night at the Seven Seas tossing back tequila shots."
And then she was at the cave entrance, peering through and giving Jack a
thumbs-up. He stumbled toward her, making his own coast-is-clear check before
he grabbed her hand and, crouching low, took off into the woods at what
looked to Marisol to be a blind run.
But her Boy Scout never faltered, ducking beneath low-hanging branches,
dodging clumps of prickly-looking brush, cutting through the thick
undergrowth, his running steps virtually silent. All the while, he kept far
enough off any sort of trail that Marisol, Philly-born and Philly-bred,
doubted she would ever have managed to find her own way back to camp. She was
having a hard enough time as it was keeping up with Jack.
Twigs snagged her hair. Branches tore at her sleeves, her collar. Leaves
slapped her face. She spit dirt from her mouth, wiped insect webbing from the
side of her neck and her ear. Jack raced forward, the mountain man in his
element, unfazed by the obstacles that had Marisol longing for the
comfortable familiarity of fire hydrants and concrete.
Jack scrambled through the dense foliage like he hadn't been taken down
by a stun gun a few short hours ago. She prided herself on being physically
fit, but her calf muscles screamed, and her lungs burned. The stitch in her
side threatened to bring her, wheezing, to her knees. She couldn't imagine
trying to keep up with Boy Scout when he was at his best.
Yet she felt nothing but admiration. Not for a minute did she feel he was
putting on an act for her benefit, or trying to show her that a woman could
never measure up to a man. No, those were Spanelli's tricks. This was Jack.
And he was giving one hundred percent, knowing that behind him she was doing
exactly the same. He never turned back to check. He sensed, he knew, she was
there.
Trust. Respect. Partnership. Love. Marisol shuddered as the truth burst
free. Madre de Dios! She was in so much trouble!
Finally they broke into a clearing behind the campus's main building. A
sea of private vehicles lay ahead, with dozens of cruisers and pumpers and
ambulances marking the edge of the parking lot and providing a more than
adequate cover. Once Jack had his truck in sight, he slowed, releasing
Marisol's hand and making a stealthy approach.
He dropped into a low crouch and twisted to look up into the wheel wells,
beneath both the front and back bumpers, finally crawling under the front end
to check for anything out of the ordinary. An out-of-place wire. A loosened
bolt. A line leaking fluid. Marisol inhaled deeply, stung by the sharp
sadness wrought by the events of September 11th.
The world had changed. And Jack wasn't taking any chances that his ride
had been sabotaged by Dinah and the rest of her loonies. Scrambling back to
his feet, he dusted the parking-lot grit from his knees and backside. He
missed a patch on his shoulder, and Marisol reached up to clean him off.
He glanced back at her hand, slowly lifting his gaze until he was looking
into her eyes. This time, when her heart began to race, when her blood began
to stir and her fingers began to tingle, she knew the source of the danger.
And the only terror she knew was the terror of losing her heart.
"You ready?" he asked, turning slowly, reaching up and capturing her
hand, holding it tight to his chest.
She nodded. Standing there, feeling the beat of his heart in her palm,
measuring his response to her touch, nodding was all she could do.
He blew out a breath, placed a kiss in the center of her palm, and said,
"Let's roll."
Watching the road fly by beneath the pickup's wheels, Jack listened to
Marisol explain her suspicions. As hard as it was to ride as a passenger in
his own truck, he hadn't felt up to making the two-hour drive to
Philadelphia. The way Marisol had floored the pedal to the metal, he figured
they'd make it to her house in under ninety minutes.
"Here's the thing," she was saying, her hands gripping the steering wheel
at ten and two until the blanch of her knuckles had Jack wondering if she'd
snap the wheel in half before they made it to Philly. "There's no way in hell
that woman is FBI."
She was thinking along the same lines he was. "You're probably right."
"I know I'm right. Think about it, Jack. What FBI agent takes a police
officer into her confidence, only to make the officer swear not to tell what
she now knows about the agent's big plan?" She'd released the steering wheel
to make air apostrophes. "Ooh. Like this is a schoolgirl clique? Uh-uh," she
added with a sarcastic huff. "I don't think so. And then she threatens my
promotion if I spill the beans? What kind of crock is that?"
Jack could see her point. He was glad to see her hands return to the
steering wheel. He could also see the fire glinting in her eyes -- a fire
that was setting off sparks deep in his gut. Cool it, Jack. This isn't the
time. He wiped sweaty palms down his uniformed thighs and forced his train of
thought back on track.
"Marcus is the key. He's gotta be. Out of the blue, he comes to Somerset
County back in May? After fifteen years fighting fires on the streets of
Philly? It's just not working." He shook his head. "I'm trying to put it all
together, and it's just not working."
Marisol slid a glance his direction. "That might have something to do
with the shot you took to the back of the neck."
Rolling his head on his shoulders, Jack rubbed at the skin there. He
couldn't tell if the tenderness was real or all in his imagination. What he
could tell was that he needed sleep -- needed it in a bad way, and soon. He
just didn't have the time to spare. Not if he and Marisol were going to have
a real chance at getting to the bottom of Dinah's shenanigans.
"Hey, Bennett. You doin' okay over there?"
Her question could've easily come from one of the boys, but Jack didn't
miss the underlying note of concern -- a woman's concern, pure and honest and
focused on him. It was nothing like the self-serving interest Jan had always
shown.
Marisol wasn't looking for his recovery to make her life easier. She
wanted him well because she cared. And that was a new one for Jack. It would
take some time getting used to the idea -- and figuring out what the hell to
do about it. He closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the seat. He
had a feeling he was in more than one kind of trouble here.
"Yeah, Benitez. I think I'm going to make it."
The next thing he knew, Marisol was cutting off the engine, having
slammed the truck to a stop in the alley between what she said was her
parents' home and a honky-tonk called the Seven Seas whose sign was
advertising Friday night bingo. The place was a far cry from Redsopple. And
the realization of their divergent lifestyles hit him like another taser stun.
And what were you thinking, Jack? That after three days you'd be taking
her home to live in the backwoods of Somerset County? That she'd party with
you at Piggy's and get her hair trimmed at Hiz 'n' Herz Cutz down at the
Brookland Mall?
He must be out of his mind, he thought, following her up the front stoop.
He stepped inside after her once she'd opened both the screen door and the
front door with the single-paned window. And then he breathed deeply, drawing
in the spicy scents of chilis and lime and -- oh, he was in heaven.
"Mama? Papa?" Marisol called, heading to the kitchen at the back of the
house.
Jack followed, taking in the comfortably homey furnishings along the way
as well as the old school photos of Marisol and three boys who must be her
brothers hanging together along the hallway wall.
"Marisol! aqua es usted hacer aqua?" Wiping her hands on the apron at her
waist, a woman who had to be Marisol's mother -- they shared the same
marvelous cheekbones and bright eyes -- hurried forward. "You are not due
back from Harrisburg until this weekend!" The woman clucked her tongue. "And
you look like the cat has been dragging you for miles."
"She's missing her mama's cooking. Es verdad?" The gaunt man sitting at
the kitchen table smiled at Marisol, then turned his sharp gaze on Jack. "And
who is this you have brought with you?"
Marisol walked forward, hugging her mother and then the man Jack knew had
to be her father. At thirty-seven and still single, Jack had seen that
protective look in more than one father's eye. He stepped forward, held out
his hand. "Jack Bennett, sir. From the Redsopple, Pennsylvania, fire
department."
Mr. Benitez accepted Jack's offered hand and slowly nodded his acceptance
before turning to Marisol. "Marisol, answer your mama's question. What are
you doing here?"
She glanced up, meeting Jack's gaze. "Jack, this is my father, Captain
Roberto Benitez, retired Philly P.D." And then she pulled out a chair
catty-corner to her father and sat. "Papa, I need your help. We need your
help."
Marisol's father frowned, while her mother smiled warmly at Jack and
returned to the stove
"Papa, do you remember Marcus Winters?"
Mrs. Benitez turned from the stove. "Joe and May Winters's boy? The one
who kept getting in trouble for turning on the neighborhood hydrants?"
Captain Benitez nodded. "I remember. He joined the fire department, yes?
His papa was very proud."
"Marcus moved to Somerset County in May, sir," Jack said, settling into
the chair next to Marisol's, suddenly concerned he might collapse on the
floor. "We worked the Shanksville scene together last month."
Marisol's father frowned again. "Why would he move so far from his family
now that his papa is gone and his mama is dependent on his help? I don't
understand."
"What he told me was that he was looking for peace and quiet," Jack
offered. "A place where every day was the same as the one before."
"That's not the Marcus I grew up with." Marisol looked from Jack to her
father and back again. "But it would make sense if our hunch is correct."
"What hunch is that, Mari?" Captain Benitez asked.
She quickly explained the ordeal she and Jack had just been through. Jack
listened intently, focused more on the captain's expressive responses than on
Marisol's telling of the tale. Once she'd finished outlining their
suspicions, he added, "Marcus has to be the key. If you have any contacts,
any ideas, I'll be forever in your debt, sir."
Captain Benitez patted Marisol's hand where it rested on the table. He
grinned, and Jack didn't have a bit of trouble imagining the older man in the
prime of his life. His back ramrod-straight, his chest puffed out with pride,
a crafty-fox gleam putting a light into his dark-brown eyes, the captain
looked at his daughter and said, "When President Bush declared the war on
terrorism wouldn't be fought with conventional methods, I'll bet you never
thought you'd be coming to your papa for help, si?"
Jack took the wheel for the drive back to Harrisburg, and Marisol
willingly let him. The visit with her papa, though short, had been intense
and emotionally draining -- even more so because Mama had been in the room,
listening. Marisol was beat.
It was hard on Mama, this life Marisol had chosen. She wished she could
give her the grandchildren to spoil that her sister-in-law, Mercedes, was
providing. But Marisol couldn't live Mercedes's life, not when her chosen
profession gave her own life so much meaning. Her papa understood. And Jack
-- he understood.
So lost was she in her thoughts that she barely registered Jack exiting
the highway until the truck's wheels spun in the gravel of the parking lot of
a Red Roof Inn. Her heart jumped into her throat, and she had to make a
concerted effort to keep her legendary cool when she turned to face him.
He pulled the truck to a stop beneath the covered entry and cut the engine
before he met her gaze. "I have to get some sleep. I'm not going to be any
good to anyone in Harrisburg if I can't even stand up."
Marisol swallowed hard, her pulse pounding, her blood still running hot.
"We could've stayed in Philadelphia."
"No," Jack said, shaking his head. "I don't want to sleep in one room
while you sleep in another. And I don't think your parents would sit back and
let me share your bed."
"You want to share my bed?" She resisted the urge to reach up and check
the state of her hair. Hair didn't matter. Not here. Not now. Terror sex.
That's all this was. She had to remember that nothing about what they were
feeling was real. It was all a response to the terror. If she let herself
think it might be real She shivered. "Why would you want to share my bed?"
Shifting position, Jack rested his arm along the back of the truck seat.
His fingers found the loose ends of hair that had escaped the haphazard
ponytail she'd twisted together before leaving Philadelphia. "I can think of
a dozen or so reasons, all of them involving getting my hands on your naked
skin. But right now, I want to sleep. And I don't want to sleep alone."
"What about Harrisburg?" She wasn't sure they could afford even a
six-hour stop. They'd already been gone long enough for Dinah and her loonies
to discover they were missing. But even knowing that, all Marisol could think
about was getting undressed and making Jack show her every one of those dozen
or so reasons. He had the kind of hands that made women weep.
"We've got time." He worried the ends of her hair between his forefinger
and thumb, then let her go and pushed open his door. "Your father has a few
calls to make. He has contacts, and we need to let them do their thing before
we go barging back into the middle of the training grounds." He paused, took
a deep breath and exhaled slowly. "You did good, you know, going to him."
Marisol smiled a shaky smile. Oh, when he looked at her like that, She
shivered, her emotions spiraling out of control. "He liked you, you know. Mama
liked you, too."
"That doesn't mean they'd let me sleep in your bed," he said, slamming
the truck door and leaving her with a wink.
Jack came awake slowly, in the middle of the night. Marisol had readily
agreed to the sleeping arrangements -- much more readily than Jack had
expected, considering that none of the rooms available had twin beds; only
single king-sizes were left.
She'd gone to sleep almost immediately, and he had to have followed soon
after, because he didn't remember listening to the hypnotic pattern of her
breathing for more than two minutes. Now, he had his back to her. And he
hadn't yet decided whether she was still sleeping, or if she was fully awake
and aware of what she was doing.
What she was doing was slipping her fingers beneath the T-shirt he'd worn
to bed with the pants to his uniform. Her nails were short; her fingertips
were warm where they drew tiny circles along his spine. He tried to tune out
what he was feeling, tried to listen for the sound of her breathing. But it
was hard to hear anything over the thudding of his heart.
And then she wrapped her arm around him and pressed her palm to the
center of his chest. Jack shuddered. He knew she was measuring his heartbeat.
He knew she was awake.
He also knew he had to give her the chance to change her mind, to turn
away, before he made the move he'd been holding in check since the moment
he'd looked up from his clipboard of bunk assignments and found himself
snared by the fire in her eyes.
She threaded her fingers into the hair on his chest, and he groaned,
trying to bite back the sound and failing miserably. When she tugged him onto
his back and rose on her elbow to look into his eyes, he knew he was a goner.
Reaching up, he tucked a strand of her hair behind her ear. "You're not
making it easy for me to do the gentlemanly thing here."
She fought back a grin. "And what would that be?"
"Pretend you're dreaming. Slip out of bed. Take a shower."
"You want company in that shower?"
"A cold shower. Company would defeat the purpose." But damn, company
would heat up the stall in ways the water couldn't.
"Hmm." She'd managed to ruck his shirt up to his armpits and expose his
torso. Thankfully, the bottom half of his body remained hidden beneath the
bedcovers. "I kinda like you the way you are. All heated up. Nice and warm
and toasty."
"Toasty?" He didn't think toasty covered his current body temperature. "I
fight fires for a living, Benitez. What I'm feeling is definitely not toasty."
She arched a dark brow. "Are you saying I need to heat you up?"
"That depends on what you plan to do with me. It's not good to leave a
high temperature untreated."
"I know exactly what to do to bring your temperature back to normal."
As long as he was close enough to catch her scent of Spanish jasmine, his
temperature would never return to the sort of normal it had stayed at for
thirty-seven years.
"I just need to make sure of one thing first," she added.
"Yeah? What's that?"
"I need to know what kind of Boy Scout you really are."
Boy Scout? Oh, "Preparedness is not a problem, Benitez. You just haven't
found the right pocket."
Her mouth quirked. "Is that so?"
Stripping off his T-shirt, he propped his arms behind his head and leaned
back, one eyebrow arched, daring her to go for broke.
The only light in the room came through a slit where the economy-quality
drapes failed to meet and the glare from the parking lot shone through. Jack
would've liked a lot more -- the better to see her with -- but he wasn't
about to suggest she turn on the lamp and risk breaking the mood.
Not now, when she had thrown the bedcovers to the floor and had moved up
to straddle his thighs.
She took great care in exploring his pockets, boldly brushing her fingers
over his erection as she moved from side to side. She finally went for his
wallet and found what she was looking for. Prize in hand, she didn't waste
any time, but whipped off her own white cotton T-shirt and lacy white bra.
He wanted to get his hands on her in the very worst way, to taste her
gumdrop-taut nipples, measure the weight of her gorgeously full breasts. But
she effectively stopped him by bracing her hands on his biceps and learning
forward to drag the tips of her breasts over his chest.
"A little higher," he whispered gruffly. Smiling ever so slightly, she
rubbed those tight nipples over his collarbone.
"A little higher," he urged again, and she shifted to his neck, to his
chin.
"Higher," he almost begged, and then she was at his mouth, and he sucked
and ran the flat of his tongue over first one distended tip and then the
other, ignoring the throbbing in his cock and listening to her breathy
whimpers, her sweet moans, her tiny cries of pleasure.
And then, suddenly, she was sitting straight up, and his arms were free,
and his mouth was way too empty. But he could hardly complain when she'd only
left one end of his body and moved to the other. He drew in a hissing breath
as she lowered the zipper of his uniform pants. When she urged him to raise
his hips, he did, holding a tentative breath while she eased down both his
pants and his long-legged briefs.
"Hmm." She studied his cock from all angles. "I think you're temperature
has gone beyond toasty, Bennett."
"You don't say."
"Don't take my word for it. Just take a look at your thermometer here."
"Oh yeah?" He could barely form a coherent thought, much less put words
together. "What's the reading?"
"I'm not sure. Let me get closer and I'll check."
She took his erection fully into her mouth, no hesitation, no
squeamishness or experimental handling of his package. She knew what she was
doing -- and, even better, she was having as good a time as he was. Her
enthusiasm sent the rest of his blood rushing to his groin. "Oh, God, baby.
You're going to have to stop."
She looked up at him, her hand wrapped around the base of his cock as she
licked her lips. "Wrong, Bennett. I can keep going for hours."
Hours. Oh, God.
"Would you like that?" Her tongue flicked the underside of his glans.
He gritted his teeth and nodded. "But I don't have hours in me tonight,
baby. God, I wish I did."
"Well, then." She hopped off the end of the bed, tossing the condom onto
his belly and shucking her bottoms. "I'm all for skipping the foreplay and
getting down to business."
He wanted to argue. He wanted to return the pleasure of her mouth.
Instead, he ripped into the foil packet. He had the condom rolled into place
by the time she climbed back into his lap.
"Marisol, are you sure you're ready? We don't have to rush this. I may
not have hours, but I do have minutes." Unbelievable. He had never known a
woman so hungry.
She caught hold of his hand, moved it from her hip to her inner thigh. He
took it from there, sliding a finger upward into her wet and waiting sex.
"Does that answer your question?" she asked, positioning herself over him and
waiting for him to pull his hand free. He nodded, suddenly unwilling to
speak. If this was a dream, he didn't want to wake up.
And then, in one smoothly choreographed stroke, she sheathed him
completely. She braced her hands on his shoulders, tucked her knees close to
his waist, and started to ride, lifting her hips, sliding downward, all the
way to the head of his cock before reversing the motion and sliding back up.
Jack gripped her waist, holding her there while he dug his hips into the
mattress before stroking upward. She panted. He groaned. Their rhythm was a
perfect match, and it was all he could do not to flip her over and drive his
body into hers.
She slowed then, and leaned forward. He thought she was finally going to
give him the kiss he'd been waiting for -- the kiss he wanted more than he
wanted his next breath.
Instead, she whispered, "Bet you never thought terror sex could be this
good, did you?"
Terror sex? What the hell was she talking about?
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