of muscle crashed against the doors. The brass handles broke with a loud snap and the doors flew open. Rick stumbled halfway across the loading dock and crashed into the guard rail before he could stop himself.
Racing back into the kitchen, he reached Frank and Kim, who was down on her knees beside her uncle. Glancing through the kitchen toward his brothers, Rick saw Daniel, the last of the party, just ducking out.
“Time to leave,” Rick yelled. He put Frank Nelson over his shoulder and strode quickly down the steps of the loading dock. “Hurry,” he added, looking back at Kim.
Kim slipped under the guard rail, jumped off the edge of the platform and met Rick at the bottom of the steps. Just then, Kyle and Preston came around the corner of the Brickhouse, running toward them.
“Get back!” Rick yelled, jogging toward the street with the injured man over his shoulder. “The place can blow any second!”
With Kim beside him, Rick angled left, heading for the corner of the next building over, a former theater turned furniture store. He wanted a solid structure between them and the upcoming blast.
As he reached the sidewalk, he saw his family, en masse, racing across the street in a loose cluster. They had no time to find cover. “On the ground!” he yelled.
Rick dropped to his knees and lowered Frank to the sidewalk. Pulling Kim down and against the wall of the building, he covered her with his body.
Suddenly the earth shook, shaking him back and forth as a massive concussive wave and flash of light swept out into the street. A blinding ball of hot air and flames followed, shooting out of the alley to his left and reaching halfway across the avenue.
The windows on the real-estate office a hundred feet away shattered, raining glass onto the sidewalk. Turning his head slightly, he could see the people he loved, facedown on the far side of the street beside the curb, arms over their heads.
A cascade of falling debris became an ear-shattering hailstorm of bricks and building materials. This went on for several seconds, then began to subside, overwhelmed by the roar and crackle of the resulting fire.
Rick rose to his feet, his mind racing. “You okay?” he asked Kim.
“My uncle... Where is his pulse?” She searched the area around his neck with a trembling hand.
“He’s breathing...he’s alive. Put pressure on the head wound and I’ll call an ambulance,” Rick said, turning his back to the wave of heat from the burning building less than twenty-five feet away.
“I called 9-1-1,” Preston said, coming up to him. He nodded at the older man on the sidewalk. “Let’s get him farther away from the fire in case there’s a secondary explosion.”
Together he and Rick carried Frank into the recessed doorway of the furniture store. “Did you get a good look around the kitchen?” Preston asked. “What happened in there?”
“It was no accident. The gas line was cut,” Rick answered. “I saw bolt cutters nearby. Somebody must have decked Frank, then cut the gas line and slipped out into the alley.”
Preston’s gaze swept over his brothers, their wives and the two waiters from the Brickhouse. They’d walked down the street several feet away from the fallen glass and stepped up onto the sidewalk as the first fire truck arrived. “Looks like we’re all okay, and that’s nothing short of a miracle,” he said.
“I’m used to being targeted,” Rick said, his voice reflecting the darkness inside him, “but the cartel I dealt with liked keeping things up close and personal. Cutting a gas line and hoping I’d be caught in an explosion just doesn’t fit their M.O. My enemies are a lot more direct and efficient.”
“Whoever it was didn’t just come after you. They came after all of us brothers, and that was a big mistake,” Daniel said, coming up beside them.
“Not necessarily,” Rick said. Years of undercover work for the FBI, fighting human trafficking, had taught him that control and clear thinking spelled the difference between life and death. Emotions only got in the way. “Others were there, too.”
“You mean they were after our wives?” Paul asked incredulously.
“More likely the restaurant staff,” Rick said. “If the doors hadn’t been blocked, another motive would have been to burn down the business so the owner could collect the insurance.”
His gaze drifted back to Kim, who was crouched by her uncle. The bleeding had slowed from what he could see.
“Kim, who’s the owner of the Brickhouse?” he asked, going over and placing a gentle hand on her shoulder.
“My uncle Frank is half owner,” she said, never taking her eyes off her uncle. “His business partner is Arthur Johnson, but Art would never think of burning down the place or hurting anyone, especially Frank. Those two have been good friends for years, and the Brickhouse has always made money for both of them. You guys are off base on this.”
“I’d have to agree with Kim. There’s no way this place is losing money. It’s always packed,” Preston said.
“Gene’s grabbed a big wrench from the toolbox in his pickup and he’s going to shut off the gas at the meter. That’ll help the firemen,” Daniel said.
“Meanwhile,” Preston suggested, “let’s focus on what we know. Because of the timing, the firebug must have blocked the front first before entering the kitchen from the alley.”
“If it was an inside job, it wasn’t done by anyone who escaped with us,” Rick concluded.
They heard the wail of an ambulance followed by the sirens of several police cruisers racing up Main Street. “Time for me to get to work,” Preston said. “If any of you come up with a motive or a suspect, let me know. Right now, I’ve got to help secure the scene.”
The big white rescue unit came up the street from the opposite direction, just ahead of a second fire truck. Preston stepped out into the street and motioned to the approaching vehicles.
Less than a minute later the firemen were working to suppress the fire. Two EMTs, having gathered their equipment, approached Frank, then crouched next to him.
Rick stood back with Daniel. “Frank’s probably our best witness and may have some of the answers. There’s a chance he saw the arsonist before he got clocked.”
“Preston will follow up,” Daniel said, “but there’s something I need to talk to you about. Is it possible that the man responsible for the scar on your face came back to try to finish the job?”
“No, he’s dead,” Rick said, “but some of the ones he worked for in the Mexican cartel avoided arrest. They’re still at large and fighting for control of what’s left of their criminal operation. You never really defeat that kind of evil.”
“Any chance you were followed home?”
Rick expelled his breath in a slow hiss. “To the U.S., then all the way to Hartley? My gut says no. They know I can’t work undercover anymore. I’ve been marked in a way that makes it impossible for me to hide my identity. More importantly, I’m no longer a threat to them, so there’s no profit in taking me out. I doubt they’d waste their resources.”
