The bomb’s flames touched the orange goo, and fire ripped through the entire kitchen in mere seconds, encircling Sean and quickly spreading toward him. Black and gray smoke swirled around, rising into the air to gather at the ceiling before rapidly sinking downward; Sean’s kitchen was now more like an upside-down bathtub filling with dirty water.
He was standing in the middle of an eight-foot circle of burning death. If he tried to jump through, he would land in the middle of the flames, the fire so intense that his clothes and skin would be fried instantly.
He shielded his face from the searing heat for a second and thought hard. Suddenly, Sean remembered what he kept stored inside the kitchen island. Salvation was right behind him, but the doors were on the other side near the sink, and that area was already engulfed.
The flames crept closer, encroaching into his circle of safety every second. He grabbed one of the stools and swung it back. He brought it forward, smashing the seat into the back of the island cabinet. The stool’s solid construction held, but the back of the island gave way a little. Sean repeated the move, this time almost completely removing the cabinet’s back panel. Another quick strike knocked it free, and he could see the object he needed just inside.
He reached in, grabbed the red fire extinguisher with his right hand, and yanked it out. That end of the kitchen opened up into a three-sided eating space, with a six-person dark wooden dining table. There was no way Sean could make it back through the house and out one of the doors. From his vantage point, he could see the fire had already spread into the next room and was probably on a rampage through his entire home.
His only chance for escape was out one of the windows. Aiming the nozzle at the flames closest to the dining room windows, he pulled the safety pin and squeezed the clasp trigger.
A cloudy white jet burst out of the extinguisher. Sean moved the nozzle side to side to clear a path wide enough for him to walk through without getting burned. He kept low to keep from inhaling the smoke and to make sure he smothered the flames close to the floor. The napalm-like substance sizzled as he muted the heat source, and he pressed to the back of the kitchen across the now-blackened tile. Behind him, the path he’d cleared started to reignite. He would have only seconds before he was standing in a lake of fire.
A foot from the closest window, the extinguisher gave the last of its life-saving cloud. Sean took the metal cylinder and smashed through the window that was framed on both sides by white-hot flames. The wood and glass gave way, already weakened by the heat, and shattered outward into the tall junipers that surrounded the home. He leaped through the opening, still jagged with broken glass and splintered wood.
A piece of stray glass cut the side of his forearm as he flew through, but he landed safely in the folds of the evergreen bush. His lungs flooded with the fresh evening air. The clean oxygen hit his lungs, and he coughed, his body realizing how much smoke he’d actually inhaled. He made himself get up again and move as quickly as possible away from the inferno. His legs started moving on their own, taking him down and around to the lower side of the house where the garage was located almost underground. He stopped at the far left of six garage doors where a keypad was imbedded in the wall. He keyed in four numbers and hit enter.
He snatched a set of keys from a board containing more than twenty key chains, all with different keys attached. He grabbed a helmet from a workbench and strapped it on as he hurried over to his Triumph T1oo special edition cafe racer. He had faster bikes, but top-end speed wasn’t what he was looking for. The current situation required a little more maneuverability and agility on the tight streets of North Atlanta.
Sean hopped on the bike and slid the key into the oddly placed ignition near the front forks. He turned the switch and hit the button that started up the throaty motor. His right hand twisted the throttle as he released the clutch, and the bike lurched forward, shooting out of the garage. He wound his way down the path in the back that led to the secret entrance to his property. In a side mirror, he saw the flames lashing out of his first- and second-story windows. The dark smoke looked paler against the hazy black backdrop of the sky.
He reached the rear gate and hit the remote he’d affixed to the handlebars of all his bikes. The gate slowly rolled open, allowing him to keep rolling through it and out onto the street beyond. He stopped by the sidewalk as the gate automatically closed. Tall shrubs and hedges rolled on a track with the gate, effectively concealing it as an entryway and giving it the appearance of just another piece of the fence surrounding the property.
Sean gazed up at the top of the hill. His home continued to billow smoke into the air. The familiar sound of sirens blared in the distance. His alarm would have gone off, alerting the local authorities of the blaze. By the time they arrived, there would be nothing left. Truthfully, he didn’t keep many sentimental things in his home except for his motorcycles. A small piece of him said a silent prayer that the bikes would be okay. But he didn’t linger on that thought.
His mind shifted to the aching bump on the back of his head. Someone had drugged him. The memory started coming back to him. There’d been a knock at the door, which was strange because he hadn’t rung anyone through the main gate. When he looked through the window to see who was there, secretly hoping Adriana had surprised him with a visit, someone had wrapped their arms around him from behind and shoved a rag into his face.
Chloroform was old school. It was rare to even see the stuff anymore, but sometimes the best techniques were the old ones. In the struggle, something or someone had hit him in the back of the head. He remembered trying to fight off the faceless arms and hands when everything suddenly went black.
He wasn’t entirely sure, but it seemed as if he’d heard voices speaking Arabic. Or was it Farsi?
Sean winced as the pulsing pain continued through his skull.
Arabic? Why would they be speaking Arabic?
He processed the question and twisted the throttle again. Images of what had transpired in his house flooded Sean’s mind. His brain recalled one particular image from his fight against the unseen foe. On the inside of the attacker’s wrist was a tattoo, a triangle with a dot in the center. He’d never seen one like it before. If he ever saw it again, his plan was to make sure the person the wrist was attached to didn’t survive the second encounter.
He steered the motorcycle around a row of cars and at the next stoplight made a left, driving away from his burning home. There was nothing he could do; it would be destroyed. Sean wasn’t concerned about that. He was more worried about what the men who’d come after him were going to do next. The bike cut around the protruding manhole covers and sped down the road toward Virginia Highlands.
There could be only one explanation for the sudden attempt on his life. Someone knew about the project he and Tommy were about to undertake. And if whoever they were, were willing to kill him, there was no doubt in Sean’s mind that they would go after Tommy next. He hammered down on the accelerator and zoomed through a yellow light just as it turned red. The wind whooshed through the cracks of his full-face helmet, causing a whistling sound he’d grown accustomed to over the years.