“I’ve got to go, K. Later.” He flicked the phone off as he took a corner, the Hummer’s tires squealing.
Something was burning. Wisps of smoke trails were beginning to seep out from between the far-off buildings, but the colors were off, more clownish than menacing. Even with the windows up, the scent of caustic smoke leaked into the Hummer’s cab, and Connor blinked, trying not to rub at his eyes.
“Units responding to hazmat conditions,” the dispatcher said calmly. “Please be advised to wear protective gear in area. Residents at scene report incendiary devices exploded, possible large-gauge smoke bombs. Caution is advised.”
He was losing sight of Kiki’s car. The smoke closest to the street’s entrance was a thin, milky orange, and it crept out slowly, swallowing up most of the unmarked’s flashing lights. Only a few sparks of red and blue in the plumes indicated where the car was heading, but Connor followed, gripping the wheel as he slowed the Hummer down to enter the cloud.
The heavy vehicle rocked when he hit a curb near the studio, and Connor corrected its swerve, taking one more turn to find himself in the middle of what looked like a war zone.
There was smoke everywhere, billowing up from the street. It choked the air, red and gray plumes thickening in the narrow space between Forest’s place and the old apartment buildings across the street. The light breeze and damp air kept the smoke low, and Connor slammed on his brakes to avoid hitting Damie’s parked Challenger. Visibility was poor—so poor he nearly missed spotting the people coming out of the apartments beyond. After throwing the Hummer into park, he shed his cumbersome outer gear so he could move easier through a tight space if he needed to. Connor opened the door, then pulled the collar of his T-shirt up to cover his nose and mouth, heading into the thick smoke.
The sting of chemicals burned Con’s eyes, but he needed to find Miki and Damien first—both for his brother’s and Sionn’s sake as well as Forest’s. He spotted the entrance to the Sound and headed over, coughing to clear his lungs of the burning smoke. Somewhere behind him, a car hit a post or one of the buildings, a terrifyingly loud shear of metal creaking through the air. The smash of glass soon followed, and then a scream rent the air as a woman began crying for help.
A fire truck crept down the street behind him, a pair of responders with face masks jumping from its open cab. Oxygen tanks rattled as the men disengaged them from the truck’s equipment well. A second later, the woman’s screaming turned to long, heart-wrenching sobs, and Connor lost sight of the men in the cloudy air.
The smoke around the Sound’s door was thinner than in the street, and Connor pounded on the frame, shouting Miki’s name. From what he could make out of the interior through the business’s wide window, the studio seemed as full of vapors as the street, and he glanced down, searching for where the plumes might be coming from. Grabbing the door handle, Connor pulled, nearly yanking his shoulder out with his frustrated tugs.
“Miki!” Tearing his shirt from his mouth, Connor shouted again. “Damien!”
He coughed, sucking in a mouthful of chemicals, but he continued hammering at the door. There was movement through the window, but it was feeble, barely a flicker of a shadow against the dimness beyond. Swearing, Con tugged his shirt off all the way and wrapped it around his arm. He tested the door again, rattling it furiously, but it refused to give.
“Fuck this.” Connor smashed in the window, ducking his head to the side to avoid the flying glass. Hitching his leg over the sill, he went in, coughing when a gust carried a fresh wave of smoke his way. Connor jumped in, then fought his way through the cloudy interior, stumbling over an upended trash can.
He heard coughing, a subtle whisper and hack under the continuing wail of sirens echoing outside. Ducking down to get as far beneath the smoke as he could, Connor moved forward quickly. Something moved to the left of him, and he cocked his head, searching for either man.
So intent on finding Miki or Damien, Connor didn’t see the stool headed straight for his face until its edge caught him across the nose, and he went tumbling over, driven back from the force of the blow. He tasted blood and sucked in more stinging air, choking on his metallic-tinged spit.
The foggy air parted, and a shadow stretched over Connor. Blinking away the tears streaming from his abused eyes, he saw someone cross behind the counter. Suddenly, Miki stood over him, brandishing a heavy barstool. The singer wound up again, obviously intent on bashing Con’s head in.