Daddy Protector. Jacqueline Diamond

Чтение книги онлайн.

      Chapter Three

      The building had a straightforward layout, Hale discovered as he dashed into the main hallway: one unit on each side and stairs straight ahead. Eyes smarting and ears ringing from the smoke alarms, he raced to the second floor.

      Fires spread fast. Before flames shot into the hall and blocked their escape, he had to reach Skip.

      First he banged on Vince’s door in case Yolanda had been mistaken, although it was hard to imagine anyone ignoring the noise. Then he unlocked the Laytons’ apartment and, feeling no heat from the door and knob, entered.

      In the living room, smoke seeped through vents and the heat from directly below made Hale sweat beneath his jacket. When he shouted the boy’s name, an acrid lungful stirred a cough.

      “Help!” The plaintive cry confirmed the boy’s presence in a bedroom down the hall.

      Hale ran in that direction. He stopped at the first door and went in. Obviously the master bedroom. No kid by the window.

      Back in the hall, it was getting darker and hotter. Tougher to breathe, too. Hale darted into the next room, a bathroom, where he grabbed a towel, soaked it and, holding it over his nose and mouth, lunged into the hallway again.

      Entering the last room, he felt a draft. Open window, blocked by a screen. Skip was huddled on the floor, a little ball of terror. He sprang up when he saw Hale and flung himself at him.

      Hale transferred the towel to the boy’s face. “Hold this!” he commanded, and the boy obeyed.

      Split-second decision: to retreat the way he’d come or risk a two-story drop. One of Hale’s firefighter pals had said people frequently died heading for a door when they could easily have gone through a window. The awareness that the fire lay directly beneath their path, and the memory of the smoky staircase that by now must be ten times worse, simplified the choice.

      “Stand here!” He positioned the child away from the window, against the wall. Balancing on one leg, Hale smashed his heel into the screen. The bloody thing held. Why did this always look so easy on television? Grumbling, he seized a chair and swung. The jolt as it hit the frame reverberated through his elbows and shoulders, but mercifully, the screen went flying.

      Skip remained in place. Calling a few words of encouragement, Hale seized the twin-size mattress and heaved it outside. When it landed, Yolanda directed a couple of male volunteers to position it as a landing cushion. The woman exuded a natural air of authority.

      Hale crouched by Skip. In the light from the window, the boy’s freckles stood out in a face white with fear. Keep steady and calm, and he’ll follow suit.

      “Here’s what we’re going to do,” Hale explained. “I’ll lower you outside as far as I can, then let you fall. Mrs. Rios is there. You’ll land on the mattress, okay?”

      “Okay.” Skip clutched the towel.

      “You’ll be fine.” Kids were supposed to be resilient.

      Trusting blue eyes met his dark ones. “You’ll jump, too, right?”

      “Absolutely.” For a fraction of a second, he felt as if he were staring into the depths of the kid’s soul. Glimpsing a whole, complicated person whose future depended utterly on him. “Ready?”

      The youngster straightened. “Yeah.”

      More and more of a struggle to suck in air, let alone talk. “Sit on the sill.” Hale assisted the boy into place, facing outward. “I’m going to ease you down.”

      The child tensed almost to the point of rigidity. The mattress must seem far below, but if he didn’t relax, he’d be more likely to suffer injury.

      “Pretend this is a game. This is a playground and you’re playing superhero, okay? You can do it!”

      “Yeah. Okay, Hale.” He sounded shaky but determined.

      From far off, Hale heard a siren, but the crackle of flames was much closer and the smoke reeked of whatever combustibles were feeding the blaze. They didn’t dare delay.

      The boy’s weight pulled Hale forward and, with his hands occupied, he had to brace his thighs against the sill. “One, two, three.” A slow stretch as far as he could, and then, as he let go, he shouted, “Bombs away!”

      An unexpected noise floated to him. Skip’s laughter.

      Below, the boy hit the mattress and tumbled forward. His hands skidded off the padding onto the grass but he appeared to be unhurt. Yolanda scooped the child into her arms, fussing over him while clearing the area for Hale’s jump.

      More sirens. Another minute, maybe, and they’d be here. Except Hale couldn’t hold his breath that long, and his skin was about to peel off.

      Hey, this ought to be no big deal. He kept fit in the workout room at the PD and swam regularly at home. He’d pulled his share of daredevil stunts over the years, too, including skydiving.

      Piece of coke. No, wait, that’s cake. Okay, so he couldn’t think straight. And he had to do this facing the building instead of face-forward in order to lower himself as far as possible. He hung there feeling gravity suck the blood out of his arms, reminded himself that if he died the department would give him a fancy funeral, and dropped.

      Almost missed the mattress. Tried to bend his knees to break the fall, lost his balance and toppled over. Mercifully, his head hit the padding, but pain shot through his left ankle and the side of his body throbbed.