Be Afraid Read Free

walls, ceiling and, of course, the woman. It all would be reduced to cinders in fifteen minutes. There’d be some forensic data to retrieve, but not much else. The body, perhaps, and the bullet. But not their DNA.
    Out the front door, they moved into the darkness toward Jonas’s car, a station wagon. The actors always drove to the scene, never the master, in case a witness happened to look.
    Jonas fired up the engine, revving the accelerator.
    “Remember, drive slowly. We don’t want to be noticed.”
    “Right.” Jonas gripped the wheel and drove.
    The rearview mirror gave a perfect view of the flames consuming the house. In the distance, fire engines wailed. Someone had already called 9-1-1.
    “Is that the cops?” Jonas asked.
    “No. The fire department.” They rounded a corner and the fire faded from view.
    In silence, they drove for several minutes before Jonas gripped the steering wheel tighter. “Can we do it again? I want to do it again!”
    “Not right away. We have to wait.” Anticipation burned under the yoke of Reason’s screams to be freed.
    But like Jonas, Madness didn’t want to wait. Madness had been starved for too long and would not allow Reason to dictate terms.
    Lights from Broadway in Nashville’s music district flashed across Jonas’s face as they made their way toward an open bar. “I don’t want to wait.”
    “Let’s get a drink.”
    Jonas frowned.
    “You’ve trusted me this far. Have I ever let you down?”
    “No.”
    “Then trust me.”

Chapter One
    Monday, August 14, 8 A.M.

    Detective Rick Morgan’s nickname was Boy Scout. He didn’t like the moniker, given to him by his partner Detective Jake Bishop, but in the four weeks they’d been partnered, it had stuck.
    “Why?” he’d once asked Bishop.
    The answer came with a shrug. “You couldn’t lie if you tried, you keep your hair buzzed, walk like you’ve a stick up your ass and, Christ, what’s with the Johnny Cash black suits?”
    If Rick had cared, he’d have explained that a natural bluntness limited conversations to the facts; the haircut and suits were convenient, and, well, better a rigid gait than reveal the limp, a reminder of the two bullets that had sliced into his upper leg and spilled his blood on I-40.
    Memories of lying on hard asphalt heated by the July sun as he bled out remained vivid. Broad daylight. Not a cloud in the sky. It had been a routine traffic stop. A blue Ford truck with a busted tail light. He’d flashed his lights. The truck had pulled to the side. No signs of trouble. Plates called in, he’d approached the car, careful to touch the back trunk and leave fingerprints, a precaution in case of trouble. Before he cleared the trunk, the gun muzzle flashed. He’d drawn his gun. Gunfire. Pain. His thumb had jammed against the release button on his vest, opening the back door of his vehicle to free his canine Tracker. The shepherd had leapt into action. Snarls and barking mingled with more gunfire. Tracker had gone down in a heap, the whimper of his pain echoing in Rick’s ears as he’d fired again and mortally wounded the shooter.
    It had all gone down in less than thirty seconds. Thirty fucking seconds.
    A horn honked.
    Rick straightened and glanced up at the green light. He pushed the accelerator and drove the remaining blocks to the Nashville Police Department’s offices located on Union and Third Avenue North. He parked, shoved out a breath hoping it would take some of the tension with it. He’d been in the homicide department four weeks now and still hadn’t fallen in step with his new partner.
    Out of the car, he was grateful the persistent throb in his hip was manageable today as he opened the back door. Tracker looked up at him and barked, his signal that he was ready to work.
    Rick pulled a ramp from the floorboard and rested it against the seat and the ground, allowing Tracker an easy exit from the vehicle. Tracker had lost a good portion of his back right leg and, though he