Slow Burn

By Michael Harbison

They Are Coming: Scarred by a brutal past, former Army Ranger Jake Coyle has found a lonely paradise at a fire lookout in the mountains above Los Angeles. Now paradise is about to burn. As a wildfire ignites, four hired gunmen enter the forest with Coyle in their sights, seeking vengeance for the death of a woman Coyle failed to protect. Haunted by guilt, Coyle is torn between running and accepting his fate. Then, as a deadly firestorm rips through the trees, Kate Sever and her young son, Zach, are thrust into Coyle's nightmare. Fleeing through the forest, one step ahead of the bullets and flames, Coyle's only hope for redemption lies in keeping Kate and Zach safe, and their best chance at survival depends on the one person they may not be able to trust: Jake Coyle.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Michael Harbison
• Release date: Oct 19, 2011
• ISBN: 9781465713421

Michael Harbison

Michael Harbison has written articles on adventure travel and other subjects for numerous magazines including Backpacker, Rock & Ice, Adventure West, LA Parent, and Parenting. When not writing or spending time with his family, he enjoys mountain biking, hiking, and photography. He lives in Claremont, California with his wife and daughter.

Book preview

Prologue

As Jake Coyle put the key into the rusty lock, his sunglasses fell and shattered on the rocks and the afternoon sun slipped through the pines and hit his scars like a spotlight. To the kid on the boulder, just a few yards away, his face must have looked like the burnt remains of a Halloween mask. The boy’s lower lip trembled and his cheeks puffed like a tiny bellows, then the first crystalline tears began to fall.

Coyle glanced around the campground and hurried to open the fire gate. It’s okay, he told the kid.

The words came out scratchy and forced.

The kid wasn’t buying. His tears became sobs.

Coyle replaced his broken sunglasses and tugged his hat low, covering his scars, hoping the kid might shut up before trouble started. Then the boy wailed, and Coyle scanned the crowded tables beneath the wilted oaks, knowing what would come next.

Everyone around the picnic tables went silent and froze, then a muscled guy in a Metallica shirt broke into a run, coming like a pissed-off freight train. He had a beer bottle in one hand, his other hand was knotted into a fist, and his eyes were locked on Coyle.

Coyle twisted the key.

The lock’s tumblers gave a bit then froze.

Sweat flooded Coyle’s eyes.

Everything blurred.

The big guy never broke stride.

Coyle turned the key again, pressing it. At last, with a sharp grind, the lock broke free and he shoved the fire gate open and got back into his Blazer, just as the big guy scooped the crying boy into his arms, shooting a mad-dog glare.

What’d you do to him? the guy yelled.

Other campers were moving toward the Blazer now.

The muscled guy, feet away and breathing fire, was practically spitting in Coyle’s face.

You like scaring little kids?

Coyle kneaded the steering wheel, watching the crowd grow, feeling the stares. Parents clutched small hands, mouths twisted in disgust, eyes darting for a close look at his face, then staring at the ground. Some walked away. Others moved closer. As the crowd blossomed into a mob, Coyle half expected a rain of rocks to crash through the windows.

None came.

Then an angry wave of heat rose from his core, like magma welling from a volcano, ready to scorch the world. With practiced calm, he choked it down and worked his hands on the wheel, breathing deeply until the rage faded and all that remained was detachment.

After a few breaths, he glanced at the muscled guy and dipped his chin.

Sorry about your boy, he said.

The man’s chest heaved. He said nothing.

Coyle gunned the engine and the crowd parted. Then he put the Blazer into gear and drove into the darkening valley, wiping sweat from his eyes, trying to ignore the heat.

Ten minutes later, after clearing the mailbox, he sat in the Blazer and stared at the envelope. A pulse of bitter wind swirled into the cab. The air tasted of ash.

Since early spring, he’d worked as a fire spotter at the lookout on the summit of South Mount Hawkins, overlooking the Los Angeles basin, and in that time, hadn’t received a single piece of personal mail. Now the letter had come, and he was troubled—disruptions of routine bothered him deeply.

He stared at the envelope.

His name printed neatly on the front. No return address. Postmark stamped two days earlier in the city of Avalon, on the island of Catalina.

Coyle had never been to Catalina.

Staring down, he tore open the envelope. A single sheet of paper lay folded inside. He shook it onto his lap.

As he stared, sweat dripped from his hair and ran over his face, then laughter lanced the air. He glanced up and saw two boys under a nearby pine, staring at his scars, making ugly faces. When he didn’t react to their taunts, they shot him the finger.

He looked back down at the paper and felt his heart stutter as he read.

A single sentence. Three typed words. Changing everything.

THEY ARE COMING.

Chapter 1

Jay Sever answered his ringing phone at dawn and listened as the man with the plan told him exactly what to do. He marked the instructions on the business section of the Los Angeles Times, noting every detail with a sense of indifference, as if the nightmare were happening to someone else. Then, after a few beats, the man with the plan stopped talking and the line went dead. Jay hung up the phone and puked into the sink.

Two hours later, hands still shaking as he lit a cigarette and paced the subway platform beneath Los Angeles Union Station, tasting a mix of cinnamon Scope and vomit, he looked for some way out of this mess.

His mind raced but came up with zilch.

His stomach churned as he realized how screwed he was.

For a beat, he considered running away and never coming back. Then just as suddenly, he knew running wouldn’t work. The man with the plan wouldn’t forget him. Jay had taken money and was expected to finish the job, and even if he ran to Antarctica, the man with the plan would track him down and put a bullet through each of his eyes, leaving him to rot on some godforsaken iceberg.

There was only one way out—he had to finish.

A horn blared.

He checked his watch.

The train was on schedule.

No more thinking. Time to get this done.

A rush of cool air pulsed up the tunnel as the silver Metro train sped into the station. Jay stood beside a concrete bench, puffing smoke, watching the crowd coagulate to rush the doors. The train ground to a stop. A crush of bodies exchanged places on the platform. Then Jay saw him.

Darren Cash wore khaki shorts and a white UCLA tee shirt that matched the sun bleached streaks in his hair. Headphones buried deep in his ears, backpack draped over his left shoulder. With his slumped back and jerky walk, he looked like a reluctant college kid on his way to school. In reality, he was a recently paroled felon who had spent the last three years at the federal prison in Victorville.

Jay caught his eye and nodded.

Cash walked over, removed the headphones and dropped his pack onto the concrete bench. Amid the buzz of the station, his Walkman blasted a tribal chant and the thump thump thump of the music kept time with Jay’s racing heart.

Cash grinned.

I’m surprised you showed.

Jay nodded and reminded himself to breathe.

After two horn bursts, the door lights on the train flashed red, then the doors closed, and the train pulled away. Seconds later, as if the people had vaporized, the platform was deserted.

Jay stole a glance at his watch and started the mental countdown.

Five minutes to the next train.

Cash glanced around. Business first, he said. Let’s see the money.

Jay sat down on the bench and unzipped his jacket. He was reaching for the envelope when a bum detached from the shadows and shuffled over to their bench. Layered in street grime, hair caked to his head like putty, urine stink swirling like a cloud of flies, the guy held out his hand. The odor hit hard and Jay tasted bile.

Give me some money, the bum grumbled. I’m hungry…Gotta have some food.

Jay dug change from his pocket and tossed it.

The bum snorted in disgust. Give me some paper, man. I really gotta eat.

Cash lifted his shirt. The butt of a revolver jutted from his hip. Get lost or you can eat this.

The bum cursed and moved on.

Cash lowered his shirt.

Jay stared at the shape of the gun. His heart raced even faster.

Cash read the look on his face and smiled dryly. Don’t worry, man. I have a permit.

Jay looked away.

People were drifting down from the streets of Los Angeles, queuing up for the next train. Most stayed at the far end of the platform, close to the escalator, too far to have seen the gun. Jay swallowed the lump in his throat and checked the time.

Three minutes.

He pulled the envelope from his jacket and handed it over.

Cash flipped through the cluster of bills and then smiled.

Let me see the computer, Jay demanded.

Cash removed a Dell laptop from his backpack. Jay examined the computer as if it were a bomb about to explode in his face. It’s set up correctly? he asked.

Cash gave a wounded look. Don’t insult me, man. You know why the feds gave me that little vacation in Victorville?

Jay shook his head.

I hacked into DARPA.

What’s DARPA?

Defense Advanced Research Projects Agency. Department of Defense? You know what they do to keep people out of there?

What’s your point?

My point is I’m a genius. Setting up your program was a snap. But hey, you want a guarantee you'd better shop at Wal-Mart.

Jay eyeballed the crowd and frowned. The people I represent don’t screw around, he said. They need this thing to work. If it doesn’t go perfectly, they’re going to want more than their money back.

The website goes live in seventy-two hours.

Seventy-two hours? It was supposed to be a week.

Then you’d better change the launch date.

How do we do that?

You get on the server and enter the password. Enter a new date and it’s done.

What’s the password?

You get that when I get the rest of my money.

The deal was you’d have everything for us now.

Well, I changed the deal.

That won’t please my partner.

Cash pretended he hadn’t heard. Then he dug into his pack and withdrew a Polaroid. The image was grainy and dark, but Jay pegged the face immediately—the crooked smile and curly hair, the crinkly blue eyes—and his lungs seized like overheated pistons.

How could Cash know about Zach?

Nice looking kid. His mother must be hot. Cash’s upper lip twitched. He leaned forward and lowered his voice. You even think of screwing me, I’ll go back to his school, and I promise, when I leave, he won’t be smiling.

Jay’s stomach looped. He clenched his fists.

Cash pocketed the money and said, Don’t take it personally. I’m just protecting my ass. If you’re smart, you’ll do the same.

Jay’s chest heaved. He fought for air and glanced at his watch.

Less than two minutes.

Swallowing his anger, Jay asked, Are we finished?

Cash fiddle with his headphones and shrugged. I got what I came for. Enjoy your day. Then he adjusted his Walkman and rejoined the crowd.

Jay shouldered the pack containing the laptop and headed for the stairs. With every step a feeling of exhaustion crept through him, like a marathon runner, racing with a gun to his head. He wanted to dash up the stairs, get out of the station, find his car and drive to Zach’s school in Pasadena. He needed to know his son was okay. Instead, he stopped at the base of the stairs and turned around, barely able to think as he watched the crowd.

The station was fat with commuters waiting on the next train. Jay didn’t make eye contact with anyone. Rage seethed within him, but he kept cool, surprising himself with how calmly he was able to stand when what he really wanted to do was run like hell.

Nobody looked at him.

Nobody said a word.

Down here, beneath the city, no one wanted to know you. Everyone in their own little world, worried about jobs or bills or kids. He wondered if any of them had seen the exchange. Would they remember him? Would they remember Darren Cash? Oh yeah, they would remember Cash.

His instructions had been clear, but lacking the password might change things. Then again, it might not. For several beats he waited, deciding what to do, feeling the station pulse around him. Then he knew what he had to do—password or no password, he had to finish the job. The man with the plan expected follow through.

Jay walked toward the tracks, sucking their coppery static deep into his lungs, drawing power from the electric current, hearing Cash’s threat over and over in his head.

I’ll go back to his school . . . I’ll go back to his school.

He circled around, working through the crowd, joining the throng of commuters directly behind Darren Cash.

One minute.

He squeezed through the mob, feet shuffling, as if pushed by some outside force. Tried not to draw attention to himself. Tried to let the crowd jostle him forward like a piece of trash on a stormy lake. That’s what he was now, a piece of human trash.

How had that happened?

As Jay got close, he heard the blare of Cash’s Walkman, saw the bulge of the gun pressing out. Then he felt the thrum of the approaching train deep in his chest.

Light filled the tunnel.

The ground shook.

Then the train breached into the station like a gleaming whale.

Despite the cool air, Jay shed bullets of sweat.

I can’t do this.

I can’t . . .

I . . .

Then the Polaroid flashed like a microscopic bomb in his brain. He wouldn’t let anyone hurt Zach; not Cash, not the man with the plan, not anyone.

The threat had been clear.

So was the remedy.

The train screamed forward.

Jay reached out and shoved Darren Cash onto the tracks.

Chapter 2

Edward Peck strode down the glass hallway, flanked on his right side by a flaxen-haired gorilla. Peck’s feet were silent on the carpet as he walked, but his brain was screaming.

Outside the windows, beneath the long sweep of hillside, Santa Monica's dim lights pricked through the night fog and cast a pale glow over the courtyard. People dancing beside the pool looked dead—a party of ghosts. Not far away, a band played classical music, something sad and full of memories that made Peck want to find a bottle. Instead, he shook off the feeling and kept walking.

At the end of the hall, he and the gorilla turned left and came to a huge teak door. Beneath his beefy arms, quarter moons of sweat marred the gorilla’s silk shirt and he breathed hard, as if he’d just run a marathon.

Mr. Barron has a lot of guests tonight, he said. He can’t give you much time.

Who are you? Peck asked.

Max Spiller. I handle Mr. Barron’s personal security.

Peck nodded. You’re about to send me into the room with your man, Mr. Spiller. Aren’t you going to pat me down?

Mr. Barron said that I shouldn’t.

Peck shrugged. Why not?

He said you’d be carrying a Smith & Wesson thirty-eight under your right arm, and that if I tried to take it, you’d probably shoot me. Spiller was a huge man, easily six-five and two-forty—all of it rock—but his face carried softness, suggesting he might be shooting blanks. Difficult to tell. These days Peck was out of practice when it came to judging hard men.

Spiller took a deep breath.

What’s on your mind? Peck asked.

I saw you in North Hollywood that day, when you were with LAPD. I saw the whole thing.

Peck looked out the window. On TV?

Naw, I was there. That bank was down the street from my apartment. I went outside to watch the shootout. There was so much lead flying around, I swear to Christ, it was like a movie.

Not really, Peck said, people died.

You dropped two men wearing full body armor, from over twenty yards. Two rounds to the head. That was the greatest piece of work I’ve ever seen.

For a moment Peck went back, smelled the cordite and saw the curling blue-smoke rise over pooling blood, and then the somber music found his ears and drove it all away. He looked out the window and listened to the strains of a lone violin, pushing through the night.

Long time ago, he finally said. I should have stayed in bed that morning.

Spiller shook his head. I can’t believe Internal Affairs pushed you out. After what you did that day, on those streets, you should have been untouchable.

IAD didn’t get rid of me, Peck said. I pulled the plug.

Spiller shrugged. Still, it was fine shooting.

They went silent then.

Spiller opened the door seconds later, and Peck walked through.

Once he was alone in the room, even the music faded.

Inside, the study resembled a posh hotel suite—a line of windows overlooked the courtyard and the pool, while a cushy couch, two black recliners, and a big screen television dominated the south corner of the room. The TV was tuned to the Bloomberg Channel, and a brunette with capped teeth and rubber tits droned on about the struggles of California’s economy under the new governor.

Peck tuned it out, thinking about North Hollywood, trying to hear the sad music. He walked to a huge mahogany desk and took a piece of butterscotch candy from a crystal dish before going to the windows and looking down at the party.

Just beyond the pool, between thick fingers of fog, the Pacific gleamed like a black pearl. Barron’s party was in full swing—a hundred conversations rode the ocean breeze, covering the grounds of the estate with the drone of gilded voices and the clink of champagne glasses. Sucking the candy, Peck turned away, sank into one of the overstuffed recliners, and waited.

Down a short hallway, yellow light seeped from beneath a closed door. The sound of running water spilled out and pooled over the plush carpeting. Female laughter came with it.

Seconds became minutes.

While he waited, Peck plucked a cuticle like a harp string. After a while, the finger started to bleed. He wiped the blood on the chair.

Then the door opened and a young blonde stepped out, adjusting the straps on her black dress. The girl ignored him as she hurried through the room. A few seconds later, Jonathan Barron followed. Smartly dressed in an Armani tux, he strode forward like a busy general and sat in the recliner opposite Peck.

You get some champagne? he asked.

No, Peck said.

How was your drive?

Peck shrugged and rubbed his stomach. The 10 was jammed. The fire smoke is worse. We need some rain to clear the air.

Barron smiled. Rain in October? Good luck. One day, this whole city will burn, not just the foothills.

Peck winced as something twisted in his guts. The pain turned acidic. He reached into his coat and pulled out a bottle of Maalox. By the time he unscrewed the cap, the agony was fierce enough he could barely lift the bottle to his lips.

You sick? Barron asked before glancing at the TV.

Acid. I have it all the time.

Sounds pleasant.

"Sitting in traffic didn’t help.

You should have purchased that condo in Westwood last year; you’d be closer to me. Those units have appreciated over five percent in the last six months. It would have been a great investment.

Investments take money.

Money can always be found.

Maybe for you…Do you mind if I smoke?

Can’t be good for your stomach.

It’s a habit. I can’t stop.

Barron frowned. Go ahead.

Peck produced a cigarette and a lighter. They sat silently for a few minutes. Barron’s eyes went back to the television. Peck smoked and looked around the room. The walls were decorated with a dozen framed one-sheets from Barron’s film career. Most prominently featured Barron’s image and the progressive sag of his features traced the downward trajectory of his career—bankable leading man at one end of the room, caricature of his younger self at the other. It was a familiar story in Hollywood—hot shit one year, dog shit the next. Peck breathed a lungful of smoke and came to the point.

Why am I here?

I’m being blackmailed, Barron said.

Peck blew out a stream of smoke. Call the police.

I can’t.

Why not?

"That’s the nature of blackmail, Edward. There’s something I don’t want revealed. If I went to the police, I’d have to tell them what that something is. That’s a shitstorm I don’t need."

After a moment, Peck nodded and asked, What are you hiding?

Barron went to his desk and held up a silver disk. It appeared to be a DVD or a CD. This came in the mail three weeks ago.

One of your movies?

Before I show you, I want to know if you’re going to help me.

If I thought I had a choice, I wouldn’t be here.

You're right, Barron smiled. You don’t.

That’s what I thought.

Barron placed the disk into a DVD player