He waited, too, until his breath came in slower, deeper gasps, and it was then that he smelled it. Gasoline. The pungent stench was overpowering.

God. He was going to burn the place down.

Quinn sprinted from his crouch and pounded up the stairs, dashing around partial walls and leaping over piles of material. He slipped on the powdery residue of sawdust and nearly fell against the air compressor, the humid night air clogging his lungs and his pulse throbbing in his ears as he raced toward the place he’d last seen the light. No one there. “I know you’re here,” he shouted. “I’ve called the cops.”

Silence.

Quinn slid through a stud wall, edging toward the open ramp leading to the third floor, his thoughts racing. No plywood cladding on the walls up there, no railing in too many places on that level. He didn’t want to climb up and risk a confrontation and a fall. But the stink of oil hung thick in the mist around him here. He had to get out, to get to the scaffolding or-

He ducked and swung, low, toward the scuffling sound of a footstep behind him, raising an arm to protect his head. Something glanced off his arm, sloshing liquid to blind him and soak his hair before smashing to the floor. Glass shards crunched beneath his boots as he plowed into the figure, taking them both down, hard, on the thick plywood. Shocking pain shot through his jaw, and another blow landed on his head as the intruder grunted and squirmed, a mass of flailing arms and legs. They rolled once, twice, before the intruder shoved and kicked free, catching Quinn in the ribs and punching the breath out of him.

He lurched upright, tangling and tripping in the compressor hose as he staggered toward the black gap in the floor where steps led to the ground level. A moment later a muffled whoomph echoed through the structure, and flames licked up the stair opening to spread in oily waves along the floor, flowing toward his feet.

He dove for an opening in the plywood wall and dropped to the ground two levels below. He landed crookedly, an ankle twisting beneath him. Rolling to his back, his breath burst from his throat in a strangled grunt and he stared up at Tidewaters, glowing orange and gold, cloaked in roiling black smoke. The air crackled and stank of fuel and burning pitch. “No.”

The sound of an engine whined over the roar of the fire. Quinn struggled to his feet and stumbled toward the headlight beams shining on the trailer. He detoured to the chop saw raised on its temporary sawhorse, grabbed a crowbar and swung as the dark truck moved past him. The windshield cracked and the bar caught in its frame. The driver swerved, dragging Quinn through the gravel and mud before the truck’s tires skidded and spun, seeking purchase along the sharp edge of the spill excavation. The chassis shuddered and tilted over the yawning gap, and Quinn’s legs swung over nothingness as he lost his grip on the bar.

He tumbled into the hole and rolled, digging and clawing and scrambling away from the edge, out from beneath the pickup he was sure would roll onto its side and crush him. But in the next breath he heard the thud and ping of rocks pelting the depression around him, and he curled into a tight ball, covering his head to protect it from the rear tire as it gained traction. Pea gravel stung his back like wasps.

He hauled himself to his knees to peer beyond the rim of the excavation, watching as the truck crashed through the gate, one fence section collapsing and catching on its hood to trawl behind, out into the street. And then the stiff wire section clattered to the pavement as the truck picked up speed and disappeared into the siren-screaming distance.

“WHEN DID Dad say he was coming home?” Rosie switched channels again, and Tess snatched the remote from her hand.

“Ten minutes.”

“Ten minutes was up ten minutes ago. It’s tomorrow already. He missed our party.”

“That’s what we get for planning a surprise party. The surprise is on us.” Tess tried to shrug off the trickle of anxiety, but she glanced toward the window. “He’ll be here.”

“I’m tired.” Rosie yawned and flipped over, stretching out on her stomach. “Call him again.”

“He’ll think I’m nagging.”

“He’s used to it.”

“I don’t nag.”

“Ha.”

Tess muttered something uncomplimentary about the kid as she dug through her purse for her phone. She punched in Quinn’s number, waited through the ring tones and got his voice mail. “He’s not answering.”

“He always answers.” Rosie shifted upright. “Something’s wrong.”

“Maybe the batteries ran low. Maybe he left it in his car when he went into the store,” she said, although she knew he wouldn’t do that. He always had a phone with him. He wanted to stay in touch with his daughter. “Maybe-”

Sirens squealed to life, nerve-racking and earsplitting and so close Tess jumped from the sofa. “What’s that?”

“The fire department.” Rosie stumbled to the window and stared down at the street. “It’s right around the corner.”

“No kidding.” Tess rubbed her arms. “How do you sleep through that?”

“We don’t.” Rosie turned, her face streaked and dotted with the ghastly glow of neon strobes. “What if that’s for Dad?”

“It’s not.”

“What if it is?” Rosie ran to her room. “I’m getting my coat,” she called over her shoulder.

“Good idea.” Tess flinched as another screaming vehicle roared down the street below the apartment window. She grabbed her jacket. “Let’s go.”

She locked the door behind Rosie, and they raced together down the hall.

TESS TRAILED the wailing sirens through the heart of town, breaking several traffic laws as she drove her roadster toward the hellfire coiling red and black above the bay fog. Oh God oh God oh God. Tidewaters. Quinn.

Her car shot through the gaping hole where the gate had been and spun to a stop beside a fire engine. She crawled out, grabbed Rosie’s hand and barreled through a knot of emergency crew, legs pumping, heart pounding, breath burning in her tight throat.

“Let me through,” she yelled when one of the fire-fighters made a grab to stop her. Another stepped into her path, and she let go of Rosie’s hand to try to shove past him. He grabbed her by the waist. “Let me go.”

“Wait a minute, lady.” Another firefighter nabbed Rosie by her coat sleeve. “You can’t go up there.”

“My dad’s up there,” Rosie said.

“No one’s up there.”

“Are you sure?” Tess sagged in the firefighter’s arms. “How can you be sure?”

“Crawford.” A man in a different uniform stepped forward. “Take these women to the trailer.”

The firefighter named Crawford gripped Tess’s arm and Rosie’s and escorted them to the trailer. Along one of its corrugated metal sides, visible in the pulsing neon of the emergency vehicles, Tess saw huge lettering in an ugly, spray-painted scrawl-the acronym of a terrorist organization.

Environmental terrorists.

“No civilians past this point.” A police officer stepped from the shadows near the trailer’s door and met them at a bobbing line of yellow crime-scene ribbon. “Take these women back out to the street.”

“This is Quinn’s daughter,” Tess said, yanking her arm free of Crawford’s grip.

“And who are you?” the officer asked.

Tess opened her mouth to reply and froze. The project architect. Quinn’s lover. A friend. None of the phrases seemed to have enough power to get her past the barrier and through that door to be by Quinn’s side, to see for herself if he was all right.

“She’s my dad’s fiancée,” Rosie told the men.

Crawford raised the yellow crime-scene tape. “Let them through.”

Tess followed Rosie toward the short metal steps. “Why did you tell them I’m his fiancée?”

“I saw it in a movie.” She shot Tess a bland glance over her shoulder. “It worked, didn’t it?”