Roast Mortem Read Online Free PDF Page B

back on my feet and scanned the sidewalk for my beer-filled barista.
    â€œDante!” I shouted, rushing to the caffè entrance. “Dante!”
    Flames were repainting the caffè’s walls, spilling their colors onto its tables. The searing light in the urban night would have been beautiful if it weren’t so deadly.
    â€œDante! Answer me!”
    Smoke stung my eyes. I gritted my teeth, swiped at my cheeks, peered harder into the chaos.
    Up front, the heavy marble espresso-bar counter appeared undamaged. But in the rear of the shop, the embroidered fabric that had masked the utility room was a raging curtain of flame. There was no other way out of the cellar. Madame and Enzo were trapped.
    I opened my mouth to call out to them but hesitated. The fire door blocking the stairs was so heavy I doubted they could hear me through it . But will that door be strong enough to keep them safe with an inferno raging above their heads?
    Shoving away the unthinkable, I refocused on Dante and finally spotted him—or, rather, his big black Diesel boots—sticking out amid a cluster of overturned tables. Their heavy marble tops had formed a kind of fortress, shielding him from the dragon, but I knew the protection was only temporary.
    Taking a deep breath (and praying to God it wouldn’t be my last), I went in. Choking smoke hovered between floor and ceiling, so I dropped to all fours. The bumpy mosaic tiles bruised my hands and knees; the smoke and heat stung my eyes, but I kept on crawling, half feeling, half guessing my way over to Dante’s inert form.
    I tried to revive him by shaking his shoulders; then I saw the bloody gouge in his head and realized he’d been knocked unconscious by flying debris.
    Oh, God . . .
    Was he breathing? I couldn’t tell. The fire was sucking the oxygen out of the room, replacing it with toxic gasses, and the heat was unbearable. If we didn’t get out of this oven, we were going to be baked alive.
    I couldn’t lift my barista, so I grabbed both of his wrists under his scorched leather jacket and dragged his limp form across the floor. I don’t even know where I found the strength, but I was soon hauling him through the narrow doorway and spilling him out onto the sidewalk.
    The cold concrete and fresh night air felt like a sweet arctic kiss, but I couldn’t enjoy it. I knelt beside Dante, preparing to give him CPR—and saw that I didn’t need to. He was breathing on his own.
    Thank you, God!
    I noticed the sparse crowd then, gathering a few feet away: younger versions of Lucia Testa wearing micro miniskirts, older males behind them with more of that ubiquitous chin scruff, their expressions ranging from blank confusion to morbid excitement—yet no one lifted a spiked heel or overpriced basketball shoe to help!
    They’re from the Red Mirage, I realized, but I didn’t see the owner among them. Where is that club jerk now? Mr. Guardian of Happy Hour Parking? Isn’t he at least worried about his club burning, too? It’s right next door!
    Two minutes, maybe three, had passed since the initial blast. It felt like hours. I fumbled for my cell, impatient with my shaking hands and pressed a nine, a one—screaming sirens interrupted me. Flashing lights, nearly the same hues as the caffè’s inferno illuminated the shadowy street. The lead fire truck was massive, like a rolling T. rex. One basso blast from its reverberating horn sent tricked-out vans and giant SUVs scampering for the curb.
    Seconds later the cavalry pulled up, men bailing out before their ride even stopped. This was an engine, the kind of truck that carried endless canvas hoses folded in its rear. Behind it was a ladder truck, just as big with men leaping off just as quickly. Three police cars and an ambulance rounded out the first responder parade.
    With the FDNY here, there was nothing else to do but turn my focus back on the fire and literally begin to