Maggie approached the house at an angle, so as not to be visible from the front or the windows. The neighbor’s home wasn’t nearly as extravagant as the Schofield residence, but it was still a lovely and expensive-looking house, just on a smaller scale. It was a single-story ranch-style place covered with beige brick and surrounded by red rock landscaping. A white Ford Taurus sat in the driveway. The car was free of snow, as if it had arrived only a few minutes earlier.
There was little to block the wind in the space between the houses. It bit at her skin and pulled at her hair. The snow was deep, and it crept over the tops of her black ankle-high boots and soaked the cuffs of her jeans. Stomping up into the rocky flower bed, she rounded the corner of the neighbor’s house.
A small porch ran along its front. With her Glock at the ready, Maggie stepped up onto the porch and peered through the front window. Her view of the room was partially obstructed by a thin white curtain, but the venetian blinds were open. There was an L-shaped brown and white sectional sofa facing a flat-screen TV mounted on the far wall. A big blue fleece blanket was draped over one arm of the couch.
In the center of the room, an old man was gagged and had been duct-taped to a kitchen chair. He had thick white hair that was soaked and clinging to his face. His clothes looked wet as well, and his eyes were wide with fear and confusion. She could hear Schofield but couldn’t see him. He was yelling at the old man.
“You should have stayed away from my family!”
She inched farther around the edge of the window, and there he was. He paced back and forth in front of the bound man. A silenced pistol dangled from his right hand, and he held a bottle of Kingsford lighter fluid in the other.
Realizing why the man looked wet and what was about to happen, she rushed to the front door but found it locked.
Focusing on the area just below the knob, Maggie took a deep breath and prepared to strike. She stood sideways a few feet back with her leading foot facing forward. Then she executed a swift side kick, planting her heel into the space below the knob. She carried her momentum all the way through the kick, falling into her target and throwing all her weight behind the blow.
The door flew inward on its hinges and slammed into the drywall. Pieces of the ruined frame shot into the living room. Dust from the drywall and splintered wood filled the room as she raced in.
The air was thick with the smell of smoke and lighter fluid and burning meat. Maggie caught sight of someone moving, running from the room, but she had more pressing concerns.
In the center of the room, the old man was engulfed in flames. He was writhing in agony and screaming beneath his gag. He rocked violently and knocked the chair over onto its side.
Maggie didn’t hesitate.
Dropping her gun, she jumped over the burning man and ripped the big blue blanket off of the couch. Then she flung it out over him and dropped her weight on him to smother the flames.
After several moments of frantic patting and rubbing, the fire was extinguished. He was alive, and he had only been on fire for a few seconds. She doubted that he had a hair left on his head or torso, but his injuries weren’t life-threatening.
Once the fire was out, she didn’t bother to undo the old man’s restraints. Her Glock had fallen near the ruined front door. She scooped it up and ran after Schofield.
She hurried toward a door at the side of the house and burst into the yard. The woods would provide the closest cover and a good escape route, and so her gaze moved in that direction first. But there was no sign of him.
Then she looked down at the snow. Long clumsy footprints showed a path from the side of the old man’s house to the curb. Her gaze followed the tracks up and across the street, and she saw him.
Schofield was already nearly onto the next road over, charging through the snow in between his neighbors’ homes in an awkward loping gait.
Maggie took off after him at a full sprint. The snow was thick and hindered her movements, but she was in good shape and light on her feet. She reached the street and crossed into the neighboring yard. She closed the distance between the houses and the next street quickly.
But she was too late.
She reached the street just in time to see an old Volkswagen spinning its tires in the slush covering the road as it sped away. She took aim with the Glock, but the car was already out of range.
Schofield was gone.