Paws off the Boss - Casey Griffin (best books under 200 pages .TXT) 📗

the police nightstick out of its holder. She weighed it in her hand like a baseball bat. Nice and heavy.

The costume originally came with a hollow, plastic police stick, no more dangerous than a pool noodle. But after her first gig at a college party, she’d swapped it for a small rolling pin that she painted black—just in case there were too many beers and not enough witnesses around.

She’d used it only once, but at least she knew it could break a finger or two.

There’d been no tip that night.

Something brushed against Piper’s leg. She bit her lip hard to keep from screaming as she looked down to find Colin at her heel. If only it weren’t so dark, things wouldn’t seem so scary.

From memory, she could visualize the light switches on the far wall behind the desk. Forcing her legs forward, she moved inch by inch, trying to soften her footfalls, to be stealthy like she really was a cop about to bust the bad guy. However, she didn’t think flashing her plastic badge pinned over her left boob would be very convincing with the fishnets.

By the time she crept across the linoleum floor and skirted around the desk, her breaths came in quiet, panicked gasps, as though the air were thinner there compared to the other side of the room. With her back to the wall, she inched her way to the light switch by the kitchen.

The nightstick shook in her hand. She gripped it tighter. Before she could flick on the lights, a caustic scent wafted through the air, burning her nostrils. Wrinkling her nose, she flinched away.

Something fell on the floor, landing by her foot. She jumped. Her eyes darted down. A red plastic canister. It was then that she recognized the smell: gasoline.

A match struck in the kitchen, piercingly bright. The glow illuminated the silhouette of a person.

The scene hit Piper with nauseating horror. Her stomach shriveled up. She covered her mouth with a hand and yelled through her shaky fingers, “No! Don’t do it.”

The person spun around. Vague, shadowed features and a stocky figure were all that stood out past the quivering flame. Dots of light swam across Piper’s vision, but she had the impression it was a man.

The match burned low, dancing toward his fingers. Piper clenched the nightstick in her hand. But she was too afraid that if she attacked him, the match would fall and ignite the gasoline.

She tried to steady her voice, to remain calm. “Please. I’ll let you leave. Just don’t do it.”

He snorted in an “As if you could stop me” way and flicked the match aside with the carelessness of someone who’d just lighted a cigarette.

Piper screamed as it fell onto the floor, automatically lunging forward to catch it. With a deep woofing sound like the bark of a breathy Neapolitan Mastiff, that tiny flicker of light set off an explosion.

A blinding flash. A wave of heat. It hit Piper like an oven door opening—if hell had ovens. The force threw her back against the counter, nearly knocking the fish tank onto the floor.

Everything happened at once. The heat, the brilliance, the high-pitched fire alarm needling her eardrums, the bright white light flashing above the exit, telling her to get to safety. Colin was barking now too, although she could barely hear him.

Overwhelmed, Piper tried to blink against the midday sun that had risen in the kitchen. She spotted the man barreling toward her.

She raised her weapon. As he plowed into her, she brought it down. It connected with a crack, reminding her of her Little League Softball days.

The man cried out. They both went down in a twisted pile on the floor. Piper’s hands flew out to catch her fall, and the nightstick rolled away, out of reach.

He struggled to get to his feet, but she kicked the backs of his knees. They folded under him. He wasn’t getting away that easily.

The fire grew eerily bright behind them, casting violent light and shadows in the reception room. Too caught up in the struggle, Piper’s only thought was of keeping the man there.

They wrestled behind the desk, arms swinging, legs flailing, as the arsonist desperately tried to escape. But Piper wouldn’t let that happen. If only she could see his face, she could put a stop to all this.

Ashes and embers fluttered down on them. They singed Piper’s bare skin and melted her polyester costume. She hardly noticed.

It was hot. Too hot. Soon, sweat soaked through her costume, then water as the overhead sprinklers kicked in. Instead of it being a reprieve, it was no different from having a hot shower in a sauna.

Colin defended her by nipping the man with his sharp razor teeth. But dachshunds were bred for hunting badgers, and this guy was definitely bigger than a badger. Stronger, too. He beat at Piper’s arms, taking random swings at her face. One connected, stunning her.

The intruder wormed away. Piper clawed at his sodden clothes. She gripped his coat, his arms, his hood, but she was tiring quickly. She grunted and swore, but she could barely hear herself over the alarm.

He lurched for the door to the back, grasping the handle. Piper slipped on the linoleum and lost her grip on him. When she pounced again, something jangled against her side: the costume’s handcuffs.

Reaching around, she yanked them off her belt loop and slapped one cuff around his wrist. She clamped the other around the door handle.

The intruder tugged at his bonds while Piper groped under the desk for her rolling pin. But it was lost. She searched the desk for something weighty or sharp. Hopefully both. She grabbed the three-hole punch and turned in time to see a backhand swinging toward her face.

The blow landed on her cheek, throwing her against the desk. As she went down, her head cracked on the edge.

It wasn’t like in the cartoons; a few stars didn’t flash before her eyes. It was an entire galaxy. The Milky Way.

Piper tried to get to her feet, but he blocked her under the desk. His leg drew back, and he kicked out at her. His boot connected square on her chest, knocking the wind from her lungs. She crumpled to the floor.

He lurched toward the door to the kennels, where the broken handcuffs still dangled. All Piper could do was watch. Watch and claw at her constrictive clothes, coughing and gasping for air, unable to manage anything more than tiny squirrel breaths.

The man hesitated in the doorway and looked back. Colin had a hold on the man’s pant leg, not ready to let him go, either. The doxie jerked and yanked violently on the hem, thrashing his head about, ears flopping.

“Colin, no!” Piper yelled, but it was barely a whisper, too quiet to hear over the steady pulsing alarm and the thunderous crackling coming from the kitchen.

The arsonist wrenched back in a tug-of-war, trying to free his leg. He finally tore himself away, but Colin sprang at him again. This time, he must have caught the man’s ankle in his jaws. The arsonist screamed out, and his knees buckled.

Snarling like a Rottweiler, the man wound up and gave a powerful shake of his leg. The fabric tore. Colin flew across the linoleum.

There was a thunk. A high-pitched yelp. Then nothing.

“Colin,” Piper croaked.

She watched as her attacker slipped into the back, coat flapping behind him as he sprinted for the exit. Caught up in the moment, Piper moved to chase after him. However, when she stood up, she choked on her first breaths.

Her head swirled. The back of her throat stung. It smelled and tasted like she’d just wrapped her lips around her VW’s exhaust pipe and given it a thorough blow job.

Suddenly, she grew aware of her surroundings. Thick, black smoke poured from the kitchen door. It billowed, flowing upward to curl along the ceiling tiles. There, it pooled in a hot, toxic blanket that threatened to fall and smother her and Colin.

Through the kitchen door, she could see the room glow like it was daylight in there. The ignited gasoline flowed down the edges of the countertop, the table, the chairs, dripping onto the floor like molten lava. The reality of it slammed through Piper’s one-track mind.

It had been only a minute since he’d dropped the match, but that minute had allowed the fire to spread. That minute might have meant the deaths of all her beloved dogs locked up in their kennels.