Fury of Fire (Dragonfury Series #1)

precision, Angela let her eyes do the walking and worked her way down the side lawn, around the back corner of the house and what the—
    It looked like a freaking tornado had blown through back here.
    Snapped like toothpicks, a swath of trees lay flat, massive trunks torn in two. The track was at least fifteen feet wide and forty feet deep. Holy crap. Something huge had made that, a bulldozer maybe. Big problem with that theory, though. No tire treads or tracks, not a single one indicating any heavy-duty equipment had rolled through recently.
    Angela kept going and found an ash pile. A massive one. Okay, so it was bigger than the ones they’d found in the city, but discovering it ticked the first box. Their guy had definitely been here.
    She found a second pile as she walked the other side of the house, just to the right of a rundown garage. And then, something else.
    An impression at the top of the driveway, beside the old tractor. Which, of course, the yahoo idiots were gum-flapping around. With a “do you mind, get the hell off my evidence,” she examined the hole. About a foot deep, the long trench was U-shaped with a mucky bottom. Stranger still? The ice chips. The small fragments were all over the area: in the trench, around it, mixed in with the gravel.
    Hitting her haunches, Angela picked up a chunk. The piece was smooth and even, perfectly formed, like something you took out of a freezer. Weirder still? The thing was thawing evenly, keeping its shape as it melted in the palm of her hand.
    An eerie sensation ghosted up her spine. Something was really wrong here…in a crazy spooky kind of way.
    And she hadn’t even made it to the kitchen yet.
    Angela blew out a rough exhale. Time to go. She’d avoided the body of her latest victim long enough.
    Taking the steps two at the time, she avoided the rubble and stooped under the downed porch. A second later, she crossed over the threshold, boots crunching on broken glass, to head down the narrow corridor. She took a moment before moving into the kitchen, noting the red pool beside the island and the footprints drying in human blood on the ceramic tile. With a deep breath, she settled herself and took a wide path around the island, making sure to step carefully. The CSI unit would arrive soon. She didn’t want any evidence compromised…needed every scrap to figure out what exactly had gone down here.
    At least, she thought so until she got her first glimpse of Caroline Van Owen.
    “Oh, my God,” she whispered against the back of her hand. “The bastard.”
    Laid out on her back, the girl had been sliced wide open. Mac had warned her, but still…
    Angela swallowed the awful taste in her mouth.
    This wasn’t their guy’s usual MO. None of the other girls had been pregnant. But Caroline? Holy hell. Someone had…had…cut the baby right out of her womb.
    Yeah, not at all like the first three victims.
    So different, in fact, it made Angela sick. Stomach-turning, bile-tasting sick.
    Crouched beside the island—mere feet from a black bag and strewn medical supplies—Angela forced herself into detective mode and reached into the back pocket of her chinos. As she snapped on her rubber gloves, her mind went critical, diving into the place that allowed her to do her job—the place that both her captain and her partner loved: the sinkhole of analytical thinking that once engaged, solved a crap load of cases.
    Seconds passed into minutes. How many Angela couldn’t say as she collected and analyzed…all without touching. Her brain was like a camera, snapping pictures that she would later recall with total clarity. Some labeled her skill a “photographic memory.” Mac called it magic.
    A soft scrape on the ceramic sounded behind her. Without looking away from the vic, she asked, “Any sign of the nurse?”
    Mac cleared his throat. The rough sound echoed in the small space, telling Angela more clearly than words that her partner was on the same page. He hated what he saw as much as she did, the scene that had taken another girl’s life.
    Shifting a little behind her, Mac said, “Shoe impressions…size seven, maybe…behind the rusted-out Buick. Alongside more big boot prints.”
    “Military grade…like downtown?”
    “Yeah.”
    “The smaller ones might be Caroline’s.”
    “Could be, but my gut says no.” Moving around to the other side of the kitchen, Mac hit his haunches at the opposite end of the island. A muscle jumped in his jaw as he met her