Tooth for a Tooth (Di Gilchrist 3)

It bounced back at him. He tried again. Same result. He slammed his shoulder into it and gasped with pain. The wooden doors may not have looked solid, but they were more than he could burst his way through.
    He slumped to his knees, eyes closed.
    Christ, not like this, he thought. Not trapped and burned alive.
    If he could somehow smother the flames at the other end of the garage, he might have a chance. But where was Betson? He tried to open his eyes, but the heat and the smoke were too much. He crawled on the concrete floor along the side of the car, one hand over his face and mouth, the other outstretched like a blind man’s cane.
    Barbecue stand. He knocked over the golf clubs. Chaise longue, and his fingers groped and curved around the metal toolbox. He picked it up and threw the lot at the door.
    The toolbox burst open and bounced on to the smouldering tarpaulin.
    He fell after it, sprawled among the tools, cut his fingers on the edge of a saw blade. His coughing body contorted. His eyes burned. Fingers of flames tickled overhead and stung him with their dripping touch. He gripped a cold metal handle, felt the head of a claw hammer. His heart soared as he realized this was his way out.
    He swung the hammer at the door, once, twice, but the wood was solid. He staggered to his feet, felt the framework, found the spot where one door met the other and thudded the claw end into the wood.
    He missed. Tried again.
    Missed again. Christ, he was going to die.
    What about Jack? What about Maureen?
    He could no longer find air to breathe, only the acrid fumes of hot, choking smoke that heaved in and out of his lungs with every cough. He thudded the claw hammer into the door one last time, but it bounced off.
    Dear God. This was where it was all going to end.
    He slid to his knees, hammer clasped tight in one hand, its claw head scraping down the wooden—
    It caught.
    He tugged, felt it catch. He tugged again, heard the wood crack, the nails and screws rip free. He pressed the head in deeper, eased the handle back and pulled hard. The door was giving. Dear God, it was giving. He was going to—
    He grunted in pain as the hammer slipped free and his knuckles hit wood. He heard the hammer land with a metallic thud somewhere in the smoke-filled corner. In desperation, he tried tearing the damaged frame with his hands, felt his nails break, his skin tear.
    But he could not pull the wood free, could not break it loose.
    This was it. He was going to die.
    No. Not like this
.
    He slumped to the floor, his body wracking with spasms, felt his back hit the car, his feet the garage doors. If he straightened his legs, pushed with his back against the car, he might find enough purchase to force one of the doors open.
    He closed his eyes, pushed and pressed as hard as he could.
    Nothing.
    He could tell from the burning pain in his chest that he was running out of time. The body could keep this up for only so long before succumbing. He tried again, forced his legs straight with his last breath, held it and, with a surge that jolted the length of his spine, his right foot broke through a length of wood close to the ground.
    He kicked again, heard the dry crack of rotted wood, then heard it break and snap. He pulled forward, forced his head through the jagged opening and breathed in air that hit his lungs like ice and had him wracking up phlegm as black as soot. Using the car as leverage, he forced his shoulders through the tight gap, ignoring the slivers of cracked wood that gripped his clothing and tore at his skin.
    He wriggled from the hole, rolled on to the lane, clothes smoking and smouldering.
    Smoke billowed from the hole at his feet like a misplaced chimney.
    Where was Betson?
    He staggered to his feet, grabbed the padlock. The clasp was good and tight. When he pulled one door and pushed against the other, he saw a gap in the frame where none had existed before. He thudded his shoulder to the garage doors, forced them against the hinges.
    They creaked, but bounced back.
    But if he concentrated on one door only?
    He crossed the lane, pressed his back against the wall, took a deep breath and pushed off as hard as he could.
    He hit the door like a battering ram.
    The frame splintered. Hinges tore from the wood, screws hanging loose like stubborn roots. A wall of smoke hit him. The heat almost had him backing off, but he kicked the door loose, broke it from its frame, pulled his jacket around his face and bruised his way back inside