In the Line of Fire

In the Line of FireBook 4 of The Fire Series MIA SMANTZ © 2023 Mia Smantz All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without permission from the publisher, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law. Independently published. ISBN: For more information visit: https://www.miasmantz.com/ Dedicated To: Papaw, you brought joy to the world over and helped us slow down and enjoy summers down just a little bit each year. I’m glad you’re free now of the physical restraints that kept your youthful spirit chained down. Try not to talk God’s ear off, yeah? PROLOGUE I groaned, to several onlookers’ amusement. “Kara, we’ve talked about this before. No more piercings. You’re a waitress, not a spare parts carrier for robots.” Kara replied to my half-hearted grumblings with attitude, her short black bob dancing as her head cocked to the side. “Sasha Li Ruslanova Popova, you may be my boss, but this is Stillwind. If this godforsaken backwards mountain town in the middle of nowhere took issue with my style, you’d have lost business long before this latest eyebrow ring, and I know you didn’t just refer to me as some machine’s lackey.” I stared for a second before blurting, “Why do I put up with you?” She winked. “You missed me. Don’t deny it.” Truthfully? Yeah, I did miss her sassy quips. Anything beat the hell out of getting beat the hell up—a fun turn of phrase I sprinkled into conversation when the situation called for it. Of course, my parents hated the joke. My boyfriends weren’t any more impressed by my making light of a dire occurrence either. Neither were the original Gamma boys, though the edgy one of that trio snorted on occasion at my morbid humor. If the words referenced something other than actual torture, I might have believed they were a tad too overprotective. Kara laughed when I used it to turn down her offer of accompanying her to a college party. Though, in all fairness, we’d also led her to believe my extended absences stemmed from fun extracurriculars, not being leveraged by an international mob boss and his cronies. It was sad that we’d been forced to come up with more than one excuse. Pretty soon, I’d have to hang a dry erase board with the words, “It’s been ___ many days since Sasha’s last torture,” scrawled on it. I spaced out again, because snapping fingers crowded the airspace in front of my eyes. My nose wrinkled as I swatted Kara’s hand away. “What?” “I asked you how your Thanksgiving was.” “Oh, sure. That was last week, right?” She frowned, her brows lowering beneath her black bangs. “You don’t remember?” “No, I do. You took the week off.” “Yes,” she said slowly, staring at me like I was an ignorant child. “To visit my family. For Thanksgiving. The university shuts down for it, because it’s a national holiday.” I wiped the counter clean and nodded at the man who left a tip. “Really? They close the entire week? I figured you just played hooky for a couple of days.” My nonchalance on the subject must have bothered Kara, because she somehow propped a petite hip against a stool that hit her at waist height. “You honestly forgot it was Thanksgiving?” “I mean, I knew about it. People came in and discussed it, but there’s a lot on my mind. And no, before you ask, we did not celebrate. My mom is from China and my dad is Russian—neither of which observe the American national holiday.” “Excuse me, but you’re adopted, and you never met your biological parents. For all you know, you could be pure, one-hundred-percent red, white, and blue.” My smile wilted at the edges, but not for the reasons Kara probably expected when her expression turned contrite. I shored up the grin, bolstering it to fullness. “Russia’s flag is red, white, and blue.” “You know what I’m talking about.” “Still raised in a non-Thanksgiving household.” She scowled but accepted the tip I passed her way. “Okay, okay, forgive me for assuming.” “You know what they say about assuming, right?” I called back over my shoulder as I hip bumped through the kitchen’s swinging door. The doughy scent of Chinese dumplings and broth soup spiced the air. My mom stood atop a step stool, peering into a stockpot almost big enough for her to swim in, steam curling lazily around her face. Her strict bun allowed no flyaways. If I’d been bent over the stovetop, there’d be so much frizz escaping my ponytail, it’d make a lion jealous. Bless my mom’s little golden heart. She’d all but morphed the restaurant into a Chinese buffet. If anyone disliked the change in recipes with the interim chef, they knew better than to point it out. In a blink of a town, Stillwind Café was the only food game, apart from fried appetizers now served at the local bar. Not to mention that while my mom’s four-foot something frame didn’t cut an intimidating figure, my dad’s gigantic stature towered over all but two people in Stillwind. He was big, gruff, and Russian, and no one wanted to get on Ruslan Popov’s bad side. Part of why the feasting holiday slipped my mind was because the previous chef never failed to prepare a turkey dinner with all the fixings. With him gone for training more often, that special occasion fell through the cracks. I attempted to recall what Mama served up, shocked no one said a peep—grizzly bear of an overprotective husband or not. A spatula whapped the back of my hand, jerking me from my thoughts. “Daughter, why are you frowning so much? It will give you wrinkles at an early age.” “Mama, my birthday is less than a month from now. I’m a little too old for scolding, don’t you think?” Her slitted eyes narrowed further. “And if you’re not careful, people think you look fifty instead of thirty.” “Thirty?” I