Page 1 of Hotter than Wildfire

PROLOGUE

San Diego

Christmas Day

It was Christmas, but not for Harry Bolt.

The whole city was gripped by Christmas fever. You couldn’t walk anywhere in the city center without being blasted by carols and hit up by old farts in fake white beards and red suits, asking for money for the poor. Poor Africans, poor earthquake victims, poor illegal aliens.

Of course, no one really thought of the poor on their own doorstep. Those nice folks in church basements, the men in white beards and red suits, the school kids carolling, would run screaming if they had to see where Harry Bolt lived with his mom, her methhead fuckhead boyfriend of the month and his baby sister, Christine.

There weren’t any Christmas lights on their street down in the Barrio and there wasn’t a Christmas tree set up in the basement rooms they lived in. No Christmas tree, no decorations, no presents. Hell, no food or milk, either.

Well, at least Crissy would eat today. He’d scrounged in the dumpsters behind three restaurants on restaurant row and, shaking his head at what people threw away, found fried chicken, dumplings, turkey breast, and about five slices of cake.

On a roll, he’d walked into a toy shop and stolen a Barbie. The door alarm had gone off, but Harry was fast. He was always fast and he’d never been caught.

He smiled, thinking of giving Crissy the Barbie. She’d have to keep her squeals of joy down, not bother Mom and Fuckhead. Though when Mom was high, which seemed to be all the time lately, she didn’t give a shit.

The last Fuckhead had given a shit, oh yeah—he liked little girls. Harry had seen him get a hard-on when Crissy’s panties showed once. But a knife held to Fuckhead’s ribs, and a very clear warning—touch my sister in any way and I will cut you up for dog meat—kept him away. The next day, Harry stole six pairs of little girl trousers for Crissy and she never wore a skirt again.

That Fuckhead left and the current one—Rod—took his place. This one didn’t like little girls, not in any way, but he did like beating up on people.

It was dark by the time Harry made it home on foot. He didn’t have money for the bus, so he had to hoof it everywhere.

He walked down the moldy stairs and pushed open the cracked wooden door. There was complete, utter silence in the house. That was bad news. It meant either that Mom and Fuckhead had left a five year old alone in a house with broken locks in the worst neighbourhood in the world, or they were high. Again.

They were high, he saw, as he closed the rickety front door behind him.

His mom was sitting on the broken couch, head lolling to one side, stare vacant. Shit. Where’d she get the money to score?

All the lights were out. The only light visible was from under the door of the room he shared with Crissy.

A shuffle in the corner where the table was. Rod, drinking a beer. He didn’t even turn his head when Harry walked in.

The door to his bedroom opened. There was a low wattage bulb in their room, and the light spilled into the living room.

“Hawwy!” Crissy’s excited voice rang out. She ran to him and clutched his legs, grinning up at him. “You’re back! Mewwy Chwistmas!” She was small for a five year old, hair a lighter blond than his, eyes the same light brown as his.

Her little arms reached up, their usual game. “Cawwy Hawwy!”

He picked her up, holding her in one arm, keeping his bags tightly by his side with the other. Crissy weighed nothing.

Harry’d put on a spurt of growth recently and was developing muscles. Fuckhead watched his step around him now.

“Harry,” came the deep voice in the corner. “Whatcha got in them there bags, boy?”

Harry’s heart plunged. Fuckhead’s voice was slurred, eyes narrowed and unfocused. He was higher than a kite.

This was bad. His mom just drifted off to sleep when she got high. Fuckhead turned viciously mean.

Harry swung the bags behind him, dropped them quietly to the ground. Fuckhead had a short attention span. If he didn’t see them, he’d probably forget about them. “Nothing,” he said. “Just some junk I found.”

Fuckhead turned his head more fully and Harry’s heart started pounding. Fuckhead’s eyes were cold, inhuman, like the eyes of the feral dogs that ran in packs through their part of town. When he had that expression, trouble came fast.

Fuckhead’s big, meaty fists opened and closed on the table, over and over again. Another bad sign. He was just waiting for an excuse to blow up, become violent. And though Harry was young and strong and fast, Fuckhead weighed almost 300 pounds and when he was high he didn’t—probably couldn’t—feel pain. He was like a violent robot.

Not to mention the fact that Harry couldn’t run fast while carrying Crissy and he’d never leave Crissy behind.