I pulled him back. “We both go. Stay low and stay together.” I took the lead as we pushed out through the door, back out into the garage, keeping low, watching the flames, scouting for anything that would get us up and out. Half crawling at one point, our lungs quickly filled with smoke and our vision blurred. We didn’t have long. The doors were now completely engulfed and the front wall was a sheet of fire. Maybe someone passing along on the outside would notice and call the fire department. Maybe they wouldn’t. It seemed like forever before I spotted an old painter’s ladder propped against the back wall, but my elation was short-lived. The ladder was sitting next to several cans of house paint, the sight of which caused my heart to seize, and then nearly stop. Flammable, toxic paint and Darby’s discarded Mercedes, likely filled with gas. This was not going to be pleasant.

“Here.” I called out to Whip, who was right behind me, his hand on the small of my back for guidance. We lifted the ladder, Whip on one end, me on the other. We ran it back to the office, the sound of the fire taunting us and ringing in our ears.

We extended the ladder, set it up. “You first,” Whip said, his hands on the bottom rung to steady it.

“Like hell. You first.”

“This is no time to get coppy. Go.”

“Stop arguing,” I croaked. “Move. I’m right behind you.”

Whip coughed, sputtered, and started up reluctantly.

“Wait.” I handed him my gun. “You might have to break the glass. Hurry.”

He headed up, fast, looking back every rung or two to make sure I was keeping my word to follow him up. I eyed the ladder. It didn’t look as though it could hold both of us. I would have to wait for him to get off before I got on. It was not lost on me that this was now the second time tonight that I’d trusted my life to a rickety ladder.