KATIKA-Treason is never far away (Part.1)

Chapter 13 | Fire

What he had done with Miss Wiles in his office had him floating on cloud nine.

On his way back home, his mind was focused on his relationship with Rebecca, the sensations experienced during their union.

These thoughts faded with lightning speed as the taxi ventured down the street where he lived. Two trucks and five police vehicles presented a terrifying scene of bustling activity, a struggle against a house fire.

His house!

"What the... ?!!" John exclaimed, almost choking, his heart skipping a beat.

His home was turning into ashes, devoured from all sides by a monster of roaring flames, the firefighters' efforts sadly appearing powerless against this beast.

His neighbors had all come out to witness this, and John felt ashamed.

The car stopped, and the young man paid the fare with a bewildered driver using a credit card, then stepped out onto the sidewalk, crestfallen.

One of his neighbors, Peter Johnson, an obese old fellow of over sixty who never parted with his shabby slippers and malodorous bathrobe, and whom everyone called "Pete the Plump," approached him.

"John," he said, placing his hand on John's shoulder with a compassionate look, "I'm truly sorry. Know that the whole neighborhood supports you through this ordeal."

Disgusted, the young man gently removed his shoulder from the hand with black nails belonging to a man of highly questionable hygiene, whose foul breath, a mixture of stale tobacco and fiery whisky, could have euthanized any animal species.

However, he was touched by this gesture of kindness.

"Thanks, Pete," John replied, "that's kind of you..."

He stopped as a police officer walked towards him, a notepad in one hand and a four-color pen in the other.

"Are you the owner of this house?" he asked in a deeply unsympathetic tone, raising his eyebrows.

"Yes," John answered with a pitiful expression.

The officer opened a new page in his notepad.

"Last name, first name, date and place of birth, and occupation, please?" he asked.

"John Andrew Katika, born on July 20, 1998, in San Francisco, unemployed," John replied.

He would have preferred to refrain from revealing this last detail, as the context was already quite unfavorable to his dignity.

The policeman jotted down this information and stated, "Mr. Katika, an investigation is underway regarding this fire, and I'd like to know any detail that could explain its cause."

The source of the fire? But it was very clear in John's mind: Woodford, his father, Mikhail, or all three must have sent henchmen to carry out this dirty work as a parting gift.

Could he reveal this to the investigator from the San Francisco Police Department? No, all information related to Katika and his plot could only be entrusted to the FBI, when the time was right.

"I think there might have been an electrical malfunction," John lied. "You know, I was supposed to call in an electrician team for an inspection, but it seems that's no longer necessary..."

As the officer took notes, a detail caught his attention: a bald, sturdy-looking man in a black leather jacket stood among the onlookers, giving John a disturbing, menacing look.

He seemed oddly familiar to John, but where had he seen this brawler-like guy before?

He remembered now: he was one of the temporary bodyguards of Miles Woodford. But what on earth was he doing there? Could he have set his house on fire on direct orders from his boss?