Chapter 1 - Cade
The smoke is thick enough to choke on even through the mask, and my eyes are already watering as I push deeper into the second floor of the burning apartment building. The heat presses against my turnout gear like a living thing, relentless and hungry.
"Clear on the left!" Griffin's voice crackles through my radio, muffled but steady.
I move right, sweeping my gloved hand along the wall, counting doorways. The building is old, built in the seventies when they gave a damn about solid construction but not so much about fire safety. That means thick walls and narrow hallways, a maze when you can't see three feet in front of your face.
"Cade, you got anything?" That's Dallas, our captain, his voice carrying the edge of command that comes from years of military service before he ever put on a firefighter's helmet.
"Not yet." I push open another door, dropping low where the air is clearer. "Checking the last bedroom now."
The apartment is empty. Whoever lived here got out, thank God. I can still hear the sirens outside, the shouts of the crew working the hoses, the crack and groan of wood that's about to give up the fight. Familiar sounds. Comforting in their own terrible way.
I back out, pulling the door closed to contain the spread, and key my radio. "Second floor east side is clear. Coming out."
"Copy that. Hudson and Asher are wrapping up west side. Let's move, gentlemen. This building's not going to hold much longer."
I'm halfway down the hallway when I hear it: a sharp crack above my head, the kind of sound that makes your stomach drop even before your brain processes what it means. I look up justin time to see a section of ceiling give way, raining debris and embers.
Training kicks in. I throw myself backward, hitting the wall hard enough to knock the breath from my lungs. A chunk of burning beam crashes down exactly where I'd been standing two seconds ago.
"Cade!" Hudson shouts.
"I'm good." I cough, pushing back to my feet. My shoulder throbs where it connected with the wall, but everything moves the way it should. "Just redecorating. Coming down now."
I make it to the stairwell and take the steps two at a time, emerging into the chaos of the first floor. Rowan is there, directing the hose team, his face streaked with soot and sweat. He spots me and jerks his thumb toward the exit.
Outside, the morning air hits like a blessing. I yank off my mask and helmet, dragging in deep breaths that taste like ash and spring rain. The sky is overcast, threatening a storm that will either help us or make everything worse depending on when it decides to show up.
"You good?" Asher appears at my elbow, his dark eyes scanning me for injuries.
"Yeah." I roll my shoulder. It's going to bruise, but nothing's broken. "Ceiling had other plans for me, but I declined the invitation."
He snorts. "Your dance card's full enough without adding structural collapse to it."
Dallas strides over, his captain's helmet tucked under one arm. At forty-two, he's the oldest on our crew and the most unshakeable person I've ever met. Eight years of working together and I've never seen him lose his cool, not once.
"Good work in there," he says, his gaze moving between us. "Building's a loss, but everyone got out. That's what counts."
It's what always counts. Lives over property, people over things. The math is simple even when the execution isn't.
Griffin joins us, pulling off his gloves. "Fire marshal's going to have questions about the wiring in that place. I saw some setups in there that looked older than my grandfather."
"Not our problem right now." Dallas nods toward the engine. "Let's pack up and get back to the station. We've been at this for three hours and I can hear my coffee calling."
The crew moves. We’ve worked together long enough to anticipate each other's movements. I help Hudson secure the equipment while Rowan and Asher handle the hoses. Griffin's already in the driver's seat of the engine, running through post-call checks.
My hands are steady as I work, muscle memory taking over. They're always steady during calls, during the chaos and the heat and the split-second decisions. It's only later, when I'm alone in my apartment with nothing but my dog Scout's judgmental green eyes for company, that the tremors start.
"You're quiet." Hudson's voice pulls me back to the present. He's watching me with that expression he gets sometimes, the one that says he's reading all the things I'm not saying.
"Tired." It's not a lie. I'm always tired these days, running on four hours of sleep and too much coffee. "Looking forward to a shower and twelve consecutive hours of unconsciousness."
"You're not on the schedule for tomorrow, right?"
"Not unless Dallas hates me."
"I heard that," Dallas calls from where he's talking to the battalion chief. "And I don't hate you, Lawson. I just hate when you're well-rested and bored. You get ideas."
