Page 37 of Playing With Forever

“YOU’RE clear to go in, but there’s nothing left,” Grady West informed us.

The man was still in his turnout gear, soot and smoke clung to him as well as on the rest of the firefighters pulling in their hoses.

“Thanks, Grady,” Echo returned.

I saw Jackson Clark and Brice Lancaster come out of the house and waited for the pair to make their way to us.

“Hey, brother, good to see you,” Jackson greeted Echo. “Sanders.”

I took no offense at the difference in greetings. Jackson was a close friend of the Kent family and one of the firefighters who’d rescued Phoenix, Griffin, Sawyer, and Josie from the Hope Center fire.

“Shit’s fucked up,” Brice started. “But it could’ve been worse. Your meth cooker was smart enough to have about a dozen fire extinguishers in his lab. He was battling the flames when we showed up.”

A smart meth cooker—not something you hear every day.

“Lab’s toast,” Jackson informed us. “But his cash room with product was on the other side of the house.”

Lucas already had the meth cooker in custody, but we hadn’t been let in to perform a search.

“Fire’s out,” Brice rejoined. “But the house hasn’t been cleared.”

That was the risk of being a firefighter no one talked about. They rushed in to put out the fire without knowing who was in the structure and if someone meant them harm. There were no police officers going in to clear their way. We stood and waited for them to do their job before we could do ours. And they did so unarmed and unprotected.

“’Preciate it,” Echo said with a dip of his chin.

“Be safe in there,” Grady called out as three firefighters walked away.

I pulled my balaclava up to help with the lingering smell of smoke. Normally for a raid we’d be head to toe in black, every inch of our skin covered, but since this wasn’t that, we were only in standard tactical gear, which left me feeling exposed.

“You get the feeling we’re being watched?” I murmured as we made our way to the front door to join the rest of our unit.

“Yep.”

Fuck.

As one, we entered the house: two-man teams broke off to clear different parts of the house. A dance we’d practiced so many times, we could perform it in our sleep. Echo and I veered left, clearing the first room we came to—empty. We backed out, silently ambled to the next door, sidearms drawn, tucked close and at the ready, scanning the furniture in the room. Echo moved to the closet, keeping out of the danger zone in case someone was in there and decided to shoot through the door. His hand went to the knob; I nodded, and without hesitation, he opened the door.

A crouched figure stood and flew out of the closet. In the one second I had to assess the situation, I noted the small knife in his hand, but no firearm. I shoved my Glock into my chest holster and landed a power punch to the perp's torso. Before I could grab his wrist, he swung wide, and his blade caught my arm. Motherfucker. I kicked his knee out and followed him to the ground.

“Stay the fuck down,” Echo ordered.

I put more pressure on the back of the guy’s neck and added more of my body weight in an attempt to subdue him.

“Stop moving,” I issued my own demand.

Echo was there with flexicuffs, one wrist detained, the other still loose and fighting capture.

Fucking shit, the guy was high as fuck and wirily.

“Do it,” I told Echo.

A second later, the suspect went stiff under me. I rolled off and finished cuffing him.

“Taser deployed,” Echo radioed. “Suspect down.”

“Fucking hell,” I muttered as the man started to move again.

“You’re bleeding,” Echo informed me.