Page 55 of Rising Heat

“You good?”

“Yeah.”

Thirty seconds ago they were busting my balls. Now we’re working.

I climb into the chauffeur seat of Ladder 26 on muscle memory, gloved hand already settling on the wheel as the rig rumbles to life beneath me. Tyler takes the jump seat and Coop swings up the tailboard. Comforting. Familiar.

Unlike basically everything else in my life at the moment.

“Building type?” Tyler asks as we pull out.

“Three-story, mixed-use. Apartments over retail.”

Coop whistles.

“Love that for us.”

“Shut up and stretch,” Tyler says.

“Yes, Mom.”

I take the corner clean and fast, shifting the truck through the turn. Tyler’s watching me the way he always does before a job, checking the scene before we’ve even arrived. Marco’s been drilling search scenarios into him for weeks, and it’s starting to show.

The column of smoke is visible before we turn the block. Dark, thick, and pushing hard from a third-floor rear window. My whole body locks in and my focus narrows.

Engine 37 is already pulling in behind us.

I swing Ladder 26 into position, brakes hissing as the rig settles.

“Truck’s set.”

Tyler is out before I finish the word, boots on pavement. The street is chaos—people yelling, a dog barking somewhere inside the perimeter, an older woman in slippers on the sidewalk sobbing into her hands while a younger guy keeps trying to push past the tape.

Trick cuts past me, mask hanging loose at his neck.

“Fire’s rear third floor. Got a head start.”

“Get eyes on extension.”

He’s gone.

Marco comes around the opposite side of the building, already pulling a saw off Rescue.

“Rear alley access is tight. Fence line.”

I scan the structure—old brick, narrow setback, rear fire escape, smoke thickening by the second. My brain does what it’s always done, building the picture before my feet have even moved. Entry points. Stairs. Egress. Fire location. Victims. The fastest way in and the fastest way back out.

“Ty,” I say into the radio. “You and Coop, primary search third floor. Rear bedrooms first.”

“Copy.”

“Marco. Rear ladder.”

He’s already there and so we move.

The alley is exactly what Marco said it would be. Tight, icy, Boston narrow. Brick walls slick with runoff. Trash bins jammed against chain-link fences. By the time I get the ground ladder off the truck, Marco already has the base lined up and we get it locked. I climb first, cold metal biting through my gloves. The smoke thickens halfway up.

Halfway up the ladder a window bangs open above me and a woman leans out coughing.