Page 3 of Into the Fire

Marty came through the door, talking. “—and the dispatch line’s the same number, so don’t let anybody tell you differently.” He saw me and gestured over his shoulder. “Found this one at the gate.”

Dante Vega stood in the doorway in a gray T-shirt and canvas work pants. He wore boots that had never been near a fire and carried a duffel over one shoulder. His hair was shorter than I remembered, and he had a few days’ beard. He’d gotten leaner, or harder, doing five years of different work. His eyes hadn’t changed.

Neither had his mouth.

He took three steps into the room, and I remembered exactly how the back of his neck felt under my fingers. I put the clipboard down.

He gave me the once-over, slow enough that I knew exactly what he was doing.

“Base manager.” He looked at the board, then at me. “Somebody finally gave you the keys.”

“Vega,” I nodded.

He shifted the duffel and held out his hand. I took it. He had dry, hard calluses. “Medical’s cleared,” I said. “Pack test tomorrow, six o’clock, out front. Forty-five pounds, three miles. Nash wants you in the loft on Thursday for gear. Tower the week after. You’re on the standard packet, the same as anybody.”

Dante nodded. He kept watching me. “Are you going to say hello?”

“Hello.”

He laughed, a low sound that started in his chest and echoed off the cinder block.

“Locker’s ready,” Marty said. “Forty-one. I cleaned it out last night. There was a stray boot in there and about a pound of old socks.”

Dante turned to him. “Thanks, Marty.”

“Don’t thank me. Read your email.” Marty was already backing out the door toward a ringing phone.

Dante set the duffel down by the bench, in the spot where he’d always set it down, and crossed to the coffeepot. He poured a cup and drank some.

“Nobody’s fixed the coffeemaker.”

“It’s not broken.”

“That’s what you said five years ago.”

“It wasn’t broken five years ago either.”

He drank more of it, looking at me over the rim.

Shep had been standing in the doorway the whole time. He took one large step into the room.

“Cal Shepherd,” he said, and shook Dante’s hand. “They call me Shep. I’ve—everybody’s—it’s good to meet you.”

“Dante. Are you the one with the truck?”

“You saw my truck?”

“I parked next to it. Spray-in liner?”

“Two hundred bucks worth,” Shep said.

“Did you hire that guy in Kessler?”

“Yeah.” Shep looked at me. “He noticed my truck.”

“It’s lemon yellow, Shep. Everyone in Helena notices your truck.”

Shep turned back to Dante. “What’ve you been doing? Since. If that’s—”