Page 1

Prologue

Thatcher “Ember” Emberly

“Ho-ly fuck! Get that line over there to cool the tank before it blows!” I was shouting at the top of my lungs, pointing to the large propane tanker on its side in the middle of North Vermont Avenue.

An RV bus carrying one hundred and fifty gallons of diesel fuel and a transport tanker carrying upward of ten thousand gallons of propane would make for a big fucking explosion. It was the last thing we needed in Griffith Park after a long, dry season.

“Get central to dispatch Stations 9 and 3. We need some coverage on the north and west sides of this wreck to keep the blaze contained.” I hooked the mic of my portable onto my shoulder loop and turned to my captain.

“What the hell happened? Why is a propane tanker in the park at two in the morning?”

Captain Mark Blake was a man I admired more than any other. He’d been with Station 2 in El Segundo for nearly twenty years, and as far as I was concerned, nobody could replace him. I was honored to be his number two.

“Don’t know. The tour bus had just left a concert at The Greek. Tanker came out of nowhere, according to the bus driver. There’s one fatality, and it appears the rest have some injuries but not life-threatening. Sorry to call you in on your day off, Ember, but I need you on this. Go around the perimeter and make sure the hose jockeys are watching for secondary flashes.” Mark rushed off to give instructions to the guys on the south side of the accident.

I ran around the other side where the medics had set up triage, and to the left of the bus, I saw a body on the ground with a sheet over it. I had no idea who had lost their life, but the altar boy inside me said a quick prayer as I crossed myself.

Annabeth Burke—or AB as we called her—was a paramedic from our house. She was busy assessing a young man covered in ash and coughing deeply behind an oxygen mask. I slowly approached, relieved to see his eyes open.

“I’m Lieutenant Thatcher Emberly. Can you tell me how many people were on the bus with you?”

“Hardy’s dead,” the young man whimpered. “I think I killed him by dragging him away from the wreck.”

Shit! “Don’t jump to conclusions. You have no idea how the man died. How many others were on the bus with you?” I asked again, trying not to bite the guy’s head off.

I couldn’t address what he’d just said. If anyone was still in the wreckage and needed rescuing, I had to know.

“Rowdy. Uh, Robert Wilder, our security guy. River Ashe. Arlo Timmons. Goldie Robbins. Hardy Boyer. Clancy Morris, our bus driver. Lerner Carmichael, our manager. There were eight of us. I’m JD Horn. Everyone was at the front of the bus having a drink and talking about the concert. I was in the back when the truck T-boned us.”

“How’d you get out?”

“I popped out the back window. River’s partner is our equipment hauler, and he made sure we all knew how to get out of the bus in the event of an accident.” The kid was in shock, which was understandable, considering the magnitude of the crash.

Just then, a large blond man ran up on us. “Where’s Riv? JD, where’s River?”

Station 9’s meat wagon, pumper, and tanker arrived. I could hear the sirens approaching from the other direction, so I headed that way. Mark could fill in the responders from 9. I’d handle 3.

The guy in the back of the wagon mumbled something at the blond guy, who then took off toward the black bus. Thankfully, Fuentez, one of our hose jockeys, caught him before he could get close enough for his ass to be blown apart if the tanker went up, despite our best efforts to keep that from happening.

The tangled remains of the tour bus were shocking. Thankfully, there were no dead bodies visible in the mess. There were busted guitars and shattered beer bottles everywhere. Word was they’d played a concert at The Greek, and I couldn’t imagine what the fuck had happened to cause such horror down the road.

Part of their entourage sat on the ground away from the chaos, so I made my way over to them. If we needed to cut into the damn bus to rescue anyone, I wanted to know it now.

“I’m Lieutenant Emberly. Is everyone accounted for?”

A muscular man with a gash in his forehead held on to another person with a nasty cut on their cheek.

“No. Two of our party are missing. Hardy Boyer and JD Horn. JD was in the back of the bus when we were hit. Hardy was sitting in the middle of the bus, which was probably in direct line with where the truck hit us.” The large man gently moved the person from under his arm and stood, tugging my arm to walk a few feet away.

“I don’t know how Hardy could still be alive. JD might have had a chance, but I’m sure Hardy is in that mess somewhere.” He pointed to the mangled bus with the semi buried in the side.

“Who are you?”

“Robert Wilder—Rowdy. I’m the head of the security detail for Accidental Fire.”

He turned to the row of men sitting on the ground, pointing as he introduced them. “That’s River Ashe, Goldie Robbins, and Arlo Timmons. They’re part of the band. JD Horn and Hardy Boyer are the missing members.”

“Who are the other two?” I pointed to one person leaning against an older man on the grass.