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No response. Michael snapped another pic, hoping to get another image of the person. Was this a bomb squad technician? Or another survivor?
The flash went off. A gun fired.
Michael felt the bullet hit his shoulder. Goddamn, it hurt. It knocked him into the wall, and he lost the phone. More dirt poured down around him. The ground rumbled.
Another gunshot. He had no idea where it hit, but pain blossomed through his chest.
That wasn’t good, right? He wished he still had the phone so he could ask Hannah. He couldn’t see. He couldn’t move.
Another gunshot.
Shouting erupted overhead. More gunfire.
Then nothing but darkness.
CHAPTER 14
Michael could move before he could see. Intermittent beeping filled his ears. His chest felt tight and painful, like someone had parked a car on his midsection. He shifted and felt soft cotton against his skin.
His eyes cracked open and found a blurred ceiling, edged by beige walls with a bland flowered border. Metal poles towered over him, complete with dripping bags. A small monitor showed jagged lines and beeped at regular intervals.
short, three long, three short.
SOS.
Someone was alive.
She turned to run back to her crew. They had to know. She had to tell them—but then her radio crackled.
SOS observed. Pending clearance from bomb squad and collapse units. Hold all rescue.
They were right. She knew they were right. Attempting a rescue when a bomb could be sitting in there was nuts. Even without a bomb, nothing about the remaining structure looked secure. Those propane tanks could be leaking. There could be an active gas line leading to the stove. One spark could send the rest of the building sky high. One shifting board could send it all crashing down. She’d gone through the schooling and knew it as well as anyone.
But learning something in a classroom was different from handling it in practice.
Clinkclinkclink. Clink. Clink. Clink. Clinkclinkclink.
So faint, yet so clear.
“Hannah.”
Her father. She’d lost track of herself, and she was now standing between units, staring at the wreckage, a bar clutched in one hand.
She looked at her father. His features blurred, just a little, then steadied. She blinked and tears rolled down her cheeks.
She was crying. She hadn’t even noticed.
“Hannah?” he said again. His voice was quiet. Not harsh, but not gentle either.
Emotion clogged her throat and made it impossible for irritation to color her words. For an instant she wanted to be six years old again, for her father to be a hero again, for him to put on a helmet and rush into danger and walk out with a survivor in his arms.
But he wasn’t. And now she was the firefighter. He was the fire marshal. The most heroic thing he did these days was harass people.
“Michael was here,” she said.
“Was?”
She shook her head quickly. “Is. His truck . . .” She pointed. “Do you hear that?”
