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Someone was in the house.
Michael got his hands beneath his shoulders, and he managed to push back, toward the kitchen. He needed to hide.
Left hand. Right hand. This was more difficult than he remembered.
The house was so dark.
He needed to find his brothers. He needed to warn them. He hit the cooking island with his hip, and it almost stole his balance. His head slammed into something, and flickering starbursts filled his vision.
He couldn’t tell which way was up. He couldn’t find his hands.
More starbursts. This felt like drowning again.
A hand grabbed his shoulder, and Michael flung himself back. Was this a Guide? Had they come after him? The smoky house, the lack of fire—all of a sudden this felt like a trap. Michael couldn’t see anything in the darkness, but his attacker wouldn’t be able to either. If they couldn’t see him, they couldn’t shoot him.
Every motion still felt slow, as if it took too long for messages to make it from his brain to his limbs. He barely had an opportunity to move before someone else grabbed him. Or was it the same person? He had no idea.
Something metal clicked, and Michael tried to swing a fist.
But then he inhaled, and his entire world clouded over.
Hannah heard Irish swear, and she swung her flashlight, trying to find him. The beam of light barely penetrated more than a few feet, and lit up nothing more than smoke in the hallway. But still, she didn’t need to feel along walls to navigate through the thick darkness.
She knew this house.
She knew this staircase. This wall. This archway. This kitchen, where Michael would make her coffee and ask her quietly about her day.
She’d known the door they had to break through to get in here. The windows she’d had to smash to release trapped heat and smoke.
She and Irish weren’t going to find anyone conscious in here.
They’d be lucky to find someone alive.
Her breath shook for a moment, loud behind her mask. Stop it. If she lost herself in thoughts, she’d never be able to get through this job.
h rolled her eyes, then realized it made her look like a petulant sixteen-year-old. She pulled her helmet firmly down on her head and studied the window really hard.
She still couldn’t decide if she liked him. His name wasn’t really Irish, of course, any more than hers was Blondie. He’d joined the station a month ago, showing up three days later than expected because of some paperwork mix-up. His real name—Ronan O’Connor—had been on his locker, and she and the rest of the company had expected a red-haired, freckled kid with an Irish accent, fresh out of fire school.
They hadn’t expected a twenty-six-year-old seasoned firefighter.
They also hadn’t expected a black guy. Not unheard of, but it made him the only one in the firehouse. Jerry Crondall, one of the older guys who killed off his brain cells with cigarettes and liquor, had taken one look at Ronan O’Connor and said, “Hey, kid, are you what they call Black Irish?”
The new guy had sighed and started unloading his gear. “No, man, I’m just Irish.”
And that had stuck.
He was still looking at her. Hannah glanced over. “What’s your problem?”
Her words were harsher than he deserved, especially since his brown eyes weren’t mocking, just assessing. But she’d learned pretty quick that she needed to take the offensive or risk becoming the station doormat. It didn’t matter that she could run lines or carry O2 tanks or break down a door like the rest of them. Without a penis, she had half the guys in this company thinking she was inferior. Being a sweet little thang would just reinforce it.
She already had to deal with the nickname Blondie.
“Seriously,” Irish said, his voice low. “You look tired.”
Like he knew her at all. “We’re all tired.”
He leaned sideways to call over her shoulder. “Chief. I think Blondie—”
