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Hannah kicked him right in the shin. “Don’t you dare,” she hissed.
If he said she couldn’t handle another call, she would pull the Halligan bar off the side of the truck and introduce it to his skull.
Irish smiled and held her eyes. “I think Blondie and I should be on search and rescue.”
Chief didn’t even look over his shoulder. “You got it.”
Hannah didn’t say anything. Search and rescue could be easy—if people had gotten the hell out of their houses—or it could be horrible. Like if she had to drag some obese guy down a flight of stairs.
She didn’t know whether to hug Irish for confirming she had another call in her, or to smack him for being such a cocky shit in the first place. He was telling the chief what their assignment should be? What next, running the department?
Just when she was about to zing him with a comeback, she realized they’d turned onto Magothy Beach Road. She could see flames through the trees up ahead, toward the water.
Five houses. Single family. Sounds like the whole cul-de-sac.
Her heart stuttered to a stop.
Then it kicked into action again.
She caught sight of the street sign. Chautauga Court.
“Shit,” she whispered.
Michael.
CHAPTER 3
Michael stopped at the tree line and stared. Chris and Hunter were breathing hard beside him.
Five houses sat around the court. All blazed with fire—except the Merrick house, where no flames were visible, but smoke seemed to seep through the roof. At the others, smoke poured through roofs and flames shot high against the sky. Discordant smoke detectors screeched from each. The sirens coming up from Magothy Beach Road were louder.
Compared to the others, the Merrick house sat like an afterthought in the midst of this inferno. No motion, complete darkness.
Michael couldn’t remember if he’d turned on a light.
He couldn’t move. He couldn’t think. Smoke burned his already abused lungs, but he couldn’t cough. The heat was blistering, even from this distance.
His brain was frozen on his thought from fifteen minutes ago, when he’d been standing right here with Hunter.
His brothers were safer inside the house, asleep and oblivious.
But the Merrick house wasn’t actively burning. Good? Or very bad?
Michael swept his eyes along the tree line behind the houses, looking for any sign of his brothers.
“Gabriel!” he yelled, sending power into the ground, seeking . . . anything. “Nick!”
Nothing.
He tried again, louder, spinning in a circle, as if his brothers would come sprinting out of the woods with a crazy story about what had happened.
Nothing.
Michael only spotted two people: the Hensons. They stood in the backyard next door, silhouetted by the flames. The woman clutched at her husband—whether in panic or from injury, Michael couldn’t tell. They were an older couple with a yellow lab and too many grandkids to keep track of. Mrs. Henson had dropped off dinners almost every night for a month after Michael’s parents had died. Michael mowed their lawn every week through the summer and plowed their driveway in the winter.
Flames poured through their upstairs windows. Their siding was buckling from the heat. Mrs. Henson was clutching at her husband in the backyard and screaming for Charlie.
Their dog. Trapped.
