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Then he amended that.
And alive. Please be together and alive.
Michael wished he had Hunter’s gun, so he could shoot these screeching smoke detectors. With their persistent beeping, he couldn’t hear anything in the house. No movement, no voices.
Everything seemed very still in the darkness.
His hands found the slate flooring of the foyer. Every forward movement brought another handful of grit, both a blessing and a curse. He hadn’t found his brothers collapsed in here, and that could be a good thing or a bad thing.
Maybe he should have used his cell phone to try to call them.
He choked on the thought, unsure whether he was laughing or crying. He put his forehead on his hands and inhaled again. When had he gotten so tired?
Glass shattered somewhere up ahead.
Michael jumped and felt as if he were waking up. Somehow, he’d ended up on the floor. He fought to get to his hands and his knees, but his limbs felt too heavy. His shirt had come off his face.
More glass shattering. Then a loud crack.
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.
Thoughts like how Michael and his brothers hadn’t been sitting out front, waiting anxiously for the fire trucks.
Thoughts of Michael’s hand pushing the hair back from her face. Or how he could be gruff and rough around the edges with everyone else, but his voice would go soft and gentle, just for her.
