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Nick let him hold on. “You’ll make it okay, Michael. Just breathe.”
And just then, thunder cracked overhead. The sky opened up, and rain poured down, putting out every last lick of flame.
Michael sat on a stretcher inside one of the ambulances, but he had no intention of letting them take him to the hospital. Thanks to the downpour, his clothes were soaking wet again and he was freezing. Someone had offered him a wool blanket, but he’d refused.
His brothers had taken them, though. They were sitting in the back of another ambulance, waiting.
He needed to get them and leave.
He had no idea where to go.
The rain had stopped the blazing fires around the court, but it still rattled against the roof of the ambulance. Michael could see cracked pavement from here, lines of fractured asphalt weaving between the rescue vehicles left on the court. Rain wouldn’t do much to repair this kind of damage. He’d caught a glimpse of one collapsed home and didn’t have the guts to look at the others.
hts 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.
Thoughts of his brothers, who’d invited her and James into their mix without judgment.
“Michael,” she whispered, the name echoing back to her through the mask. “Michael, please don’t be in here.”
“Blondie!” yelled Irish, his voice muffled behind his own mask. “I’ve got a body. Grab his feet.”
Her heart stopped.
Then her brain caught up, letting her training kick in. A patient needing assessment, just like any other rescue.
A body didn’t have to be Michael. It didn’t have to be one of his brothers.
Yeah, like there’s some random guy lying in the middle of the kitchen.
But she was moving now, and that’s all that mattered. She couldn’t see for crap, but she caught hold of ankles and lifted when Irish said he was ready.
Ankles. Good. Ankles could mean anyone. They’d get this guy outside and assess his condition.
She wasn’t fooling herself.
The body hung limp and heavy between them. Hannah’s flashlight bounced and arced along the smoke as they made their way through the foyer, never quite lighting on the patient’s face.
Then they were through the broken front door, into the frigid night air, into the bright lights from the fire trucks and ambulances.
Michael.
No surprise. No shock. She’d known, from the minute she’d picked up his ankles.
She choked on another breath and was glad she still wore the mask, feeding oxygen into her face. She was lucky to recognize him, his face and clothing were so filthy and caked with soot. His head lolled back, his face slack, with dark smudges around his nostrils. Smoke inhalation, for sure—how long had he been in there?
They got him on the ground. Irish was speaking into his radio, calling for an RSI—a paramedic trained to insert a breathing tube.
Holy shit—that meant Michael wasn’t breathing at all. Hannah yanked her helmet and gloves off and flung them into the grass. She pressed her fingers against his carotid artery, searching for a pulse.
“Call for more on rescue,” she said in a rush. “Four other people live in that house.” She shifted her fingers, searching. “Come on, Michael,” she whispered, putting her face down close to his, feeling for breath. “Come on.”
Nothing.
She was distantly aware of Irish beginning chest compressions. Of firefighters rushing up the steps behind her, preparing to search the house.
When Irish called out the count, her training kicked in, and she bent to press her mouth to Michael’s. She should be using a bag and a mask, but she didn’t care. He didn’t have the two minutes it would take for her to run to the truck.
