Anne swallowed hard. “Yes, sir.”
“Now, get back in that car, and go back to that site, and try to do the job the taxpayers of this city are paying you for. And remember, you’re a probationary employee for the next ninety days and I can fire you without cause or notice.”
“Yes, sir.”
Mr. Marshall nodded to the parking lot. “G’head. G’on now.”
“Yes, sir.”
Anne wheeled away and blindly walked off. She was halfway to the car when Don called out, “What about the dog?”
She turned back around. “The dog?”
“What did you do with it?”
“I, ah, I made sure it’s at a good vet’s.”
“Better than the streets.”
“Yes, better.”
Lifting a hand, she returned to the car before she apologized again. Remade promises the man didn’t want to hear. Got teary about the dog she was abandoning even though the thing wasn’t hers in the first place.
God, she was so sick of life.
She really was.
Chapter 11
Box alarm. Two engines and a ladder from the 617 responding to back up the 499.
As Tom arrived on scene, he pulled up behind the ambulance, and got out. The primary house on fire was your typical two-story wooden structure, built back when Rubik’s Cubes and Flock of Seagulls were popular—and its next-door neighbor was looking pretty toasty as well, the wind carrying the flames across a tiny yard and onto siding that was dry. It was a little unusual to smell the electric burn in the air. Still, faulty wiring wasn’t solely the purview of 1920s bungalows and fifties-era cottages.
The plumes of water being used to fight the initial blaze were coming out of the windows on the first floor. Then again, the 499 was already on scene, and of course, those dumbass cowboys had dragged lines into the house, as opposed to extinguishing the flames via an external position.
Tom strode over to Captain Baker, the incident commander, and was not about to be diplomatic. “What the hell are you doing, Chip?”
The man held up a hand. “Don’t start with me.”
“Why are those idiots in the house?” He knew the answer, though. “Chip, you gotta backbone this shit. Come on. You’re in charge here.”
“The fire’s almost out.”
Tom shook his head and opened his mouth—but then he caught the pisser recruit walking by.
Reaching over, he grabbed onto the sleeve of the kid’s turnout. “Stop. This is done wrong.”
The newbie halted and looked up with wide anxious eyes. His name was Reggie, but he’d already been given the nick of “Wedgie”—which, considering his last name was Boehner and it could have been “Boner,” wasn’t all that bad.
“You fold this side first, secure here . . . and buckle here. They taught you this at the academy.”
As Tom made quick work of the jacket, the kid nodded and stammered something. And was cut off as glass shattered on the second floor.
Smoke billowed out—and then flames.
“Goddamn it,” Tom muttered, “it traveled up the joists.”
Wedgie blinked. “Huh?”
“Go help get the house next door wet.” He shoved the kid forward. “Chip, get those boys out of there. Or I will.”
“Bring those lines out,” Baker barked into the radio. “Repeat, all lines and personnel out. Now. Reposition southwest exterior, six-one-seven fighters next door.”
Three firefighters emerged from the open front door, dragging lines with them. Emilio, Duff, and Moose, Tom guessed by the body sizes.
“How many did you send in there?” he asked. When there wasn’t a reply, he elbowed Chip. “I said, how many?”
“Four.”
“And who’s the fourth?”
The answer to that question presented himself by breaking a second-story window and jumping out onto the asphalt-shingled overhang above the front entrance.
Danny Maguire had a preteen girl in his arms, his oxygen mask over her face even as she struggled against him. “Medic!” he barked.
People ran over and held out arms. There wasn’t a ladder truck free, but they didn’t need one—at least not for this rescue. Maguire got down on his knees and handed off the victim—while keeping his mask tight to her face.
“Keep it on her!” He shrugged out of his tank. “Take this with her!”
The girl was thrashing and yelling about something, pointing back into the house.
“Don’t you dare,” Tom muttered. “Oh, hell no, you are not going back in there without your—gimme that!” He reached over and yanked the radio command out of Chip’s hand. “Maguire! You are not fucking going back in there—”
Dannyboy didn’t miss a beat. He stood up, turned away . . . and crouched down to shove his huge body back through the window he’d broken.
“Are you fucking kidding me, Maguire!” Tom yelled.
The fire coughed out a plume of gray smoke through the broken window, and then there was the telltale lick of flames. And Maguire was in there without his mask.
“Personnel, stay out of the structure.” Tom held the radio so hard, the plastic casing cracked. “Stay out of there!”
The hoses were turned on again, graceful streams of water arrowing in on the hot spot. God only knew where Maguire was in the house or what he had gone back for. But at least the girl had been carried to safety to the lawn across the street, medics clustering around her as she coughed and struggled like she wanted to get back in there herself.
Cat or a dog, no doubt.
Fucking pets.
“Six-one-seven, you focus on the left for the spread,” he commanded.
On cue, his boys snaked lines to the house next door that had caught the fire like a cold from a fellow bus rider who had sneezed: Kindling had a better chance of resisting an open flame, but that was eighties particleboard for you. The shit was right up there with birthday candles for getting lit up.
Wedgie was overwhelmed charging his line. But that was to be expected. First fire was always an eye-opener, and as much as the kid was trying to focus on getting the cap off a hydrant and screwing the hose head on, he kept glancing back at the first home.
Like maybe he expected Maguire to come out on fire.
“Maguire, can you respond?” Tom said into radio. “Maguire, get out of there, over.”
He didn’t expect any kind of reply.
“Maguire, where are you in there?” he said. “Over.”
A fireball curled out of the window Maguire had broken, and Tom thought, Well, isn’t this brilliant.
“We need water to the second floor,” he ordered. “Four-nine-nine, I want Chavez and Duffy on that. We’re losing ground.”
Off to the side, Chip Baker was pacing back and forth with his hands on his hips and his head down, like he was cussing his chief out in his head. Good thing Tom was used to people who didn’t perform being pissed off at him when he took over. If that shit had bothered him?
Well, then he’d be Chip Baker, wouldn’t he—
The crash came from the first-floor bay window, the glass shattering outward as something massive broke through it. It wasn’t a TV or an ottoman or even a love seat. No, it was Danny Maguire’s shoulder first and then huge body afterward—which included his big, fat, empty, helmet-less head.
Because, of course, he had lost that as well. And really, why wouldn’t you, after you’d already given away your oxygen supply, your radio piece, and the part of your brain that processed risk assessment.
Actually, that last one was more like a birth defect in Maguire’s case.
There was something in the man’s arms, something he was protecting with the curve of his torso, but there was no way of ID’ing what it was.
Maguire landed. Stumbled. And fell face-first to the ground, collapsing from what was no doubt smoke inhalation.
“Medic!” Tom commanded. “Get me a fucking medic!”
* * *
Two hours after Anne arrived at the burned-out warehouse scene for a second time, she was back at her muni sedan and behind the wheel. Her notes were taken, her preliminary conclusions recorded, her plan for next steps outlining in her head.