Burn Patterns (First in Line #1)

1. Marcus

Chapter one

Marcus

L ake Washington breathed beneath me, each ripple echoing my steady stroke count.

One hundred and forty-seven.

The burn in my left shoulder was sharper today, pain threading deep into the joint, leftover from yesterday's ladder drill—six stories up, carrying Peterson's dead weight while the vinyl siding melted around us. The memory clung to me, thick as the acrid taste of burning plastic still caught in my throat.

One forty-eight.

Lake water seeped past my goggles, mixing with sweat that never quite washed off after a fire. Some things stayed with you. Lived in your skin, even after you stripped the gear away and the shower scoured everything clean. My lats screamed with every pull, my body caught somewhere between building strength and breaking down.

It was getting harder to tell the difference.

One fifty.

I adjusted my line, angling toward the curve of the shore, where a handful of other early risers cut through the pre-dawn mist. They were the regulars. Katie Brenner, who could run a marathon faster than I could drive it. Raj, training for his first Ironman with the kind of optimism I'd lost years ago. Sarah, who swam every morning rain or shine, swearing the lake kept her sane through Seattle's endless gray days.

The University crowd was starting to trickle in, too—mostly grad students and early-rising professors from UW's lakeside campus. One of them caught my eye occasionally from the shore path, tall and thoughtful-looking, always clutching a travel mug like a lifeline while he watched the swimmers with a mix of fascination and unease.

Something about his careful distance from the water's edge made me wonder about his story, but our paths had never crossed beyond distant nods.

The training watch on my wrist chirped—five-minute interval—time to push. I lengthened my stroke, ignoring the protest in my muscles. Six weeks until Coeur d'Alene 70.3. Six weeks to shave ten minutes off my time, to prove that turning thirty-two didn't meanslowing down, softening, or getting weaker. The late June summer sun would be brutal.

"You're not getting younger, big brother," Michael had said last week over Sunday dinner, his SWAT tactical belt adding yet another gouge to Mom's antique dining room chairs. "Maybe ease up on the crack-of-dawn training sessions?"

Easy for him to say. Michael never had to fight for fitness—it came with the job, same as our youngest brother Matthew, but me? I had Dad's build, solid rather than sleek, built for brute strength, not speed. I wasn't a natural athlete. Every race finish, every extra rep, and every second shaved off my time—it all came through sheer stubbornness.

One sixty-three.

The rhythm settled, the water's resistance shifting into something almost hypnotic. Not peace. Not even close. It was a kind of quiet—a place where exhaustion drowned out everything else. Even after twelve years, I still sometimes caught myself expecting to hear Dad's voice calling split times from the shore.

Grief never disappeared. It settled in new places and in the habits that wouldn't die. Grief appeared in the quiet between sirens and in the muscle memory of pushing through pain because stopping wasn't an option. Finally, grief was an ongoing motivating factor in my brothers and I still showing up every Sunday for dinner as if keeping the habit meant keeping our father alive.

One seventy-one.

A loon called somewhere in the distance, its cry splitting the stillness. The lake was different at this hour—untouched before the weekend warriors churned it up and before the boats tore through the calm. Here, I was just Marcus. Not Lieutenant McCabe. Not the oldest brother, the one who had to hold everything together after Dad died.

Just another guy riding the edge between endurance and collapse.

One eighty-two.

The water around me shifted subtly as I caught a glimpse of Katie up ahead, her stroke distinctive—her left arm entering slightly wider than it should. She'd been trying to fix it, but old habits stuck hard. I knew that truth in my bones.

Dad used to say the right habits kept you alive. His last shift had been textbook—gear prepped just so, radio check perfect, and turnout routine followed down to the last snap and buckle.

And then he was gone.

One ninety-three.

The burn in my shoulders sharpened, my body screaming for relief. I clenched my jaw and pushed harder, pushed through it, like I always did.

Focus and discipline.

Dad's stopwatch ticked in my head. His voice still lived there, as real as the cold water against my skin.

What would he think of his sons now?

Michael had thrown himself into SWAT with the same intensity Dad brought to the fire service. Matthew found his calling in the back of an ambulance. Miles, the youngest, was the only one who surprised us—becoming a crisis counselor instead of running toward fire and blood like the rest of us.

And me?

I'm still counting strokes. Still chasing numbers and still trying to prove—

A siren's wail shattered the pre-dawn quiet, distant but unmistakable.

I lifted my head, treading water as I tracked the sound. Engine 17, by its pitch, followed by the deeper note of Ladder 6. The radio clipped to my safety buoy crackled to life, the dispatcher's voice cutting through the ambient noise of water against plastic.

"Structure fire reported at Cascade Industrial Complex, Building C. Heavy smoke visible from I-90. All available units respond."

My body was already moving as I calculated response times in my head. Katie appeared at the water's edge, her own workout interrupted. She held out my towel without being asked, understanding in her eyes. We'd all learned to recognize that particular mix of focus and resignation that crossed first responders' faces when duty called.

"Your gear bag's by my car," she said, jerking her chin toward the parking lot. "Want me to grab it?"

"Thanks." I was already stripping out of my wetsuit, the chill air raising goosebumps on my shoulders. "I owe you."

"Add it to my tab." She attempted a smile but didn't quite make it. Katie was Seattle PD—she knew too well how quickly routine calls could turn dangerous. "Be careful out there."

The drive to the station was an exercise in controlled urgency, my mind shifting gears from athlete to firefighter with practiced ease. I ran through mental checklists developed over years of service: weather conditions (cool, clear, minimal wind), time of day (shift change approaching, traffic still light), and location (industrial complex, potential hazmat concerns). I filed each detail away, building a tactical picture before I even arrived on the scene.

The familiar weight of my turnout gear settled something in my chest as I suited up. This, too, was a kind of meditation—each snap and buckle in its proper order, each piece of equipment in its place. Dad had drilled it into us: routine wasn't merely protection. It was survival.

"Lieutenant McCabe?"

I turned to find Barrett, one of our newest firefighters, already geared up and practically vibrating with nervous energy. It was her first big call since completing probation, if I remembered right.

"You're with me," I said, checking her gear with automatic thoroughness. "Stay close, watch your breathing, and remember—"

"Clear communication and situational awareness," she finished. A smile flickered across her face. "Your brother gave the same speech in SWAT cross-training last week."

Of course, he had. Michael might approach tactical situations differently than I did, but some lessons ran in the family. I made a mental note to tease him about it later, assuming—

No. No assuming. Focus on now, on the job at hand. Dad's voice again, as clear as if he were standing beside me: Assumptions get people killed, Marcus. Stay present.

Engine 17's siren grew louder as they pulled into the bay, Captain Walsh was already calling out assignments. I caught fragments about water supply and ventilation points as I helped Rivera into the truck, taking part in the controlled chaos of a crew in motion. Every shift was different, but the underlying rhythm remained the same—this dance of duty and discipline that had shaped my entire life.

The industrial complex loomed ahead, skeletal against the early dawn, thick smoke curling into the sky like something alive.

Even before we turned the corner, I saw the glow reflecting off the wet pavement, staining the mist an ugly shade of orange. Fire was never only light—it was hunger, stripping everything down to blackened bone.

The radio crackled in my ear."Battalion Seven on scene. Three-story commercial structure, smoke showing from floors two and three, alpha side. No confirmed occupants."

That didn't mean no one was inside.

We pulled up fast, tires screeching against concrete, and I was already moving before the engine settled. The first hit of heat rolled over me, thick and blistering, soaking into my gear like it belonged there. The smoke was wrong—not the chaos of a normal burn, but something precise. Controlled.

Too controlled.

A warehouse fire should be messy and unpredictable. This one was burningtoo evenly, too clean . My gut twisted.

Behind me, Walsh barked orders, and crews had already worked to establish a water supply. The warehouse sprawled in front of us, a long stretch of corrugated steel and reinforced concrete, smoke bleeding from shattered windows. The fire was working its way up, licking at the second and third floors, but it wasn't moving like it should.

It almost looked like it wasn't meant to spread.

Someone had forced the front doors open—recently.

The hairs on the back of my neck stood up.

I didn't like it. Didn't trust it. Fires had patterns and rhythms. This one wasfollowing a script.

I keyed my radio."Command, be advised—sprinkler system isn't activating."

A pause. Then Walsh:"Confirmed. We've got deliberate tampering. Move with caution."

Deliberate.

Someone had wanted this fire, but not for destruction. For control. For a message.

I clenched my teeth.

"Entry team, move."

We stepped inside, boots crunching on debris, and the world shrank to heat, smoke, and the glow of controlled destruction.

And in the back of my mind, Dad's voice whispered: This isn't right, Marcus. Pay attention.

The radio crackled with updates from other teams. No victims were found, and no signs of forced entry. Everything pointed to arson, but there was an artistry to it. Even the burn patterns on the walls had a kind of terrible elegance, like brush strokes on canvas.

It was the kind of scene that would fascinate those behavioral specialists over at UW—the ones Mom was always clipping newspaper articles about, insisting the department needed more academic partnerships. I usually rolled my eyes at the suggestion, but looking at these precise burn patterns, I was starting to see her point.

"Fall back to the second-floor landing," Walsh ordered over the radio. "Fire's contained, but I want a full structural assessment before we push further."

I gestured Barrett toward the stairs, my mind already noting details for the incident report: deliberate ventilation points, controlled spread rate, and the almost beautiful precision of it all. I'd never seen a fire that looked so much like a performance in twelve years of service.

Hours later, walking back into the station with the morning sun shining over the city, that sense of wrongness still haunted me. My shoulders ached from the combined strain of swimming and firefighting, but it was a clean pain, honest. Unlike the scene we'd left, which appeared more like a stage play version of a true emergency.

The firehouse smelled like seared onions and slow-cooked beef, a sure sign that Rivera was making his famous chili again. Someone had left the TV on in the common area—sports highlights flickered across the screen, but the real debate over by the kitchen was about movies.

" Mad Max: Fury Road is the best action film of the last ten years," Barrett argued between bites of cornbread. "Practical effects. Unbelievable stunts. You cannot argue against this."

Peterson, sprawled in a chair with a protein shake, snorted. " John Wick 4 is peak cinema. You're telling me George Miller is a better director than Chad Stahelski?"

"Yes." Barrett didn't hesitate.

Normal. It was all so damn normal. The smell of food, the warmth of the station, and the ridiculous movie arguments were what fires didn't get to take away.

The locker room was empty, caught in that quiet moment between shift changes. I listened to the distant sounds of the day crew arriving—boots on concrete, the clatter of equipment being checked, and the coffee maker's persistent gurgle. They were the usual sounds that should have been comforting but somehow weren't.

Steam from the shower helped ease some of the morning's tension, but I couldn't shake the feeling that we'd witnessed something more than simple arson. Dad used to say every fire told a story if you knew how to read it. This one was disconcertingly like reading the prologue to a novel.

I was toweling off, my mind still churning over the scene's details, when I noticed an envelope. It sat perfectly centered in my locker, the cream-colored paper so thick it was like art stock. My name was printed in elegant typography that rang a bell, though I couldn't place why.

The envelope wasn't sealed, only precisely folded. Inside, a single sheet of the same heavy paper had a header that made my hands pause: "Training Log: Marcus McCabe Lake Washington Circuit." The same font nagged at my memory until it clicked—identical to the one used on Ironman registration confirmations.

My eyes moved down the page, each typed line dissolving my sense of security:

April 15: Pre-dawn swim, 0445-0615. Black wetsuit with orange safety buoy. Right shoulder showing fatigue after ladder drills—form deteriorating after 2000 yards. Maintaining 1:42/100 pace despite compensation. Discussion with K. Brenner about swim clinic cancelled due to schedule conflict.

April 18: Sunrise brick session. 45-mile loop; modified route due to road work on Westlake. Blue Specialized bike, new cleats (still adjusting position—causing slight knee rotation). Nine-minute miles on run, HR elevated. Stopped twice to stretch left IT band.

April 20: Recovery day. Easy 5K along Burke-Gilman trail. Gray Seattle Fire Department shirt (worn, lettering faded). Walking breaks at miles 2 and 4. Called brother (Miles?) to reschedule dinner plans.

Water dripped from my hair onto the paper, making the ink bloom. I knew I should move it and protect the evidence, but I couldn't stop reading. A notation in the margin caught my eye—a small sketch that looked eerily similar to the burn patterns we'd just seen at the warehouse: precise, geometric, almost calculated. The cold realization someone had been watching set off icy fingers crawling up my spine.

They weren't merely watching; they were studying and learning my patterns. They recorded the moments when discipline slipped and I showed vulnerability.

A locker door slammed somewhere down the row, making me flinch. The sound jolted me back to professional awareness. Training kicked in—preserve evidence, establish a timeline, and assess the threat level. I forced my breathing to be steady, trying to approach the letter with professional detachment.

"You planning to wear that towel all day?"

I turned to find Michael in the doorway, still in his tactical gear from the night shift. His easy smile vanished as he read my expression. Nine years of SWAT operations had taught him to be an expert in body language—especially mine.

"What's wrong?" He crossed the room in three quick strides, all casual big brother teasing gone.

I handed him the letter, reaching for my clothes with my other hand. The familiar motions of dressing helped steady me and gave me something to focus on while Michael read.

"Jesus." The quiet intensity in his voice said more than cursing would have. "This is..." He looked up sharply. "And today's warehouse fire. You think they're connected?"

"Has to be." I buttoned my uniform shirt. "That little sketch is the burn patterns at the fire. It's the same precision and the same attention to detail. Someone who understands timing and patterns."

"Someone who's been watching you for weeks." Michael's tactical mind was visibly working through scenarios. "To get all these details, to know your schedule this well—"

The locker room door banged open again. My brother Matthew stood there in his paramedic uniform, dark circles under his eyes suggesting a busy night shift. "You two alive in here? Miles says he's got an hour between clients if we want to grab breakfast at Callahan's—" He read the tension in the room. "What happened?"

Michael and I exchanged a look that said volumes. Matthew was the most empathetic of us all, wearing his heart on his sleeve in a way that made him an excellent paramedic but sometimes left him exposed. Our instinct was always to protect him, even though he'd more than proven himself capable over the years.

Dad's voice whispered in my memory: The McCabe men don't carry burdens alone.

"Call Miles," I said quietly, tucking the letter into an evidence bag. "Tell him we'll bring breakfast to his office. We need somewhere private to talk."

Matthew's expression shifted to the focused calm I'd seen him use with accident victims. He pulled out his phone without argument, all traces of earlier exhaustion gone. Michael was already examining the envelope with professional attention.

I finished dressing mechanically, my mind circling back to the warehouse fire and the precision of it. Someone had been watching me for weeks, turning my daily routines into data points.

They'd made a crucial mistake. The McCabe brothers had been preparing for crisis our whole lives, learning from a father who'd taught us that family was the strongest foundation for facing any threat. We were four brothers who engaged in four different ways of protecting and serving. Whoever was watching had just made it personal for all of us.

I caught my reflection in the locker room mirror as I combed my hair—one of Dad's non-negotiable habits, even after the worst fires. The man in the mirror looked composed enough, but beneath that surface, unease had wrapped itself around my ankles, threatening to drag me down.

"Miles cleared his whole morning," Matthew said, pocketing his phone. His eyes hadn't left me since reading the letter, carrying that steady assessment he usually reserved for patients in shock. "You doing okay?"

The automatic "fine" died in my throat. Dad's voice echoed in memory: Lying to family is still lying, son. "Not really," I admitted. "But I will be. Once we figure out what we're dealing with."

Michael nodded, tucking the evidence bag carefully into his tactical vest. "First step: coffee. Real coffee, not this station sludge. Then breakfast. Then we plan." His voice had the same quiet authority he used directing SWAT operations. "And you're riding with me, Marcus. Your truck's too easy to spot."

The familiar rhythm of tactical planning helped steady me. First, secure the team. Second: gather intelligence. Third, develop a response strategy. The same protocols that worked for fires and SWAT operations would work here.

Except, this wasn't a straightforward emergency with clear threat parameters and established response patterns. Someone had studied me, learned my routines, and documented every habit I'd built to prepare myself for whatever crisis came next.

Matthew's shoulder brushed mine as we walked toward the parking lot. "Remember what Dad used to say when we had too many problems to solve?"

"Break them down into manageable pieces," Michael and I answered together. The shared memory painted a reluctant smile on both of our faces.

"Exactly." Matthew's voice was calm and steady, like the one he used in his ambulance. "So that's what we'll do. One piece at a time."

Late morning sunlight spilled across the station's parking lot, painting everything in deceptively ordinary colors. Somewhere in the city, a warehouse still smoldered, its burn patterns telling a story I was only beginning to understand. And someone was watching, recording, and planning their next move with terrifying precision.

Michael's SWAT vehicle beeped as he unlocked it. "You know," he said casually, though his eyes never stopped scanning our surroundings, "I've got some leave saved up. Might stick close to home for a while."

"Yeah?" Matthew slid into the backseat, already texting Miles our breakfast order. "Me too. Funny timing."

Something tightened in my throat. I wanted to tell them they didn't need to rearrange their lives, that I could handle this alone. But another memory surfaced: Dad sitting at our kitchen table after a brutal shift, letting Mom force coffee into him while we all pretended not to notice his hands shaking. Family's not a weakness, son. It's the foundation everything else stands on.

"Alright," I said, climbing into the passenger seat. "Let's see what Miles makes of all this. After coffee."

"After coffee," Michael agreed, starting the engine. "And Marcus? We're with you. No discussion needed."

Seattle's traffic flowed around us. Somewhere out there, someone thought they could use my patterns against me and make my structured world perilous.

I could confront it with the most important patterns of all—those built through Sunday dinners, midnight calls, shared grief, and quiet celebrations. McCabe men didn't break. They adapted, and they protected their own.