Burn Patterns (First in Line #1)

7. Marcus

Chapter seven

Marcus

M y shoulders burned with the kind of bone-deep fatigue that made every turnout coat buckle feel like it weighed fifty pounds. The fabric caught against my sweat-damp shirt as I adjusted my SCBA straps, each movement a negotiation between discipline and exhaustion.

"Looking a little rough there, Lieutenant." Peterson's voice carried across the apparatus bay, tinged with a mix of respect and concern that made me want to stand straighter. "Maybe we should postpone the drill—"

"We run it as scheduled." I kept my tone firm despite the protest in my ribs. Four weeks of relentless triathlon training had carved new hollows beneath my eyes, but the planned drill was about more than physical conditioning. It would test our team's cohesion under stress—something we couldn't afford to neglect with an arsonist studying our every move.

The training tower loomed against the station's back lot, its concrete walls scarred from countless exercises. Seattle's notorious drizzle had settled into a fine mist that beaded on our gear and made the metal stairs treacherous—perfect conditions for testing our limits.

"Remember," I said, watching my crew check their equipment with practiced efficiency, "we're working blind on this one—full gear, full protocol, just like a real structure fire. Barrett, you're with Rivera on search and rescue. Peterson, you've got point on ventilation."

My hands moved through the familiar gear check sequence—straps, gauges, radio check. The ritual usually centered on me, but something was off. Not wrong, necessarily, just... different. Like the weight sat wrong against my shoulders or the mask seal didn't quite match my face's contours.

I blamed my fatigue. Three hours of pre-dawn swimming followed by a full shift had left me operating on fumes and stubbornness. Still, we needed the drill. We needed to stay sharp when every fire scene could be another twisted art installation designed to test our limits.

"Course is set," Captain Walsh called down from the tower's third level. "Smoke machines are hot, and we've got some interesting obstacles rigged for you." Our captain's grim smile said he'd designed this one to push us. "Show me what you've got, McCabe."

As we entered the tower's second level, the smoke billowed thick and artificial around us. Even through my mask, I caught the distinct chemical edge that marked it as training smoke rather than real. The difference nagged at me—too clean and controlled. It was nothing like the toxic cocktail of burning materials we usually faced.

Barrett's breathing echoed over the radio, measured and steady. Good. She was keeping her air consumption under control despite the confined space. The rookie was learning.

"First victim located," Peterson reported from somewhere to my left. "Northeast corner, partial entrapment."

I clicked my radio in acknowledgment, already moving toward his position. The extra weight of my gear dragged at muscles strained from too many laps, miles, and hours pushing past normal limits. But normal hadn't been an option since the first letter appeared in my locker.

The first warning sign was subtle— a fractional hitch in airflow , the kind of momentary resistance that could be a regulator shift or bad angle.

I adjusted my seal, dismissing it asfatigue playing tricks on me. Get through the drill. Stay sharp. Control your breathing.

Then, the next breath didn't come. A second of hesitation. Then another.The air delivery stalled, like a hand tightening around my throat. My bodyknew before my brain did.

A wave of cold panic surged through my limbs, seizing my chest before my mind registered what was going on. I sucked in again—nothing. Spots exploded across my vision.

"Lieutenant?"Barrett's voice crackled in my ear, distant, distorted."We've got a problem with the ventilation route. The corridor's—"

I tried to respond, butmy throat locked around nothing. My bodywas screaming for air, but the regulator only fed me emptiness. I pressed a hand to my chest as if I could physically push air back in.

Not now. Not here. Get control. Override your instincts.

Panic flooded my nervous system. "Mayday, mayday," Iforcedout between strangled gasps, the wordsscraping raw across my throat."Air emergency, second floor—"

The gap since my last breath stretched like pulled taffy. My hands moved through emergency procedures even as more spots danced at the edges of my vision. My chest heaved, straining for air that wasn't coming—and then suddenly, I wasn't there.

Suddenly,I wasn't in the tower anymore.

Water closed over my head,icy and absolute. Pressure crushed my chest. My limbs flailed, but I couldn't reach the surface. It was gone.

The world was chlorine blue—endless, suffocating, and inescapable. Six or even eight hands pressed against my chest, forcing me down.

I was seven years old in the pond behind Tom Rogers' house, the neighborhood bully. The older boys laughed as they held me under. I kicked, thrashed, and fought, but they didn't loosen their grip.

The cold of the water seeped straight into my bones. My lungs were on fire, and I tried to scream, but it caused water to rush in, filling my mouth, filling me. I was dying.

Breathe. A voice—Dad's voice—filtered through the rush of blood in my ears.

I jerked, the illusion snapping apart like glass shattering.

"Lieutenant!"

It was a different voice—a real voice. My bodyjerked violentlyas something yanked me back to reality.

I wason my kneesin the tower, hands clawing at my chest, my SCBA mask still fused to my face.The burning in my lungs was real. The weight crushing my chest was real. The air wasn't coming.

My hands movedsluggishly, disconnected from my body,struggling tofind the seal release. My vision narrowed to a pinpoint while my body shuddered, systems failing.

This is how it happens. This is how he wants me to go.

Finally, my fingers found the latch. I tore the mask free. Raw air slammed into my throat, flooding my oxygen-starved lungs with violent relief. The first inhale was too much. It made me double over, coughing, choking, retching.

A hand gripped my shoulder. I blindly swung a fist out of pure instinct before recognizing Peterson's voice. "I've got you!" He steadied me, the grip solid, real, and grounding. "Jesus, Marcus! What happened?"

I couldn't answer immediately. My body was too busy remembering how to breathe normally, each inhale reminding me of the bitter taste of calculated malice. The regulator dangled from its compromised strap, the modification subtle enough to pass casual inspection but devastating in practice.

When I could finally speak, my voice was rough like sandpaper. "Clear the tower. Now. This is a crime scene."

I barely registered Petersonhalf-dragging me toward clean air. My knees buckled, but he held firm.

"You with me?" Peterson's voice cut through the haze. "Marcus, stay with me, man."

I swayed on my feet, my hands shaking.Not from exertion. Not from lack of air. From something colder. Someone made me live through my worst nightmare. And they wanted me to remember it.

Walsh found me sitting on the engine's bumper twenty minutes later, an oxygen mask hanging unused around my neck while Sarah's forensics team documented every inch of my compromised equipment. The familiar weight of my captain's hand on my shoulder didn't quite mask how his fingers trembled.

"The release mechanism was modified." Sarah used the fully neutral tone she reserved for her worst cases. Her gloved hands turned my regulator under harsh work lights, revealing the careful precision of the tampering. "See this scoring on the metal? Someone filed it down just enough to create resistance under pressure. It wouldn't show during normal checks, but in a high-stress situation..."

"They wanted me to feel it gradually," I said. "Wanted me to realize what was happening while I couldn't do anything about it."

The bay doors stood open, letting in air. Barrett hovered at the equipment alcove. I caught Rivera watching me with the intensity of someone remembering his own close calls.

"They had to have access to our equipment." Walsh's voice roughened. "Had to know our protocols, our maintenance schedule. This isn't just—"

"This isn't about watching anymore. They wanted to experience it with me. Wanted to feel what I felt."

Sarah's evidence camera clicked, documenting every angle of the sabotage. The flash burned against my retinas, too similar to the spots that had danced in my vision during those endless seconds without air. My hands wouldn't stop shaking, though I'd buried them deep in my turnout coat pockets.

"Lieutenant?" Barrett approached slowly, holding a tablet. "The security footage—there's something you need to see."

The video quality was grainy, but the timestamp showed yesterday's early morning hours. A figure in regulation turnout gear moved through the equipment check area with practiced familiarity. Nothing about their movements would trigger suspicion—just another firefighter going through normal protocols.

Except.

"They're wearing station boots," I said, focusing on the details to keep my voice steady. "But look at how they move. That's not someone used to carrying gear weight."

Walsh leaned closer to the screen. "Can we enhance—"

"Already tried." Barrett's finger traced the figure's path. "But watch this part. When they reach for your regulator, see how their hand moves. That's medical precision. Like a surgeon handling instruments."

The observation was like a roundhouse punch. I remembered James's voice from the warehouse scene: "These modifications follow the same principles as surgical cauterization. They're treating the building like a body."

My phone buzzed—a text from Michael asking about dinner plans. The normalcy of it was almost obscene against the evidence of how deeply someone had infiltrated my world. I started to respond, then stopped as Barrett cleared her throat.

"There's more." She swiped to another video segment. "They came back. After completing the modification, they spent twelve minutes just... watching. Standing in front of your locker, completely still."

The figure on screen remained motionless, face hidden by regulation gear, while the timestamp crawled forward. Studying. Memorizing. Claiming the space through silent observation.

"Get this to James. He needs to see the behavioral patterns and the technical elements. I need—"

A rookie burst through the bay doors, breathless. "Lieutenant? There's something on your truck. Your personal vehicle."

Rare Seattle afternoon sun had baked my truck's interior to a suffocating heat, reeking of hot vinyl and something else—a sharp, medical smell that didn't belong. A pristine envelope sat perfectly centered on my driver's seat, its cream-colored paper almost luminescent against the dark upholstery.

"Don't touch it." Sarah appeared beside me, already pulling on fresh gloves. "The last thing we need is cross-contamination from—"

"From the gear incident." The words caught in my throat, raw and jagged. "They're connected. They have to be."

The envelope's seal parted under Sarah's careful handling. Inside, sheets of expensive paper documented my most recent training sessions in meticulous detail. The handwriting was different from previous letters—no more artistic flourishes or carefully chosen stationery. This was clinical documentation, each entry marked with timestamps and performance metrics.

0447: Subject begins warm-up (butterfly kicks, 4x50m). Form shows deterioration in left deltoid engagement—likely compensating for previous day's ladder drills. Breathing pattern maintains 1:3 ratio despite obvious fatigue.

0512: Main set commences. Target heart rate achieved at 162 bpm. Subject pushes through lactic acid accumulation with characteristic determination. The way pain reshapes his movements is exquisite.

Red ink annotations filled the margins, analyzing every aspect of my technique with the precision of a coach or a coroner. The writing grew more intense as the entries continued, professional distance fracturing into something more personal.

"Subject's discipline is remarkable. Even through exhaustion, each movement follows established patterns. The way he embraces discomfort, uses it to fuel transformation... Soon he'll be ready. Soon he'll understand how fire and water can reshape flesh into something transcendent."

"Marcus." Sarah's voice cut through the roaring in my ears. "We should get this to the lab. The paper composition might help—"

"There's something else." A final page waited beneath the training log, written in red ink.

"Today's lesson was necessary. Feeling your panic, watching you fight for air—it helped me understand. Your strength isn't in resisting pain, but in how beautifully you move through it. Soon you'll see how fire can purify, how it strips away everything but the essential truth of flesh and will.

You're almost perfect."

My heart hammered so hard I thought it might crack a rib.I exhaled sharply, but the air caught—a phantom tightness in my throat, choking.My fingers clenched before I could stop them, crumpling the edge of the envelopewith a grip too tight and too unsteady.

" Marcus ." Sarah's voice sounded distant, as if it were coming through water.Something firm pressed against my lower back—Captain Walsh's hand, grounding me.

The paper crackled in Sarah's gloved hands as she slid it into an evidence bag. Walsh and Barrett watched me, their concern a tangible weight against my skin. The medical smell from the envelope had permeated my truck's interior, turning the familiar space into something foreign and clinical.

"You're staying with one of us tonight." Walsh's tone left no room for argument. "No discussion."

I already knew I wouldn't sleep, regardless of where I lay my head. I'd spend the night listening to the silence, noting every creak and shuffle, knowing that somewhere in my city, someone was watching. Planning. Waiting.

The sun slipped behind Seattle's skyline, painting the clouds in colors that reminded me too much of flame. My phone buzzed again—probably Michael checking why I hadn't responded about dinner. Or James, wanting to analyze the new evidence.

James, who would see patterns in this that I couldn't. Who would understand the psychological implications of someone turning my training journal into a roadmap for my destruction.

I pulled my phone out of my pocket, and the call was already gone. My thumb hovered over James's name.He'd see what I missed. He'd know what this shift in language meant—what the arsonist was trying to tell me.

But what else would he hear?

Would he hear the way my breath had gone too shallow after reading the last line? Would he pick apart my silence the way he dissected burn patterns and accelerant residue?

Would he hear how much I wanted him to say my name?

My thumb brushed the screen, a fraction of pressure away from dialing—then I shut it off.I stuffed the phone deep in my pocket as if that could silence the impulse.

I couldn't call him.Not tonight.

I forced myself to take a slow and deliberate breath.This wasn't about him.This was about self-control.And I needed to hold onto what was left of mine.

Michael emerged from the gathering shadows of the apparatus bay. "He's staying with me." The set of his jaw said it wasn't up for discussion. "Barrett can process your truck with the evidence team."

I started to protest, but Captain Walsh cut me off. "For once in your life, Marcus, don't argue. Someone breached our station. Our equipment. This isn't about your independence anymore."

The ride to Michael's crossed every training route I'd mapped over the years. Streets I'd memorized through footfalls and tire rotations were suddenly foreign from the passenger seat of his SWAT vehicle. For each intersection, how many times had they watched me pass? How often had they counted my cadence and measured my pace?

Michael didn't attempt conversation. His attention shifted systematically between mirrors, his hands maintaining a textbook position on the wheel.

We caught every red light on Aurora. Each stop gave me too much time to study the faces in neighboring cars and wonder if someone was noting my presence here instead of on my usual evening route. The medical smell from the envelope had followed me, mixing with the vehicle's standard-issue interior to create something that reminded me of emergency rooms and evidence storage.

"Matt's already at my place," Michael said finally, taking the turn onto his street with precise calculation. "He's got his med kit. Wants to check your O2 levels."

"I don't need—"

"Humor him." Michael's grip tightened on the wheel. "We all cope differently, remember? You swim laps. I clean my weapons. Matt checks vitals."

His words spoke of years of watching each other process trauma through practiced rituals. I was silent, watching shadows stretch across familiar pavement and wondering which ones held observers taking notes on my deviation from routine.