Chapter 10
TEN
DANIEL
I hefted another box of emergency supplies onto the stack, my shoulders protesting the movement with a sharp twinge that shot down my spine.
The ibuprofen I took at dawn hadn't even begun to touch the deep, grinding ache from hours of holding binoculars steady in the pre-dawn darkness.
My neck felt like someone had taken a crowbar to it, and every muscle in my back screamed in protest as I straightened up.
"These the last of them?" Martinez passed me another box from the truck, sweat already beading on his forehead despite the cooler morning air.
"Two more." I blinked hard against the grit in my eyes, feeling like someone had poured sand under my eyelids.
The coffee maker in the fire station's kitchen had been working overtime since 5am, churning out cup after cup of thick, bitter brew, but caffeine could only do so much against bone-deep exhaustion and the weight of frustration settling in my chest.
My night watching Miller's wreck was a complete and total bust. No boats, no lights, no suspicious activity—just choppy water and increasing wind that made every shadow into a potential threat.
The storm's outer bands were already hitting the coast, creating white-capped waves that made it impossible to spot anything smaller than a cruise ship without proper equipment.
Either there'd been nothing out there to begin with, or we'd already missed our window by hours, possibly days.
"You look like hammered shit." Tank dropped a case of water bottles at my feet with a solid thunk, his massive frame blocking out what little sunlight filtered through the gathering clouds. "Thought you turned in early last night."
I grunted, not bothering with an answer as I hefted the water case and added it to the growing pile.
The less said about my unauthorized surveillance operation, the better.
Commander Hayes would have my ass in a sling if he knew I'd gone out alone without backup or proper gear, crouched behind that jetty like some kind of amateur detective.
But something about those fishermen's story kept nagging at me all day yesterday, demanding investigation even when logic told me to let it go.
"Last one." Martinez handed over the final box, this one heavier than the rest and marked with red tape indicating medical supplies. "Better get this stuff distributed before the wind picks up more. Chief Thompson wants everything battened down by noon."
The mid-morning radio briefing put the hurricane just nine hours out from making landfall.
Already the sky stretched out that strange, sickly greenish that preceded major storms, the kind of color that made your skin crawl and your teeth ache.
The air was heavy and electric, charged with an energy that made the hair on my arms stand up.
My joints ached with the pressure change—or maybe that was just from spending four hours crouched behind a jetty with nothing to show for it but a crick in my neck and the bitter taste of failure.
The wind gusted suddenly, rattling the fire station's storm shutters with a metallic clatter that echoed through the bay.
I'd wasted precious hours chasing shadows while the storm bore down on us like a freight train.
Now I needed to focus on what I was actually here for—helping Hatterwick weather whatever was coming, not playing detective with half-baked theories and gut instincts.
I paused in the doorway of the station's office, catching fragments of conversation between Chief Thompson and Captain McNamara. The chief's voice carried the weight of decades of experience, steady and authoritative even under pressure.
"... need the community center prepped by fourteen hundred hours.
" Chief Thompson's voice carried down the hall, punctuated by the rustle of papers and the occasional squeak of his chair.
"Got word from the clinic about setting up triage—Dr. Carrera's got specific requirements for the medical station. "
"Already on it." McNamara's response was clipped, focused, the kind of tone that came from years of emergency response training. "But we're short on manpower. Half the crew's out securing the marina, and the other half's dealing with evacuation orders."
I shifted my weight from one foot to the other, joints protesting. The mention of the clinic caught my attention immediately. Gabi had talked about emergency protocols yesterday while we'd finished up with the windows.
"What's the timeline looking like?" I heard Thompson tapping his pen against the desk in a steady rhythm.
"Three or four hours tops before conditions start to deteriorate seriously. Need to get those beds set up, oxygen tanks secured and properly anchored. Gabi's got a whole checklist—color-coded, cross-referenced, the works. Woman's more organized than a military operation."
I stepped into the office, clearing my throat to announce my presence. "Need an extra set of hands?"
Both men turned toward me, Chief Thompson's weathered face creasing in what might have been relief. McNamara's expression remained neutral, professional, but something flickered in his eyes—recognition, maybe. Or suspicion. Hard to tell with a guy who kept his cards close to his chest.
Did Tank say something about my prior involvement with Gabi?
I hadn't given him much in the way of details during our brief conversation yesterday, but I'd said enough to potentially put her brother-in-law on the defensive.
The last thing I needed was family drama complicating an already tense situation.
After a beat that stretched just long enough to be uncomfortable, he acknowledged, "Could use the help."
"Happy to pitch in wherever needed." I kept my voice steady, professional, even as my mind automatically catalogued the quickest routes to the clinic from here.
The fire chief nodded approvingly. "Appreciate the assist, LaRue. Hoyt, get him up to speed on the layout and what still needs doing."
I followed McNamara into the hall, my boots echoing against the polished concrete floor, ignoring the voice in my head pointing out that this was a thin excuse to put myself in Gabi's path again.
The community center needed the help—that was reason enough.
At least that's what I told myself as we gathered supplies and headed out into the increasingly hostile weather.
It took less than a quarter hour to mobilize a group to help, but every minute felt precious as the wind continued to pick up and the sky darkened overhead.
The community center's double doors banged against the wall with a sharp crack as Tank shouldered them open, his massive arms full of medical supplies that would have taken two normal people to carry.
I followed close behind with my own load, immediately hit by the smell of disinfectant that was already heavy in the air, mixing with the scent of fresh tarp and the faint mustiness of the old building.
Inside, the basketball court looked like a scene from a disaster movie.
Blue tarps covered the polished wooden floor in neat sections, dividing up emergency shelter from medical space.
A group of volunteers wheeled in IV poles while others assembled privacy screens, their movements coordinated despite the underlying tension of impending crisis.
The familiar sounds of a gymnasium—squeaking shoes, echoing voices—had been replaced by the efficient bustle of emergency preparation.
"Over here." McNamara directed us toward a staging area where other firefighters sorted supplies into clearly labeled zones—trauma, respiratory, cardiac, each marked with different colored tape for quick identification.
The organization impressed me—whoever had planned this layout knew their stuff and had clearly thought through every possible scenario.
"Those go in bay three." A nurse I recognized from yesterday pointed to our boxes, her scrubs already damp with sweat as she juggled multiple clipboards and directed the constant flow of volunteers.
"And we need more hands setting up the isolation area in the back corner—Dr. Carrera was very specific about the ventilation requirements. "
I stacked the supplies where indicated, my movements automatic while my eyes swept the room, searching for any sign of Gabi's familiar figure. Surely, she was here somewhere, overseeing all this preparation. This level of organization, the attention to detail—it had her fingerprints all over it.
Then I joined Tank in wrestling cots into position, the work methodical but physically demanding.
Each cot needed to be precisely placed according to the tape markings on the floor, with exact spacing for equipment access and patient privacy.
Tank worked with a surprising delicacy for such a big man, his massive hands carefully adjusting the positioning with millimeter precision.
"You expecting someone?" Tank grunted as we locked another cot's legs in place, sweat dripping from his forehead despite the air conditioning.
"Just trying to get a headcount." The lie came easy, too easy, sliding off my tongue without conscious thought.
The side eye Tank shot me said he wasn't buying what I was selling, not even a little bit. His expression was knowing, almost amused, like he'd seen this particular dance before.
The clinic office manager—Nina, I remembered from yesterday's introductions—directed us to move supplies from the staging area to the medical station setup.
As we worked, lifting boxes and arranging equipment, I caught fragments of conversation floating through the organized chaos—supply counts, staff assignments, patient capacity estimates.
Every voice carried an undercurrent of controlled urgency.
"Where's Dr. Carrera?" Another nurse called across the room, her voice cutting through the general noise. "These medication protocols need sign-off before we can finish the pharmacy setup."