Chapter 3
MILES
Schmidt—or Schmiddy, as he told me to call him—just commandeered the entire State of the Nation talk on day one of our dual leadership.
Not wanting to cause in-house drama in the first hour of this take-turns gig Cap has us on, I shut my mouth and let him.
The ways this shit is going to bite me in the ass later are probably too many to count.
The new recruits, Tennison and the late-arriving Davies, have most likely already assumed I’m the third fucking wheel.
Wonderful.
And Schmidt is full of shit. He transferred out of 41 because of poor work ethic and multiple complaints. The guy is a walking contradiction. How the hell did we end up stuck with him?
“Hammond,” Cap calls out from behind as I stalk my way toward the common area. “Miles, stop.”
I spin back. “The guy is full of it, Cap. If he’s the leadership around here, we’re all fucked.”
He raises a hand. “Look, I know you’re upset, and he did take it too far. That was not the talk we planned, remember.”
Yeah, I remember.
Schmidt and I both sat in Cap’s office ten minutes before lineup and agreed to do a two-part rundown, Schmidt on the hierarchy, me going over the duties and expectations. Except I didn’t get a word in.
“So, you do the talk tomorrow at start of shift and alternate.”
“How does that work when he’s supervisor this week? Not one of us are on the same page. It’s a disaster, and it’s barely begun.”
Not to mention the effect this disjointed, ambiguous leadership will have in the field, when the crew needs to know who to listen to. Who to take orders from.
“If he keeps undercutting me, it’s going to be dangerous for the crew. Not just a damn mess, Cap.”
Sliding his hands into his pockets, he sighs. “I’ll have a chat with him again. Week-by-week leadership should include all inspections and rundowns. I’ll make it happen.” He pats my shoulder before returning his hand to his pocket and walks for the stairs.
I hope he does.
What a fucking shit show.
All of which could have been prevented if they’d promoted in-house, period.
A few minutes later, our crew of new and old members alike file into the kitchen.
Sanderson claps me on the back. “Never seen so much restraint, brother.” He chuckles, making his way to the coffee machine. “Heids, you want a hit?”
Owens drops into the sofa under the window at the far end of the kitchen area. “Absolutely, Sandy. Make it a double, I’m on rigging.”
Sanderson groans dramatically, sliding a mug under the machine before refilling the bean reservoir at the top.
A moment later, the fragrant scent of fresh ground beans and rich coffee tangles through the room.
Our two new recruits walk into the kitchen. I’m assuming the mating call of fresh caffeine drew them in. “Going to need to make a few more,” I say to Sanderson.
He turns back, a full mug in his hands. “Come in, you two. Join the chaos.”
The woman chuckles softly, sweeping a stray lock of curly dark hair out of her face. Her tied-up bun is messy, a stark contrast to her brand-new, neat uniform.
Davies, however, has his shirt half tucked in and one shoe in his hand as his gaze darts around the room.
“Davies, turn around and reappear when you’re dressed.” I point down the hallway to the bunks.
“Sorry, didn’t want to be late for something again, sir.”
I raise a brow, folding my arms.
His face twists with confusion. “Not sir?”
“Hammond is fine. Go on.”
I jerk my head, prompting him to go fix his uniform. This guy’s first day is more disastrous than mine. Go figure.
The slightest hint of camaraderie toward him snags at my insides.
We can’t afford to be sentimental, or anything but methodical and disciplined. Sloppiness gets your written up at best, killed at worst.
A fact I hope Schmidt remembers when he’s jumping the gun to take over, for what? Brownie points?
Something steaming slides under my nose. “Drink, Hammo, you’re undercaffeinated.”
“Fuck off, Sandy.”
He chuckles, walking the room, handing out fresh brews to each of our crewmates.
“Thanks so much,” Tennison says, sipping hers tentatively as she sits at the long, old wooden dining table.
Schmidt waltzes in, and shoot, the mugs have all been handed out. Couldn’t happen to a nicer guy.
“Well, that’s fucking lovely. You’re one short, Sanderson.” Schmidt flops onto the sofa next to Heids, spilling her coffee in her lap.
“The hell, man?” She holds her coffee out, a hand dripping with the dark brown liquid she refuses to cream.
“You know what, Schmiddy? I would have taken three rookies over your sorry ass any day of the week.” She scowls at him and pads to the dining table, sitting opposite Tennison and Davies, like she’s picked sides in some schoolyard game.
Oh, this is not good.
Not good at all.
We are supposed to be a close-knit unit. We are supposed to have each other’s backs. It’s the one thing that keeps us alive. Except now there’s a divide between us making the Grand Canyon look like child’s play.
Which means my job just got a hell of a lot harder.
The alarm blares through the firehouse.
“Engine 53, house fire, 563 East on Second. Engine 53, house fire, 563 East on Second.” The automated female voice sounds through the house, reverberating the speakers.
The crew flies from their bunks, rushing the suspended bridge that hangs over the back of the engine bay.
Sanderson is first down the pole and stepping into his turnout gear as we drop down after him.
The two new recruits don’t miss a beat, Tennison going first and Davies second.
I follow them down and call out roles as we gear up.
“Sandy, you’re engine. Tennison and Davies, you’re hoses with me. Owens, water and perimeter.”
“Copy,” the four of them chant back.
We’re loading into the truck, sliding the headsets on, when Schmidt finally walks down the stairs, not bothering with the pole—or response time, apparently.
Sandy fires the old girl up and we all sit at an idle while Schmidt pulls up his turnout with one hand, downing his coffee with the other.
Motherfucker.
So, this is his tactic—make the shifts I’m running point the slow response ones.
No wonder 41 wanted him gone.
If I was as petty as him, I’d play the same hand. But people’s lives, homes, and livelihoods are at risk. I’m not playing any game that threatens those things.
I duck my head through the window. “Move it, Schmidt!”
His heated gaze swings up to me as he pulls on his jacket.
“What the hell is he doing?” Sandy says, turning back, shoving the engine into gear, the roller door already fully up and clear.
Schmidt climbs into the back, strapping his belt over his lap. “Keep your panties on, Hammond.”
He chuckles, winking at Tennison like he’s the school bully who just showed up the class nerd.
I grind my molars down so fierce, I swear one cracks.
Tennison, to her credit, ignores him and sets her focus straight ahead.
I study her side profile. Even with the headset on and the city blurring past outside as Sandy sends us down Third Avenue, I don’t miss the small details. The traditional tattoo that sits behind her ear. The way her hands turn the helmet around between her fingers.
It’s her first callout. On her first shift.
I flick my attention to Davies. He’s gripping the seatbelt like a goddamn lifeline.
I raise the microphone on my headset to my mouth. “House fire. What’s our plan, probies?”
Tennison and Davies both snap their gazes to me.
Davies glances at Tennison, who meets my gaze as she says, “Perimeter sweep. Reaffirm the roles, which you gave out earlier—Sandy is engine. Davies and I are on hoses with you. Owens is on water and perimeter, sir. Assess the situation, mainly residents.”
“If the house is not clear?” I hold my gaze.
Tennison holds hers but doesn’t respond.
“Internal sweep in pairs.” I break my eye contact and look to the second probie. “Davies, you get all that?”
“Absolutely, si—Hammond.”
I raise a brow, and he grits his teeth with a wide-eyed, cringy expression. “Absolutely, sir. Sorry, sir.”
Tennison’s face flinches, as if holding back a smile before she shifts her gaze out the windshield.
What the hell is that all about?
“Guess that leaves me in charge, hey?” Schmidt says, slapping Tennison’s knee.
She jerks away instantly, giving him a look even hell would send back. “You make a habit of touching crewmembers without their permission, yeah?” she says, her tone low and firm. That accent of hers rolls off her tongue like the words are all too familiar to her.
Schmidt gives her a look of disgust like he’s the one offended. Good lord, this man is a walking red flag. And my nerve is up with him anywhere near this crew—that includes the probies—and we’re only on day one.
Tennison’s face is flushed with crimson, her jaw set.
The horn blares and the truck slows with an influx of traffic.
It snags Schmidt’s attention long enough for me to catch Tennison’s. My brows drop, and her face flickers with a similar sentiment, as if she understands my concern and I understand hers.
The brief moment is gone when the traffic shifts and the engine lurches forward.
“Hold on, folks. Getting close. This old rig is hanging a left.”
The engine swings left, the siren wailing and bouncing between the brownstones as we pick up pace. Sandy knows this city like the back of his hand.
We roll to a stop outside a house with its roof already ablaze moments later.
Wasting no time, we file from the engine, and each one of us, despite having two new crewmembers, fall into our roles easily. Each of us bar Schmidt, who spends the first five minutes overseeing shit Sandy, Owens, and I have done together for years.
“You always activate the reservoirs like you’re going to a funeral, Sanderson?” Schmidt leans on the side of the engine as Sandy works the panel.
“This ain’t no funeral. Not if we can help it.” Sandy continues his methodical process.