Chapter 19
MILES
Schmiddy thinks he’s calling the shots.
A house fire in the run-down burbs with hazards flanking every side . . . no fucking way. That’s a hard damn no.
My grip around the tablet tightens, and the screen whines. The home is littered with bars on every window. Like there would be anything inside worth stealing.
“Tennison! You’re with Owens on perimeter.”
“I’m good, Cap,” Owens sends back.
The fuck?
“Both of you, perimeter. Now!”
Heids gives me a peculiar look before shaking her head. She waves at Tennison, who follows her round the back of the building.
“You done commandeering my commands?” Schmiddy’s in my face.
“Go chat up a bystander, bud. Do us all a favor.”
He makes a swipe for the tablet. I turn away, giving him my shoulder. Useless motherfucker.
Sandy is running the engine pumps, priming them, drowning out Schmiddy’s asinine complaints that are literally landing on deaf ears. I’m done letting this joker put our crew in danger every shift.
And for some reason, my hackles are up today. First shift back after London and I crossed the line we shouldn’t have, and I—
“Cap! Hammond!” Owens is running for the engine, London in front of her as she pushes her faster, a hand on London’s back. “Meth lab!”
Oh fu—
BOOM!
The dilapidated home being eaten alive by flames explodes, and I curl and duck into the engine.
BOOM! BOOM!
Shielding my face with a hand as debris rains down—torn up parts of the house clattering to the ground—ringing in my ears starts instantly.
Cars parked by the curb start wailing with their security alarms from the hit, flashing head- and taillights.
I try to ascertain where the hell my crew is.
Owens and London are crouched on the ground, heads down, their gloved hands over their necks. Braced for impact.
Sandy is huddled by the engine.
Davies . . . is tucked in behind him.
Fuck, gotta love my senior officers. They protect their own.
Rolling my jaw, I try to dissipate the ringing.
It doesn’t let up.
Schmiddy is cowering behind a small crowd of folks on the sidewalk who have all crouched, clutching their hands in front of them. Someone holds a shaking hand up, no doubt filming the entire thing.
One woman realizes he’s there and starts yelling at him to go help.
Don’t waste your breath, lady.
Owens and London check their surroundings before rising to their feet and closing the distance between them and the engine.
“Cap, if anyone was in there . . .” She’s shaking her head.
This scene just went from a rescue to a recovery.
Dammit.
We’re officially in defensive mode. I snap up the radio on my jacket. “53 to base, requesting NYPD for a hazmat scene, over.”
The radio crackles.
“Copy, 53, sending backup your way now. Hang tight. Over.”
This house fire has turned into a crime scene. Not one person goes near that house. The vapors of a meth lab are toxic as fuck.
“Nobody goes in. Fall back, 53!”
Owens and London lean on the engine, and I rub a hand down my face. That could have ended up much, much worse. If Owens and London had been a minute slower . . .
Tightness coils behind my ribs.
Schmiddy is striding for the engine when I sigh and meet his gaze.
“Call for hazmat, Hammond.” He’s waving at the destroyed building.
“Already done. We stay put, go update those folks.”
“I don’t take orders from you,” he snaps.
“Today you fucking do,” I send back, folding my arms.
“You are in so much fucking shit, you know that?” He’s pointing a finger at me as he walks back to the crowd.
And I have lost the will to care. I can only imagine the situation we’d find ourselves in had he been sending the crew around this scene.
The wind changes, and the air turns sour.
Fuck.
“Move downwind!” I yell to Schmiddy.
Sandy is already climbing up into 53, the crew filing into the back as I climb into shotgun as we check the wind angle and move the engine out of the airstream of the toxic fumes.
I grab a SCBA mask for Schmiddy. When Sandy parks the truck and leaves her idling, I climb down and run the mask to Schmiddy. He snatches it from my hand and pulls it over his face.
“Where’s our masks?” one man asks.
“You can go back inside your homes. Close the windows tight, stuff any material you can find under the doors. Get downwind and as far away as possible.”
The crowd disperses without hesitation. Front doors slam as windows snap shut and curtains whip closed.
At least that part went easily.
I set up the hazmat zones while we wait for NYPD to arrive on scene. Rolling out hoses, we start protecting the surrounding homes and dousing the outside flames.
“Restrict your water to only sources we know are not water reactive.”
God help us if water hits lithium right now.
By the time we have the surrounding areas soaked and adjacent roofs wet down, the blue and red flashing lights of our fellow first responders roll in.
“What we got, Captain?” An older officer comes to a stop by my side, his sergeant stripes on his uniform letting me know the rundown belongs to him.
“Meth lab at the back of the house. It exploded”—I check my watch—“nineteen minutes ago. Civilians have been rerouted home; the area has been doused.”
“Any people seen fleeing the scene?”
“No, sir. It seemed to be abandoned, but we didn’t have the chance to do an internal sweep of the house before the explosion.”
“Okay, thanks. Let me know when you’re ready to enter the scene. I’ll get the lot cordoned off.”
He’s handing out orders as he walks back to his shop.
Time to gear up.
“Sandy!” I move to the sidestep of 53. “Get everyone fixed with their breathing apparatus. We go in in three.”
I hand the self-contained breathing apparatus masks attached to their oxygen tanks down from the back of the seats where they hang and pass them to the crew.
I take all out except for Schmiddy’s and Sandy’s.
“Cap?” Sandy says, looking up at me.
“Sub in for me, will you?”
His gaze searches my face. “Sure, but—”
“That’s an order, Sandy. Man the engine, update PD, keep Schmiddy out of my damn way.”
I knew this would happen.
I knew if I crossed that line with London it would complicate things. Like hell am I letting my crew walk into disaster without me.
London is helping Davies with his mask and tank when I start donning my own.
I shoulder the tank first, tightening the shoulder straps and securing the waist belt before pulling it tight.
Next I slide the neck strap over my head and organize the rubber straps of the harness that will hug my head and keep the mask sealed over my face.
That is the most important part.
Turning on the tank, I release the valve on the mask to ensure the supply is in fact coming through. The tank at my back whistles as I spin the knob all the way on before setting it back a quarter turn.
Double-checking the pressure gauge, I push the mask onto my face, slide the straps over, and tug them tight to seal the rubber edge. Pulling the flash-hood over, I shove my helmet on my head and click the chin strap in place.
I briefly turn the tank off and wait for the mask to suck to my face, reinforcing the seal. Like hell are those fumes getting anywhere near me.
Or my team.
I run through the process and triple-check Owens and Davies before coming to London last.
Big brown eyes look up at me through the mask.
I close in on her space, turning her tank off.
As her eyes widen and her gloved hand closes around my wrist, I flick the knob over, releasing oxygen to her mask.
She says something, but the words are muffled. Owens hands her an extinguisher and she takes it without breaking eye contact with me.
“Ready, Cap,” Davies says, falling in beside me.
I drag my gaze from London and give him a nod.
I doubt it, bud.
But here we go . . .
I lead the crew toward the front door, my gut in more knots than I ever thought possible. Owens has the rear, our probies in between us.
The front door doesn’t budge. I slam the butt of the extinguisher into it.
Nothing.
Gripping my axe, I smash my way in. The damn thing was locked at the top of the door. Keeping something in. Now it hangs on its blackened hinges. I step over the threshold, and ash and debris crunch under my boots.
“Fucking hell,” I utter.
The house is littered with mess. Like some meth-cooking hoarder lived here. No damn wonder the place ignited.
Piles of junk and miscellaneous items line the narrow hallway. I hold up a fist as one sways. Boots halt behind me.
Ash floats around us, and the heat from the fire and the explosion is still very much palpable. Steadying the leaning tower of shit with a hand, I release it cautiously before opening my palm and waving it forward.
“Break left,” I snap out on the crew channel as we reach the end of the hallway.
Owens and Davies break off, and London and I take the right.
Into the living room and dining area.
What’s left of it.
Charred beams have fallen in and destroyed the kitchen table. The countertops have melted and blackened.
The windows, all blown out, are still adorned with the remnants of curtains that now swing in the breeze, ragged patches falling away with every flick.
I move toward the living area and stop dead in my tracks when my gaze reaches the sofa.
I feel London walk up behind me and snap a hand back, holding her behind me.
“Don’t.”
She disregards the order, coming to my side, my grip still around her wrist.
“Oh no.” Her eyes stay stuck on the two small bodies on the sofa. The blanket they have wrapped around them—for protection, I’m guessing—is singed. Melted in places.
Fuck.
London’s hand presses to her chest. “Where was their mom?”
My hand gravitates toward the radio. “Owens, any signs of life?”
“Negative, Cap. This side of the house and the rear workshop are clear.”
I look to London and shake my head.
“We need to take them out of here.” She steps toward the sofa and pulls back the blanket.
At least it would have been relatively quick. The explosion would have knocked them out before the heat, flames, and fumes stole their little lives.
Bile rises in my throat.
“London, stop.” I move forward.
“No. They would have been so terrified. The least we can do for them is this last thing.”
Hooking the extinguisher to her hip via a shackle, she leans down and talks softly to the first child. Lifting them from the sofa, she holds them in her arms.
Following the lead of the bravest, most selfless probie I’ve ever known, I scoop up the remaining child, and we walk them out.
Free of the house, we lay them on the soft green grass. Sandy has a sheet covering them before I have time to tug the mask from my face.
I snap my radio from my shoulder. “Clear out, Owens.”
“Copy, over.”
Moments later, Davies and Owens walk out the front door of the house. I radio the station for the coroner and send my crew running, having them pack up as the NYPD assess the house that’s gone from a crime scene to a possible homicide.
“All clear, sir.” I update the NYPD sergeant and his team that’s waiting to move in. The mood is so somber I can feel it all the way down to my bones.
Humanity can go suck a big one today.
Whoever left those kids alone will live with this for the rest of their days. And so they fucking should.
Not giving the team a minute to think about what we just witnessed, I bark orders to file into the engine. We pull away from the curb, the cab deadly silent. Not even Schmiddy has one smart-ass or inappropriate comment to unload.
Finally, the man has a boundary.