Chapter 22
LONDON
“Close your eyes,” I say to my crew who is sitting, waiting, at the table.
Every set of eyes closes, eventually.
I slide the tray of hot drinks from the station’s kitchen counter and walk it around to the long common room dining table. I place a steaming hot mug of my favorite drink, which is coincidentally also the nickname of my favorite person in said house and possibly my current existence . . .
I place a mug in front of him.
Then one for Davey.
Sandy and Owens get one each. Lastly, one for me. I set it down at my spot before ducking around the counter and grabbing the tin. I hold it behind my back and clear my throat.
“Okay, open your eyes.”
Miles cracks an eye and looks straight at me before dropping his gaze to the drink in front of him.
“Not coffee, then?” Sandy asks, picking up the mug and eyeing it like it’s plutonium, and not the best comfort beverage on the planet.
Davey sips his and cringes.
Oh . . .
Sandy chugs his. Owens tries it and tilts her head with a sound of appreciation before sipping the rest.
“What on earth is this?” Davey says.
I can’t tamp back my smile and chuckle as I let my gaze drift to Miles. “Milo.”
I bring the tin around me and set it down on the table in front of Miles. My crew hoot and holler, laughter and clapping echoing through the common room.
Owens whoops and doubles over.
Miles raises an eyebrow and picks up his mug before taking a huge mouthful.
I’m laughing as I ask, “Do you like it, sir?”
Davey spits his out, coughing on the remnants of his last mouthful.
I cackle and clap a hand to my mouth.
Miles holds my gaze as he drinks every last drop.
I know I’m being a brat, but this was too much fun.
I knew he’d take it well. Besides, what better way to introduce him to my favorite comfort drink?
This stuff has gotten me through so much shit in my life.
I wouldn’t be without it, so it should be a staple for 53.
London’s new rules.
The mug in Miles’s hand thuds to the table, and when he doesn’t bother to swipe the milk mustache from his upper lip, even Sandy is claimed by hysterics.
God, what I wouldn’t do to crawl onto his lap and kiss the Milo mustache from his face.
“Tennison.” My name snaps out from behind me.
I spin back to find the actual captain of 53 at the top of the steps.
“Yes sir?” I put the tin on the table and walk to where he stands at the top of the stairs.
“I need a moment, in my office.”
“Oh, sure.”
With a glance behind me at my crew who stand, suddenly sobered, I follow the captain down the stairs to his office. He holds the door for me and closes it before rounding his desk and gesturing for me to take a seat. I wring my hands in my lap, and he leans forward, clasping his together.
“How are you traveling after the last shift block?”
The meth lab fire.
Fuck.
The entire damn house would have heard me drop my bundle.
Did someone see Miles holding me through it all?
“I’m fine, sir.”
It’s not a complete lie. I’m not going to say I’ve moved on, but it doesn’t affect me like it did right after the event.
“It was a confronting scene you walked into, and if you need further support around that, we have access to a department psychologist.” He leans back. “With your history, I wanted to make sure it’s not going to interfere with your mental capabilities.”
I knew this was coming.
The depth of the shit I’ve landed myself in is unknown. God, please tell me nobody saw Miles and me.
“I appreciate the concern, sir. But I’m working through it well enough.”
“Not the first time, I suppose. Davey has agreed to see the psych, if you want to do a group session. Just know the offer always stands. At any time, even if it’s years down the line, this resource is here for you to utilize.”
I swallow, my thickened throat making it slow and difficult.
“If it’s all the same to you, I’d rather leave my past where it belongs—behind me,” I manage to say.
He gives me the sympathetic smile people do when they feel bad for someone and nods his head. “Dismissed.”
“Sir.”
I stand and walk from the room, closing the door behind me.
Davey is seeing the psych.
I make a mental note to check in with him. Or is that supposed to stay confidential?
Guessing not if he told me, but still. I’ll see if he’s okay, regardless.
I take the stairs two at a time, and when I pass my quarters en route to Davey’s a hand shoots out of my door, pulling me inside.
The door clicks shut before large warm hands swallow my face and Miles crowds me against the hard surface. I pull his face down and dust my lips over his. The temptation to devour him right here in the tiny station quarters is almost too much.
But he breaks the kiss, thumbing my jaw as his gaze searches my face. “You okay?”
“Yeah, he just wanted to see if I was coping after last shift, is all.”
Miles drops his forehead to mine.
“Are you?”
“I’m fine. If anything, I’m more determined than anything to make a difference now.”
“Have you any idea how incred—”
The alarm wails through the speaker system and Miles sighs. “Fuck.”
I chuckle at him, planting a fat kiss to his neck before slipping out underneath his body still caging me in.
I grab the handle and he breathes, “Rain check, beautiful.”
“I’ll hold you to it, sir.”
He rolls his eyes, and I tug the door open and rush for the pole. Miles takes the stairs, and by the time I’m stepping into my turnouts, he’s found his. Schmiddy starts snapping out orders.
That fall on deaf ears.
Sandy glances at Miles.
We’re not following Schmiddy’s word, despite it being his week.
Owens jumps into the back of the engine cab, and I file in beside her as Davey and Miles follow a beat later.
Schmiddy takes shotgun, and we listen to him drone on for the entire eight minutes it takes Sandy to wheel us onto the scene.
This will be fun.
Urgh . . .
The things you do for your captain.
Davey caves first, second-guessing Miles as he holds us back from the scene.
No! Stop!
The three-vehicle crash that includes a truck carrying metal piping has taken out a power line.
Schmiddy’s yelling at Davey to get in there, claiming the line’s too far from the first vehicle to be a threat.
“Don’t move a muscle, probie, or so help me god, I will write your ass up,” Miles grinds out.
This is a disaster.
Schmiddy is a damn disaster.
The woman in the closest car, which looks like it’s right out of the scrapyard, is screaming for someone to help her. Her wild hair and mouth full of rotting teeth is the first thing I notice as she waves at us.
Davey’s attention is torn between her, Schmiddy, and Miles.
Don’t do it, Davey.
Don’t.
“I can reach her in time,” Davey starts.
“You take one step and you’re done.” Miles slaps a hand to his radio. “53 to base, copy?”
“Go ahead 53, this is base.”
“We have a downed power line on West 154th Street off Frederick Douglass Boulevard. Requesting utilities to power down.”
“Copy that, will have utilities with you as soon as we can. Hold tight.”
“Nobody moves an inch until this line is dead. You hear me, Schmidt?”
“It’s not your call, Hammond. People need assistance. You’re wasting time!”
We’ve taken an oath to protect life. But a firefighter’s safety takes priority over all else.
When and if hope of success is gone, or if conditions are so severe that entering means certain death to a crewmember, we step back.
As cruel as it seems. We are expected to take calculated risks, yes, but this is one where the numbers don’t stack up in our favor.
Davey shifts on his feet, focus rapidly alternating between the trapped woman and his two commanding officers.
Don’t do it, Davey.
“I can do it!” he yells to Hammond. “I can make it there in time, before the line flicks back around.”
“Stand down!” Miles barks.
“Fucking let him try, Hammond.” Schmiddy is marching for Davey.
I’m moving before I know it, putting myself between Davey and Schmiddy.
“Hammond! Call back your rabid dog,” Schmiddy snarls.
I set my shoulders back and fold my arms over my chest.
Schmiddy scoffs. “You’re so fucked, Tennison. Now, move.”
“Yeah, nah. Eat shit, Schmiddy.”
His face twists with anger and, dare I say it, hatred.
The woman is sobbing, reaching out the window now as her manic pleas reach us on repeat, calling for help.
Yeah, love, it’s on the way. Hang tight.
A hand lands on my shoulder.
Davey.
I glance back. “You heard Cap. Don’t move.”
His hand falls from my shoulder.
A utility truck rounds the block, pulling up by the transformer box on the pole a few down.
Thank fuck.
A moment later, someone calls, “Clear!”
The line that’s been flipping over the asphalt like a fish out of water goes limp, the sparks it sent into the air around it dying out.
“Move! Probie!” Schmiddy screams in my face.
Go die in a hole. No really, off you go.
He would have had Davey electrocuted.
I spin back and Davey and I make a beeline for the woman who’s trying to open her door.
“About time! What if that thing had hit my car?”
“Then you’d be safe, ma’am, but we would not,” I offer.
She rolls her eyes, giving me an incredulous look.
When we reach the door, I slide a hand in, double-checking the lock is disengaged. It is, and still the door doesn’t budge. “Halligan bar, Davey.”
He hesitates, his gaze finding mine. “Thanks, London.”
I nod. “Bar, yeah?”
He hauls in a breath and rushes back to the engine. A moment passes, and the Halligan slides between the door and the car body, and he applies backward pressure. The door groans before eventually giving way.
I check the lady over before helping her free of the vehicle. “Can you walk to the engine? The ambulance will be here any second.”
When she gets closer to 53, she shakes me off and sits on the curb.
Huh. That’s gratitude for you.
Schmiddy takes up his position, leaning against 53, supervising.
I shake my head.
The street is fast filling up with traffic and bystanders, and the ambulance blasts its horn. The street moves and the ambulance weaves through the obstructions.
Will people ever understand the part they play in obstructing the very thing they’re screaming for?
“Tennison!” Hammond calls, and I move toward the sound of his voice automatically. Schmiddy has commandeered Davey, and they’re extracting another carful of passengers.
Hammond stands by the truck, the driver now doubled over the steering wheel.
“Get a gurney and medics over here. This one will deteriorate rapidly.” Hammond opens the driver’s door.
I rush back to the first ambulance.
“We need you over at the semi,” I say.
The woman from the first car stands, wobbling her way over. “No way, I was here first!”
“Ma’am, please return to the curb,” I say.
“Fuck you. First you disobey orders and now you’re giving the guy who caused this shit show preference. This unit is mine.”
A medic steps between us. “I understand you’re upset, but we triage each person on scene. The captain running the scene has triaged the order of critical patients.”
She screws her face up.
With a half smile, the medic heads for the semi, his partner at his back. I return my axe to the engine, not wanting the extra weight on the retrieval, and follow.
Hammond has the guy sitting back up, his seatbelt retracted, before I get into position. A medic hands him a neck brace, and he secures it around the man’s neck, double-checking his pulse
As Miles lowers the guy sideways, swinging his legs to prevent bending his spine, I take up the man’s shoulders and brace myself for the weight.
He’s not a small man, and I concentrate on my stance, my breathing. Slowly, like molasses in winter in the Auckland hills, we slide the guy from the seat.
My arms ache.
My legs burn as I hold up my weight under his.
The medics have the gurney as close as humanly possible.
Hammond moves to the front of the seat and carries the man’s legs out and over as he takes each step out of the truck, a confined space that relies on angles.
He finally steps onto the road, and I lower the guy’s shoulders and we move him to the gurney.
The second my grip releases the weight, my arms shake.
I haul in a full breath after short pants.
“Good work, Tennison.”
“Sir.” I turn back to walk it off. To shake out the jelly feeling in my body.
Dammit.
The medics work quickly, assessing the man’s status, snapping out orders, and working him over, trying to stabilize him for transport.
We train for this. We’re fit, and still, it’s the slow, functional movements underload that take a toll.
And we keep going. We have to keep working, no matter whether we’re exhausted or not.
Whether people appreciate the risks we take to keep them safe.
A crack rings through the street, and every person turns their gaze toward the sound.
The woman from the curb stands in front of 53, an axe—my axe—in her hands, 53’s windshield shattered to smithereens.
“That’s what you get, fuckers. Good luck moving my piece of shit car. Have a nice fucking day!” she screams, throwing the axe to the asphalt and laughing manically before wandering down the street with her hands waving in the air.
Sandy’s gaze turns feral as his mouth gapes.
“The hell?” Owens says, resting the jaws on one popped hip.
“Well, now I don’t feel bad for her,” Davey says, brows falling as his face twists like he tasted something sour.
I’d say we all just did.