Chapter Twenty Lila
Call it instincts or blossoming experience, but the moment the alarms go off that evening, I know it’s bad.
Bad bad.
Not the kind of bad they dealt with a few days ago with the apartment building in Chinatown and the child who risked his life to rescue his puppy.
This is much worse.
It takes only one minute to confirm it, too, because I’m on my way to Hale’s office when the alarms go off, and then Evan goes sprinting past me with the words “one confirmed casualty, two in critical condition” echoing in his wake.
Someone has already died tonight.
My stomach drops—then my brain snaps into a different gear. The one that counts risks, optics, angles. The one that knows fear doesn’t stop a narrative from forming—it just guarantees someone else will write it.
Of course, people die all the time. Every night, in fact. Especially in a city this big.
But so far, the emergencies I’ve witnessed Station 47 dealing with haven’t had any fatalities. At least, none that the guys have felt the need to inform me about.
It’s good timing that Jake and Sam are here, having stopped by to get some more B-roll footage to beef up the rest of our content.
When I skirt the edge of the organized turmoil that the station becomes, I find them both peering over the edge of the mezzanine, camera equipment clutched loosely in their hands.
I take the stairs two at a time.
“Come on, we’re heading out with them,” I say to Jake, raising my voice to be heard over the sound of 47’s first engine roaring out of the bay.
“With them?” Sam gasps.
“If it’s as bad as it looks like, the media will already be gathering. We can join them.”
Because, in a way, Noah was right from the beginning.
The people want to see their heroes in action.
Controlled, mediated, and carefully articulated action, but action nonetheless.
We won’t livestream, but we will capture as much as we can.
Then we’ll edit it with intentional precision and use it as further proof that Station 47 needs to exist.
I consider calling Lou, but I know she’s out to dinner with Gina, so I’ll handle it on my own. At least one of us should get to have a normal romantic life.
Me, Jake, and Sam hop into a taxi and bicker with the driver to get us as close as possible to the blaze. We don’t even need to use the Nextdoor app to figure out the address—dozens of emergency response vehicles are forming a parade directly to the site.
At 76th and Columbus Ave, we leap out of the taxi and run down the street in the direction of the park, where a massive event center is engulfed in flames. In fact, the disaster zone is so bad that I can tell the blaze has spread to at least two residential buildings right behind the structure.
Police have already blockaded the area, but there are hundreds of civilians crowding against the yellow tape and traffic barriers.
People dressed in their finest, likely evacuated from the event itself.
Random passersby who happened to be walking their dogs or heading to the bodega when they caught sight of the scene before them.
It’s too loud to speak, so I tug Jake and Sam toward the media pen—close enough to see, far enough to not get arrested.When I glance over my shoulder, I’m relieved to see the flashing red light on Jake’s camera that indicates he’s already recording.
After that, I can look at little else besides the horror in front of me.
Flames spit out of the shattered windows of the building’s lower floors, with what looks like the burning bones of a kitchen now scorched pure black and smoldering red like coals.
Debris scatters the sidewalk—shattered glass, metal serving trays, and chunks of smoking plaster.
Some people, most of them event staff who were likely the last to be evacuated, are coughing and clutching at each other, nodding numbly as paramedics hover around them.
Squinting through the chaos, my collar lifted over my face to prevent the chilly wind from blowing smoke into my lungs, I locate the Station 47 crew.
Evan is the first I spot, along with purple-haired Rita, rushing over to lend assistance to the rest of the medical staff.
It’s impossible to tell which of the tall, bulky figures in full gear running directly into hellfire is Hale or Noah, though.
They’re too far away, made too murky by smoke and mayhem.
I force myself to breathe as evenly as I can manage.
They’re trained for this. They’re prepared for anything. They know how to do this. It’s more than likely they’ve dealt with worse.
“Gas leak,” I overhear one of the journalists nearby saying to another. “Caused an explosion in the kitchen, killed one of the staff and left two more badly burned. They’ve been transferred to the hospital. Looks like they’re getting ready to transport a few more victims.”
Sure enough, when I follow the journalist’s line of sight, a paramedic I don’t recognize is closing up the back doors of an ambulance, which then blares its siren and sails off into the night.
“Fuck, this is bad,” Sam murmurs on my left.
“Some kind of charity gala,” the same journalist is saying now.
“I’ve got sources saying there are still people stuck inside the building,” says another.
“Nobody can confirm yet if the gas leak is under control,” yet another adds to the cacophony. “Tried to have my assistant call Nat Grid, but…”
All the while, Jake continues filming. I slip closer to the police line, ignoring a sharp look that one officer tosses my way.
Another engine arrives on the scene, coming from the direction of Harlem. Just like the Station 47 crew, they spill out of the truck and run right into the building without an ounce of hesitation.
My stomach turns. How do they know what to—
BOOM.
The ground punches up through my shoes—my teeth click together.
A few dozen people, including myself, shriek in surprise as an explosion thunders from underground, shaking the foundation of the event center so dramatically that I swear I see the skeletal remnants of the most badly burned sections swaying ominously in the darkening night.
The police shout at us to get down and take cover, but there’s no need, because the many hundreds of us gathered out here have all crouched to the ground in perfect unison at the sound of the explosion.
Some more debris scatters outwards, but we’re far enough back that it doesn’t reach us.
Soon enough, the journalists and other civilians are rising back to their feet, with the police trying to coax us back a few more steps.
Hardly anyone listens, too captivated by the tragedy unfolding before them.
I’m breathing fast, panting as if I ran all the way here from the station. Hale is in there. Noah is in there. How close were they to that second explosion? Can firefighting gear protect from something like that?
Moments later, a firefighter stumbles out of a cloud of smoke, nearly losing his footing on his way down the grand stone steps. He’s carrying a half-conscious man whose arm is dangling from his shoulder at a disturbing angle, reddened with blood. Nausea rolls through me at the sight.
EMS swarm the two of them instantly, and then another civilian darts out of the smoke.
She collapses to her knees, coughing so hard that I can hear it clearly from across the distance.
I think I might see Evan among the responders hurrying to aid her, but then my attention is dragged away from the scene by a nudge on my arm.
Thinking it’s Sam or Jake, I mutter without looking, “Not now.”
“Lila Hart?” an unfamiliar feminine voice asks.
I cringe, thinking that now is the most inconvenient moment for someone to have noticed that I don’t have a media pass. I purse my lips, considering ignoring the woman in hopes that she’ll drop it and focus on what’s astronomically more important in this moment.
As if the stranger can read my thoughts, she leans in close and says, “I’m not trying to get you kicked out of here. I’m actually an admirer of your work. I’ve been following Save A Hero closely.”
Finally, I turn to look at the stranger. She’s a few years old than me, with platinum blonde hair pulled back in a sleek ponytail. Everything about her demeanor screams no-nonsense, and even though she looks nothing like The Hawk, she reminds me of Branson.
“What?” is all I can think to reply, glancing back at the building in hopes that I’ll see Noah and Hale emerging from it any second now, perfectly intact and safe.
“I’m Ashley Crone, but that doesn’t matter,” the woman says to me. “I was going to email you tonight, but then I saw your crew here—and I realized you needed to hear this before you let your camera record anything else.”
“What is it?” My tone is impatient and a little rude, but can’t she see that now is not the time for chitchat?
“I just wanted you to know that I’m Barry Pelavin’s ex-girlfriend.”
I whip my head around, lips parting in shock. “Huh?”
Ashley rolls her eyes, shaking her head in a self-deprecating sort of way. “Long story. Happened a long time ago. My point is, I noticed he’s been giving you a hard time.”
“Long story,” I echo. “I’m convinced he just finds more fulfillment in life being the thorn in my side.”
“Yeah, well, I’d be careful. That’s your camera guy, right? The one in the red shirt?”
“Yeah?”
“That’s Jake. And he’s Barry Pelavin’s cousin.
”My attention has drifted back to the burning building, but it snaps back to her in a heartbeat, then ricochets toward Jake, who looks like he has paused filming to check the settings on the camera.
He’s several feet away, and Sam has stuck close to his side.
“You can’t be serious,” I murmur.
Ashley shrugs. “It’s true. They’re pretty close, too.”
“But…” I trail off.