Chapter Twenty-Six Hale
It’s an unseasonably chilly day for early October, but I swear it’s even colder inside the council chamber.
The chamber itself is an austere sort of place, all tidy rows of cushioned seats, polished desks, and microphones set at perfect angles.
It’s a place designed for exactly fifty-one people to govern one of the most important cities in the country, but today it’s made even more disturbingly severe by the fact that the only people present are the ten representatives from the district of Manhattan.
Including Andrew Banks, of course.
I find it hard not to boil over with spite as I step further into the chamber. These people are elected officials who are supposed to serve the interests of the public, but they aren’t the ones marching into burning buildings.
There’s an ache in my bruised ribs that I’ve decided to ignore, but my throat is still raw from the exhaustion of passing out, waking up in the hospital, and arguing my way to an immediate discharge. I’ve barely slept, unless you count the hour or two that I spent unconscious.
I stand along the perimeter of the wall, close enough to the front of the chamber that I’m impossible to miss, but remain stoically polite as Banks calls the session to order.
He’s clearly unhappy to see me, to say the least. Obviously, he heard I was carted away from the scene last night in a rather dramatic way, and he assumed I’d be down for at least the next day or two.
Underestimating me will be his downfall.
I stand at attention, making use of the remnants of the militaristic childhood my father offered me to show absolutely no emotion as Banks drones on for twenty minutes or so, sounding simultaneously smug and sympathetic.
As if he’s determined to pretend like he doesn’t want to do this to Station 47, yet he can’t hide the fact that this is about to become his ultimate victory.
“We appreciate the sacrifices made by our public safety personnel,” he’s saying, pausing to adjust the pin on his lapel that signals his role in this city, as if to imply that he’s just as essential to the safety of New Yorkers as my crew is.
I want to punch him in the throat, want to smack his head against the glossy oak desk behind him just to gain some satisfaction by the sound it’ll make.
“But,” Banks continues, speaking to the nine other council members as if he’s addressing the nation, “fiscal responsibility is paramount.”
Barry Pelavin, the bastard who has been making Lila’s life difficult for years now, gazes at Banks with such rapt focus that it’s evident he’s the one who has written this speech and wants to ensure his client hits every note.
My blood simmers. I can take whatever insults they toss my way. I can tolerate their misdirected hatred. I can swallow my pride and wait my turn to talk. But when it comes to Lila, I have far less control over my impulses.
These two men are revolting to me, the worst of our gender.
One has taken advantage of a rookie’s mistake to build a hateful campaign that serves nothing but his own reelection.
The other has devoted himself so thoroughly to the destruction of an innocent woman that he wormed his way into this mess, too.
They are self-serving. Ridiculous. Power-hungry. Spiteful.
They don’t deserve to represent the people of New York City.
They don’t deserve to be within a hundred miles of someone as pure and brilliant as Lila.
Banks clears his throat, the sound echoing around the chamber, and carries on.
“Station 47’s lack of meaningful contributions to the community do not justify the current budget allocations.
There have been multiple media mishaps, a general lack of professionalism, and several questionable leadership decisions. ”
At this, the council members flick their eyes toward me. Pelavin sneers.
I remain as I am, cool and calm on the surface, but I’m quickly approaching my breaking point.
“Not to mention,” Banks adds with a humorless chuckle. “The ridiculous PR campaign from a low-rate agency, which was funded by taxpayer dollars—”
That does it. Any insult against Lila cannot stand.
“That’s not true,” I cut in before I can stop myself.
Banks turns his head slowly and lets out an impatient sigh, as if I’m nothing more than a child tugging on his shirt. “Captain Hargrove, you will have an opportunity to speak in a moment.”
I ignore the pathetic rebuke.
“You began this speech by saying you wanted to discuss the facts,” I remark. “I am simply providing them. Hartstrings PR was hired by our union, which is funded by member dues. The staff of Station 47 has funded the campaign, not taxpayers.”
“Yes, but how are the staff’s salaries funded?” he counters.
I narrow my eyes.
The same way that yours is, I want to say. There you stand, acting like you’re above reproach, but the same argument could be made about the cretin you hired as your campaign manager.
One of the older council members sighs, fixing Banks with a look that suggests they’re still waiting for him to get to the point. He picks up on it right away and turns away from me again.
“We all know how much bravery it takes to serve in the FDNY,” Banks allows. “All of us in this chamber acknowledge the sacrifice it requires. However, Station 47 has become a circus. And even though circuses most certainly draw attention, they do not save lives.”
I can’t stop myself from interrupting again, mostly because I know that he’s not just accusing my staff of being circus-like, but also Lila’s ambitions to rescue us from defunding.
“Councilman,” I say sharply, taking a step away from the wall.
“The people of Station 47 risk their lives every single day. Just last night, we were among the six stations that were called out to respond to a tragic fire on the Upper West Side. Two civilians lost their lives, several more are in critical condition, and many of my fellow firefighters have also suffered injuries that they will be recovering from even as they continue to answer calls in the days and weeks to come.”
“Captain—”
“And even when they’re not on call, they are training.
Constantly improving. Strengthening their bodies, prioritizing their health, and ensuring all equipment is in perfect condition.
All so that they can be in the best form possible when they are needed.
Not to perform, but to serve. Does that sound like a circus to you? ”
Banks loses his composure enough that he openly scoffs at me, then pulls out his phone. I catch a glimpse of some social media account I can’t be bothered to recognize.
“This, Hargrove? This is a so-called crisis management campaign run by a—a—”
“A glorified influencer!” Pelavin chimes in.
“Precisely!” Banks wrinkles his nose. “An influencer with a personal agenda of her own. One who seems to think that cheap publicity stunts are going to convince the people of this city that we should keep wasting money on your sinking ship!”
I take another step toward him, and it must seem menacing enough that something in his demeanor changes automatically. A flash of uncertainty, a hint of trepidation.
It’s enough to make me want to laugh in his face.
For all his bravado, Banks is afraid of me. Good.
One of the council members, a woman named Angie Porter, adjusts her glasses and offers me a polite smile before turning a sharper gaze upon Banks.
“Are you aware that this so-called ‘sinking ship’ has just gone live on TikTok?” She flips her tablet around so that we can see the screen.
I tense instantly. Live is not a good thing to hear in combination with Station 47. For all my defense of them, we agreed that all media content would be posted in a much more controlled way than a livestream.
Banks lets out a sharp laugh. “More theatrics? Let’s put it up on the main screen then! You can all see for yourselves how they are little more than circus performers, just like I’ve said. Barry, will you help Ms. Porter out?”
Porter scoffs at her colleague, firing a glare at Pelavin when he rises and reaches out for her tablet. “I’m more than capable of using a simple HDMI cable.”
My stomach squirms as there’s some fussing around with the projector screen along the front wall. I move to the side, silently begging that this is a genius maneuver on Lila’s part and not a last-ditch attempt from Noah to save the day.
I should’ve called her before I came here.
Should’ve brought her with me. Should’ve, at the very least, given very clear instructions for everyone at the station to sit tight and not rock the boat until I returned.
But I assumed that was a given, since everyone was so worn out from last night’s call.
When the larger screen finally comes to life with the feed on Porter’s tablet, I frown in confusion.
Of all people, Old Bill is standing in front of the camera.
I recognize the angle—they’ve set up a camera in the main bay, with the American flag and the Station 47 banner directly behind him.
“—love Station 47 because it saved me before I ever put on the uniform,” Old Bill is saying.
He’s clean-shaven for once, and actually bothered to tuck in his navy FDNY T-shirt.
I’m sure only Lila’s charm could have made that happen.
“It was the late nineties and I was on the path to destruction, young and reckless. One night, I got myself into a little bit too much trouble and had to be resuscitated by an EMT named Jack McElroy, who retired from Station 47 back in 2018. He said to me, ‘Kid, you’re too full of life to be flirting with death so boldly.’”
Several questioning glances from the council members are tossed my way, but all I can do is shake my head to quietly indicate that I don’t know what’s going on either.
On the bottom of the screen, I watch the number of viewers increase rapidly. From hundreds to over a thousand, to nearly five thousand in a matter of minutes.