19. Smoke
19
SMOKE
A s I ride into town, I spot Catfish and Butcher as they pull onto Main Street.
If they’re surprised to see me on my bike, they don’t show it.
The initial pain when I first pulled off my property took my breath a little, when the curve of the road meant leaning into it to avoid falling off.
But it feels good to be riding.
Wind in my face; the scent of freedom hovering in the air.
Nothing could feel better.
Except maybe the sight of Quinn Moran on her knees next to me.
But I can’t focus on that right now.
When we get closer to the bakery, Grudge and Taco come from the opposite direction.
An armored truck sits on the opposite side of the street, and its engine starts as soon as the lights of the motorcycles shine on it.
The reversing lights illuminate when the truck tries to move from the bikes to pull away, but I slide up right behind it, blocking them in.
That makes the driver person number five if we saw four out back of the bakery.
Grudge has his weapon out and is pointing it straight at the tire, ready to take them out if the driver tries to move.
I jump off my bike as soon as I’ve pulled up.
“There are three possible exit points,” I say to Butcher.
“The door at the rear, the door at the front of the store, and the separate door up to the apartment. The rear alley runs east and west behind the bakery, so they could come out at either end.”
Wraith joins Taco, and Butcher waves them off to cover one end of the alley.
Realizing the driver’s door is unlocked, Grudge attempts to pull the driver out, but not before the man leans on the horn hard, a loud blaring blast. Loud enough to wake the neighborhood, given the time of night.
“No killing,” Butcher shouts.
“Not yet, anyway.”
I head for the alley down the side of the building.
Somehow, saving the bakery for Quinn becomes the only thing I can think of.
While I know it’s only bricks and mortar, I don’t want her to have to go through the whole rebuilding process that Ember has had to.
I don’t want her to face the sorrow of losing the only connection she has to her family.
I think about all the family photo albums Melody showed me one evening, of them both as children.
I’ve seen fires destroy swaths of land, farms, buildings, barns, even livestock.
But the one thing people struggle most with is precious paper that turns to tinder.
Handwritten cards and letters from loved ones.
Photographs of events that happened before digital photos were a thing.
Marriage licenses from deceased grandparents.
Paper is the thing they miss more than anything.
Like their memories and history and family stories will evaporate as it burns.
As I make it to the back of the building, I see two of the men running left, two running right.
But I jump the low wall of the bakery, where the security alarm blasts through the night sky.
Even as my injuries scream at me, I scan the area.
A low window is smashed, and when I get closer, the Molotov cocktail explodes, sending fire up the walls.
The force of it has me ducking and shielding my eyes.
The snap and hiss of the flames, small as they are, cause my heart to race.
Adrenaline pumps fast through my veins.
Momentarily, every thought slips from my head.
I can’t remember why I’m there, or what I’m supposed to do.
Until I hear the roar of a motorcycle over the noise, and it brings me back to the present.
I reach for my phone and call Geoff.
“We need that truck. Molotov fire. Down the alley to the left of the shop. Hydrant out front. Come down the alley.”
I hear Geoff give instruction; sirens go on.
“We’re three minutes out.”
“Don’t smash the shop up,” I say, knowing it’s the opposite of what we normally do.
Usually, it’s the fastest point to the fire, through windows, through rooms, whatever it takes.
Then, I remember.
The fucking hose that was in the way earlier when I fixed the wheel on the baking rack.
With a few fast turns of the tap, I crank the water to full power.
It spills out the end.
There isn’t a nozzle or spray that will make it easy to direct.
But I put my thumb over the end, making the water spread out in a wide fan, and I aim it through the broken window.
My training kicks in.
I switch between a direct attack, aimed at the immediate burn zone, and the rain method, pointing the hose upward and allowing it to rain down on the fire but also drench the surrounding area to prevent spread.
Thankfully, two decisions have helped save the bakery: The first was Quinn’s mom’s choice to make it an industrial-style setup.
Metal work surfaces and counters mean there is less wood in the facility.
The second is the tile floor with a drain hole.
My guess is that Quinn uses the hose to thoroughly wash down the kitchen.
I’ve just got it under control when I hear the scream of sirens.
Through the hiss and the steam, I drop the hose, the water spraying over the bottom of my boots and jeans.
“Ah, fuck,” I gasp, backing up to the wall and bending over.
My hands shake.
My knees shake.
I haven’t faced a real fire since that day on the mountain.
I see their faces.
I see it in the water running down the damaged panes of glass.
I smell it in the burning oil and smoke.
I hear it in my own unsteady breathing.
Geoff appears. “You catch it?”
I nod.
“Double check though, yeah?”
Geoff does as I ask, thoroughly inspecting the area.
“Nice work.”
“It’s out?” I ask.
“Yeah.” He looks at me carefully before turning the tap off on the wall to stop the hose that is snaking over the concrete.
Then, he messages his team to stand down.
“How are you? Heard about that call out you did, conflagration, man. Those fires are the fucking hardest.”
While out of control sounds bad, it’s the easiest in a wildfire.
It simply means it’s expected to grow, and the fire isn’t contained.
Blowup means it has suddenly got worse.
Spreading fast, increasing in intensity.
Extended attack incident means an initial attempt to gain control of it has failed and it’s gonna take a lot more effort to contain it.
But a conflagration?
It’s the most intense.
The most destructive.
It requires extremely dry weather conditions and causes widespread devastation.
It’s unpredictable, unconquerable.
“Jumping out of a plane into that,” Geoff continues.
“Fucking heroic. Sorry for the loss of your team.”
I nod, because I’m expected to.
Because, right now, I can’t find a way off that goddamn fucking mountain.
I’m still standing with the dead rather than conversing with the living.
“Thanks for coming.”
“No worries. But how did you know to call us before it happened?”
I point up to the camera on the outside of the building and quickly pull my hand back down when I realize it’s still shaking something fierce.
“Quinn has cameras. Four men. Looking suspicious. Tried to get money from her. Extortion.”
Geoff rubs a hand over his chin.
“You know I have to call this in, though, right? So, I can’t let you ride off with those men.”
I stand fully, and for the first time, I remember about the men who were here, the one Grudge pulled a gun on out front.
“C’mon, Geoff. Just call it done, and ride away.”
He shakes his head.
“No can do. As soon as you said there was a fire, I called in the police. No doubt they’ll be here soon. Maybe here already.”
“Fuck,” I curse.
Geoff slaps me on the shoulder.
“You always did a way better job of straddling the law than I did.”
He leaves me alone with my thoughts.
Butcher suddenly appears.
“Where the fuck were you?”
“Putting the fire out,” I answer, irked by his tone.
“Fucking police got them all. But watch, if there’s any chance one of them gets free, makes a run for it, whatever, they become fair game to us.”
When I walk out onto Main Street, there’s a chaotic mess of bikers, firefighters, Sheriff Radcliffe, and several other police officers.
There’s also a tense standoff.
The five men on the ground are yelling at the cops about how they weren’t doing anything wrong, and that, somehow, we’re the assholes.
“You seem intent on bringing trouble to my town,” Radcliffe says to Butcher as I get within earshot.
Butcher simply laughs.
“It was an Outlaws town a long time before it was your town. Long before this town even had a sheriff’s department.”
I tip my chin in the direction of the men on the ground.
“Why aren’t you asking them about why they’re bringing trouble to our town? We were all at home, minding our own fucking business before Quinn’s security company alerted her.”
Radcliffe turns and looks at me.
“You and Quinn Moran?”
“Me and Quinn Moran what?” I ask, daring him to finish his sentence.
“You said you were all at home before her security company alerted her.”
I shake my head.
“You got a boner for the bakery girl?” I ask, as I tamp down the need to go beat her name out of his mouth.
Wonder what it would feel like to kneel on his chest and crush his cheek bones to powder.
“Never said who was with who. Just that she got an alert. Better cop would ask better questions.”
Radcliffe’s eyes narrow even as his cheeks heat.
“We need to take statements.”
It takes another fifteen minutes to give him the basics.
He tries to get us all to do it individually, but we insist on doing it as a group.
Butcher throws out the backbone of our explanation.
The rest of us add our own details.
While everyone is distracted, I make my way around the cop car that now seats two of the men.
“You’re lucky fuckers, this time,” I say, even though the cop guarding the door can hear me.
“When you make bail, like I’m sure your fucking boss will provide, just know we’re gonna find you.”
The larger of the two men scoffs.
“You have no idea what is coming for you.”
I grin.
“If it’s more of this, we’ll be ready.”