Burn Notice (Code Blue Hearts #3)

Chapter 1

chapter

one

Structure fire. The two words that made every firefighter's pulse spike, no matter how many times it turned out to be burnt toast or malfunctioning smoke detectors.

I was already moving, my crew falling into our practiced rhythm without a word needed. At five-foot-seven and lean from years of hauling equipment, I wasn't the most physically imposing lieutenant in the department, but I'd learned early that presence wasn't about size. It was about certainty.

And I was certain.

Martinez headed for the driver's seat while Thompson and Benny moved to their positions.

This was muscle memory, built from hundreds of calls.

We were almost at the end of our 48 hour shift, and B-shift was still moving sharp.

That's what separated us from the others — we didn't slack off on day two.

Around me, the station exploded into controlled chaos. Each of us hit our designated gear rack. I stepped into my boots — bunker pants pre-positioned around them, suspenders hanging ready on the outside. Step, pull up pants, suspenders over shoulders, tighten.

Radio strap went under the coat first, adjusting it slightly to sit flat against my sports bra — a lesson I’d learned the hard way as a rookie when I'd trapped my radio under my gear.

The department had finally gotten women's cut turnout gear two years ago, but the radio straps were still designed for someone without curves.

Antenna positioned along my back. Hood around my neck. Turnout coat on and zipped, radio mic clipped to the tab where I could find it blind. Gloves in their usual spot on my belt.

Fifty-four seconds. Not my best time, but respectable, especially for oh-dark-thirty. Benny was already in the driver's seat, doing his mental checklist, Martinez climbing into the back.

"Thompson, don't forget your irons," I called out, catching his eye. Thompson — forty-six, built like a fire hydrant and prematurely gray hair he claimed was from raising two daughters — flipped me off good-naturedly while securing his Halligan bar.

"One time, L.T. I forgot them one time..."

"Engine 18 responding," I radioed as Martinez fired up the diesel engine, air brakes hissing as we rolled out into the pre-dawn darkness.

"Engine 18. Be advised, caller reports heavy smoke visible from Building C, possible occupants still inside."

My stomach tightened. Sunset Manor housed over two hundred elderly residents, many with mobility issues. If this was real — if we had an actual working fire with potential entrapments — this could go bad fast.

"Thompson, start thinking water supply," I called over the engine noise. "There's a hydrant half a block south of the main entrance. Martinez, position us just past the building — leave room for Truck 12 to set up their aerial."

"Copy that, L.T."

I keyed my radio again. "Dispatch, Engine 18. Do we have confirmation on occupants?"

"Engine 18, be advised, facility staff is conducting headcount now. Battalion 3 is responding from quarters, ETA four minutes."

No confirmation. Which meant we had to assume the worst and hope for the best. I ran through the building layout in my head — single-story structure, decent egress, but filled with people who couldn't move quickly.

We'd done walkthroughs here during day shifts.

I tried to picture Building C specifically. Corner unit, if I remembered right.

"Thirty seconds out," Benny announced, his voice steady as always.

Twenty-three years on the job, and he still drove like every run mattered.

He'd been my father's driver back in the day — probably the only reason my application to Station 2 hadn't hit any mysterious roadblocks when I'd transferred in as a rookie.

The red brick buildings of Sunset Manor came into view, emergency lighting casting everything in harsh relief. I scanned for smoke, flame, any sign of actual fire. Building C sat dark and quiet, no visible smoke from the exterior.

"Engine 18 on scene," I radioed. "Three-story residential facility, nothing showing from the Alpha side. Investigating Building C."

We positioned the engine and I was out before Martinez had fully stopped, grabbing my SCBA and helmet.

Chin strap secured, mask hanging ready around my neck — we only masked up when we had confirmed smoke conditions.

Thompson stood ready at the crosslay, hand on the loops, waiting for my size-up.

No point pulling two hundred feet of hose for burnt toast.

"Thompson, Martinez, grab the water can and come with me. Benny, stand by at the panel."

A facility supervisor in pajamas and a bathrobe rushed over, looking frazzled but not panicked. "Lieutenant, I'm so sorry. Mrs. Jones in C-Wing tried to make popcorn in the microwave at three a.m. The bag caught fire, set off the smoke detector. We thought we had it out, but protocol says — "

"You did exactly right calling us," I assured her, though internally I was already deflating.

Another false alarm. But we'd run it exactly like the real thing, because that's what you do.

The day you assume it's nothing is the day someone dies.

"Let me just confirm it's fully extinguished. Which unit?"

"C-4, just down this hallway and to the right."

The supervisor led us through the main entrance and down a short corridor that smelled like industrial disinfectant mixed with that faint nursing home scent — medications and cafeteria food and something indefinably institutional.

The burnt-popcorn-and-melted-plastic smell hit as soon as we rounded the corner.

Mrs. Jones' kitchenette was exactly what I expected. The microwave door hung open, interior blackened but contained. Smoke detector chirped overhead, reset but still sensitive to the lingering haze. A pressurized water extinguisher sat on the counter — someone had made an attempt before we arrived.

"Mrs. Jones thought she'd set it for sixty seconds but hit six minutes," the supervisor explained. "She's mortified. We've moved her to the common area."

"These things happen," I said, pulling out my thermal imaging camera and doing a quick scan. No hot spots, no extension into the walls or cabinets. "You might want to review microwave safety with residents, but no harm done."

I keyed my radio. "Battalion 3, Engine 18. We have a light smoke condition, confined to the microwave unit. Building secure, no extension, no injuries. Power secured to the appliance."

"Copy, Engine 18. Battalion 3 is pulling up now. Need any additional resources?"

"Negative. We'll ventilate and return to service."

Thompson was already setting up the positive pressure fan in the doorway while Martinez opened windows. Within minutes, we'd cleared most of the smoke. Back outside, Truck 12 was just arriving, Captain Miller climbing down from the officer's seat with a knowing look.

"Let me guess," he called out. "Microwave casualty?"

"Popcorn," I confirmed, pulling off my helmet and loosening my coat. The pre-dawn air felt good against my sweat-dampened hair.

"That's the third time this month," Martinez muttered, helping Thompson load the fan back onto the engine. "Someone needs to hide the microwave popcorn."

"Or teach a basic cooking class," Thompson added, his voice dripping with his signature dry delivery. "I love being a firefighter at four in the morning."

Rodriguez from Truck 12 wandered over, grinning. "Hey, at least you got to stretch your legs. We didn't even get to take the stick out of bed."

"Yeah, well, at least you know which end of the ladder goes up," Thompson shot back automatically. "That's more than most truckies can manage."

"Big talk from a guy who probably needed help finding the front door," Rodriguez countered.

The familiar banter washed over me as I did a final walk-around of the engine, checking that all equipment was secured.

A few years ago, I might have felt obligated to jump in with my own comeback, to prove I could hang with their humor.

Now I just let it roll past like background noise — I had nothing to prove to anyone who still thought "that's what she said" jokes were peak comedy.

This was the reality of the job — ninety percent routine calls, ten percent life-and-death emergencies, and you never knew which was which until you arrived.

"All right, let's wrap it up," I said. "Martinez, get the water can back on the engine. Thompson, make sure the fan's secured. We don't get sloppy just because it was a nothing call."

"Roger that, L.T."

Battalion Chief Evans appeared from his SUV, coffee somehow already in hand despite the hour. "Good response time, Delgado."

"Thank you, sir."

"How's the crew holding up? You're, what, thirty-seven hours in?"

"Thirty-eight, sir. They're solid." I glanced at my crew loading equipment with the same precision they'd show at hour one. "B-shift doesn't do tired."

He nodded approvingly. "Captain O'Sullivan trained you all well. Speaking of which, how's he doing?"

The question hit me square in the chest, but I kept my expression neutral. "Hanging in there, sir. Has a treatment this afternoon."

"Good man. Give him my best." Evans headed back to his vehicle, already pulling out his phone to probably update the duty chief.

Twenty minutes later, Engine 18 was backing into the bay at Station 2. The sky was starting to lighten in the east, that gray pre-dawn that meant the overnight was almost done. Ten more hours until shift change. Ten hours until I could pick up Cap for his appointment at the cancer center.

As we climbed down from the rig, Martinez shook his head. "False alarm number forty-seven this month. I swear, if I have to respond to one more burnt dinner..."

"You'll respond professionally and treat it like the real thing," I finished for him. "Because the day we start assuming it's nothing is the day someone dies while we're rolling our eyes."

He had the grace to look sheepish. "Yes, ma'am."

"Besides," Benny added, running his hand along the pump panel one last time, "keeps us sharp. I'd rather run a hundred false alarms than miss the one real one because we got complacent."

Smart man. It's why he'd lasted twenty-three years and counting.

"L.T., I'm gonna hit the shower before someone else uses all the hot water," Thompson announced.

"Or all the shampoo," Martinez added darkly. "Assuming A-shift left us any."

I headed for the office to complete the incident report, but paused at the apparatus bay door.

My crew moved with quiet efficiency, each handling their post-call tasks without needing direction.

Thompson was already wiping down his tools.

Martinez double-checked the medical bag supplies.

Benny ran his hand along the engine's pump panel like he was petting a faithful dog.

This was why Station 2 had the best response times in the county. This was why other departments requested us for mutual aid. And this was why I couldn't afford to show weakness, even for a second.

My phone buzzed. A text from Cap. Up early this morning, although after his diagnosis, he’d been sleeping less. “Gonna be sleeping forever soon,” he’d told me darkly, “why sleep now?”

Cap

Still good for the 1430 appointment? Margaret's making me eat actual breakfast first. Says coffee doesn't count.

I typed back:

I’ll be there. And she's right about the coffee.

Cap

Don't you start too, kiddo.

I smiled despite myself, then locked the phone and focused on the paperwork. Incident report: food on the stove, no injuries, no property damage beyond one microwave. Straightforward.

But as I filled out the forms, listening to my crew's voices drift in from the apparatus bay — Thompson complaining about A-shift, Martinez defending his shower schedule, Benny mediating with his quiet humor — I let myself feel grateful for the nothing call.

In ten hours, I'd be sitting in a different kind of uncomfortable chair, watching poison drip into the veins of the man who'd helped raise me. But right now, my crew was safe, the residents of Sunset Manor were safe, and we had ten more hours to be ready for whatever came next.

Even if it was just another bag of popcorn.