Chapter 9 New Fires
New Fires
We reach Lookout Point in forty-three minutes, lungs burning from the pace Mac sets over technical terrain. The scent hits us first—acrid smoke threading through pine and summer wildflowers. Then the sound: the hungry crackle of flames consuming dry timber.
Scout's hackles rise the moment we crest the approach trail. She stops dead, nose working the air, a low whine escaping her throat—the sound she makes when something is fundamentally wrong.
Her ears flatten against her skull as the acrid smoke hits us, and she looks back at me with worried eyes that seem to ask if we're really going toward that smell.
"I know, girl," I murmur, one hand finding her head for reassurance—mine or hers, I'm not sure. "But we have a job to do."
I crest the ridge and my stomach plummets.
What Parker described as a "small, contained" fire has spread to encompass nearly an acre of mixed woodland.
Orange flames lick hungrily at the base of mature pines while smoke billows upward in a gray column visible for miles.
Worse, the fire burns in three distinct points—not the chaotic spread of natural wildfire, but deliberate ignition sites.
"Shit." Mac's assessment echoes my own as he studies the scene through binoculars. "That's not accidental."
Below us, Sheriff Donovan coordinates the civilian evacuation.
Day-hikers stream down the main trail in loose groups, some moving too fast, others too slow.
A family with young children struggles to keep pace, the father carrying a toddler while the mother herds two older kids ahead of the advancing smoke.
"There." I point to the family lagging behind. "They won't make it to the parking area before the fire reaches the trail junction."
Mac follows my gaze, jaw tightening as he calculates distances and wind patterns. "Alternate route?"
"The old service road loops around the north face. Longer but safer." I trace the route on my map, mind racing. "If they can reach it before the fire jumps that ridgeline."
"How long?"
"Twenty minutes if they move fast. Thirty if they don't."
Mac's radio crackles. Rodriguez's voice cuts through static: "Alpha Leader, we've got movement on the western perimeter. Two individuals heading toward the new fire site, not away from it."
"Civilians?" Mac asks.
"Negative. Moving with purpose, carrying equipment. Definitely not tourists."
My pulse spikes. Someone set this fire as a distraction, drawing attention while they operated elsewhere. Or worse—they're still here, watching their handiwork.
"Visual on suspects?" Mac demands.
"Lost them in the tree line. But they were heading straight for the active blaze."
Mac curses under his breath, torn between responding to the immediate threat and protecting the civilians below. Command decisions in crisis—the weight I remember too well.
"I'll guide the family out." The words escape before I fully process them. "You coordinate with Rodriguez."
Scout moves to my side immediately, sensing the shift in my energy. She's already oriented toward the trail junction where the family struggles, her training kicking in.
She knows what "guide" means—it's what we do, what we've always done together in these mountains.
"Absolutely not." Mac's refusal comes swift and final. "You're not separating from the team."
"They need help now." I check my watch, calculating time against the fire spread. "Every minute they lose ground puts them deeper in the danger zone."
"Then we go together."
"And leave the arsonists free to operate? Rodriguez needs backup, and those civilians need guidance they're not getting from anyone else."
Mac's expression hardens, command authority warring with something more personal. The same protectiveness that kept him from letting me guide strangers into uncertain terrain.
"Josephine—"
"You know I’m right." My correction comes sharp, fueled by adrenaline and the familiar surge of purpose I haven't felt in three years. "This is what I do. What I'm good at."
Or, at least, it’s what I used to think I was good at.
For a heartbeat, we stare at each other across the divide between safety and necessity. Then his radio crackles again—Parker requesting status updates, Rodriguez reporting the suspects have vanished completely, Sheriff Donovan calling for additional evacuation support.
Donovan’s voice crackles over the comms. “Requesting additional support. Four hikers stranded near the upper switchbacks. Visibility dropping fast.”
“Twenty minutes.” Mac turns to me, voice all business. “Get them to the service road and hold position until the all-clear.”
“Yes, sir.” The words leave me automatically—efficient, clipped.
But something shifts. His eyes flick to mine with a sudden, sharp heat.
I’m already cinching my pack tighter, fingers moving fast through practiced motions. Knife. Gloves. Flare. Emergency beacon clipped front and center. Everything is exactly where it needs to be.
Then Mac steps closer, looming behind me like a storm wall. Heat radiates from him. His hand catches my wrist before I can go. Not restraining—just anchoring.
“Be careful out there.”
“Always am.”
His grip tightens just enough to make me gasp—and then I’m yanked flush against his chest. The impact steals my breath.
“I mean it, Josephine.” His voice is low, rough gravel laced with steel. “No heroics. No unnecessary risks.” Hard. Demanding. Possessive.
I open my mouth to argue—of course I do.
He doesn’t let me.
His mouth crashes down on mine, a brutal collision of heat and command. It tastes like smoke and need, and the sharp tang of warning. His tongue claims, unapologetic. One hand knots in my hair, the other clamps over my hip like he owns it.
Owns me.
Like he’s staking a claim before we walk into hell.
The storm howls around us, wind screaming through the treetops. I barely hear it. He kisses me like punishment.
Like promise.
Like this is the only moment we’ll ever have, and he refuses to waste it.
When he pulls back, we’re both breathless. His fingers still wrap tight around my wrist.
“Consider it an order,” he growls. "Get in. Get out. No heroics. Just… just come back to me."
My breath hitches. I don’t look away.
He doesn’t let go.
“And if you disobey me out there…" His mouth brushes my ear, velvet and dark. "We’ll have words. Real ones. The kind you’ll feel.”
A beat. My spine lights up with heat. My breath falters.
“You understand me?”
God, I do. I nod. The smallest motion.
“Say it.”
“I understand.” My voice cracks.
He stills. Something shifts in him—like a fault line snapping under pressure.
“There’s something you need to know,” he murmurs, voice a shade lower. Rougher.
"What?"
"I liked it.” His pupils dilate. Hunger. Heat. A flash of something primal beneath the surface.
“Liked what? That I understand?”
“No.” His gaze hooks mine. Dark. Blazing. Molten and locked in. Possession threaded through every syllable. “The way you said ‘Yes, sir.’”
My stomach plummets. I swallow hard. The air thickens until it sticks in my lungs.
“You have no idea what that does to me.” He steps in again, close enough to smother thought, close enough that I feel the shape of his restraint—and how little holds it back. His eyes drop to my mouth like he’s imagining exactly how he’ll take it.
I can’t breathe.
“You say that again,” he growls, low and lethal, “and I swear…” His hand slides up, fingertips grazing the side of my throat—just a hint of pressure, a phantom claim. “You’ll find out exactly what kind of man you called sir.”
My whole body coils, breath catching. My thighs clench, heat blooming low and wicked. I sway toward him, needing contact, needing friction.
He leans in, his breath hot at the shell of my ear.
“Now go.” His voice is pure sin. “Before I fuck you up against this tree with your pack still on.”
Scout waits a few feet away, her intelligent eyes tracking between Mac and me. She shifts her weight from paw to paw, the canine equivalent of checking her watch—urgent business to attend to, humans being ridiculous.
When I finally step back from Mac, she immediately moves to my side, ready to work.
My knees buckle a little. I back away, legs shaky, the fire in my blood a live thing. Pulse pounding in my throat—and between my thighs.
I don’t look back.
Because if I do, I won’t leave.
I’ll let him take me apart right here in the middle of a goddamn emergency.
I stumble once, catching myself with a curse.
Behind me, he laughs. Low. Dark. The kind of laugh that coils around your spine and stays there.
“You feel it, don’t you?” he says softly. Almost smug. "The fire burning between us…"
"Yes, sir," I tease, then spin around before he can react. Did he intimate what I think? He liked me calling him Sir?
What else does Mac enjoy? I’m eager to find out.
I descend through loose shale and scattered pine needles, each step carefully calculated to avoid triggering a rockslide that would create a different emergency.
The family is still visible on the main trail, moving too slowly, the children's energy flagging as smoke thickens the air.
Scout ranges ahead of me, following scent trails only she can detect, automatically choosing the most stable footing through the treacherous terrain.
When we reach the family, she immediately approaches the children—no sudden movements, just a gentle canine presence that makes their eyes light up despite their fear.
"Is that your dog?" the little girl asks, reaching out tentatively.
"This is Scout," I tell her as Scout sits patiently for small hands to pet her head. "She's going to help us find the best way out."
The boy's tears stop as Scout nuzzles his palm. Nothing calms frightened children like a confident dog who knows what she's doing.