Chapter 28
The firehouse alarm rang again. “Engine Eight, respond to a restaurant fire on Leeland Street.” The rescue squad, Engine One, and both ambulances were already out on other calls.
“It’s our turn, A Shift,” Flash called, moving Snuffles from her lap to the couch cushion.
It seemed she’d barely had time to sit down.
Yesterday, HFD had called them in to help B Shift handle the relentless emergency calls.
Today was her crew’s regular tour, with C Shift rotating through Engine Eight to give firefighters time to eat, shower, and snag some rest between calls.
Even with the breaks, the added responsibilities of serving as lieutenant left Flash running on very little sleep.
“You mean a restaurant is open in this town?” Waylon asked as he stepped into his boots, turnout pants and all.
“Doesn’t have to be open to catch fire,” Woods answered, whipping on his coat.
“Maybe if we put it out fast enough, they’ll give us free food,” Flores joked.
Gear on, Flash climbed into her shotgun seat and grabbed the radio. “Engine Eight responding. ETA six minutes.”
As they pulled out to the familiar announcement of lights and sirens, Flash glanced up at an automobile precariously dangling over the edge of the I-45 overpass, still glazed with ice.
Squad Eight was on the scene, securing the vehicle.
Once, during Lisa’s rookie year, before she earned the moniker “Flash,” a classic Corvette careened over the concrete railing, spun like an Olympic diver, and crashed upside down on the sidewalk in front of the federal building across the street.
It was unforgettable. Unfortunately, the high-as-a-kite driver was killed instantly.
She remembered Smokey saying, “Your Harley is safer than a fiberglass convertible.”
Smokey Aguilera’s cherished face flashed before her, bushy mustache and all, warming and pricking her heart at once.
She’d seen him at the Christmas party, laughing and carrying on as if he still had both his arms. He told her he loved teaching at the academy, and his wife was thrilled he finally made the move to a safer position within the department.
“Ironically, she says the bomb might have saved my life,” he’d told her with a smile.
The engine sped away, leaving the teetering car in Squad Eight’s capable hands. Returning to the moment, Flash opened her messages to check for more information about the incident ahead. “Kitchen fire,” she read aloud. “No customers, but several employees were on scene. Injuries and cause unknown.”
“Probably a spark hit a gas line leak,” Waylon speculated.
“Or a power surge from the electricity trying to come back on,” guessed Woods.
Flash looked out her window. It was midafternoon, but still dusky under the thick cloud cover.
Not a single light to be seen—streetlamp, traffic signal, or from a building.
“I don’t think the power’s trying to come on, but we need to be ready for anything.
Waylon and Flores, charge two lines when we get there.
Woods, look for the employees and ensure they’re all accounted for while I make a brief assessment before we go in.
” With Captain O’Riley out with Engine One at a church fire, she would have to make the calls.
Waylon pulled the engine to a stop at an angle, blocking off the street. The last thing they needed was looky-loos driving by. Snow crunched beneath Flash’s boots as she hopped to the ground. Waylon and Flores pulled hoses.
“I’m looking for restaurant employees,” Woods called and waved. “Who called this in?”
Eyes fixed on the smoke rolling off the roof, Flash strode ahead.
The Bayou Bistro sat at a corner, surrounded by a shoe-and-boot shop, a florist, a BBQ restaurant, a vacant lot, and plenty of empty parking spaces.
One car, piled with undisturbed snow, had been there a while.
A pickup truck and a mini-SUV had pulled in much more recently.
People gathered across the street, pointing at the rising smoke, their voices worried.
The Bayou Bistro, where Flash had eaten before, was a mostly wood-sided structure with some brick accents at the corners.
It featured a large, covered veranda with outdoor seating, now dripping with icicles.
She recalled indoor seating, a bar, and an upstairs that could be reserved for parties.
The smoke rose from the low-pitched roof above the kitchen. She’d never been back there.
Keeping her focus on the structure, Flash walked around the side, stomping through the inches of snow covering the empty parking spaces.
Melting ice dripped from the eaves near the smoke plume, but a lot of white stuff remained packed over the shingles.
Drawing nearer, she found a back door and tested its handle.
Extreme heat radiated through her glove.
This access would be closer to the source of the smoke, but maybe too close.
She didn’t want to open it, inviting a blast of flames to incinerate those nearest the entrance.
Besides, the front door was closer to the hydrant.
Making moderate haste, she returned to meet her crew out front. Waylon and Bobbie held charged hoses, ready to make ingress. Woods, with his boot cleats, jogged over to join them. “There’s one person unaccounted for,” he reported, “but those two don’t know if she’s inside or somewhere else.”
“Do they know what started the fire?” Flash asked.
“No. The florist across the street was in, making sure his flowers didn’t freeze, and saw the smoke.
He called the bistro owner to report it and then 911.
The owner, manager, and someone from the BBQ place over there all arrived before we did.
The manager went in to check it out, but they haven’t seen her since. ”
“OK, so we possibly have one victim inside,” Flash said.
“Do you want someone to vent the roof?” Waylon asked.
Flash’s features turned to stone. “No more roofs under these conditions, but we might have extension to the attic. Masks on,” she ordered. “Stay tight and look for the missing manager.”
She led the way across the veranda. Fortunately, not much ice made it under the covered roof, and the trek to the main entrance was easy. They dragged their lines inside, and Flash scanned the reception and dining area.
“Fire department, call out!” she shouted. No response. Now she detected the fire’s growl, coming from between the receptionist’s booth and the bar. Light colored smoke poured through the crack at the top of the closed door.
“Fire department, call out!” Woods echoed. Visibility was still good. No one moved. The stairs lay at the far end of the dining area, away from the source of the blaze. If the woman had gone up there—heaven knows why she would—she should be relatively safe.
“Do you want me to check upstairs?” Flores asked.
“Negative,” Flash replied. “We follow the smoke and stay on the flames.” Aiming the hose she and Waylon held, she turned the valve.
Nothing happened. The empty nozzle hit Flash like a punch to the chest. Once before, during a severe drought, she’d opened a line and gotten almost nothing.
They’d lost an entire warehouse before adequate water pressure could be restored.
Flash recalled that the bistro, neighboring shoe store, and bar all shared walls.
That meant their roofs would touch as well.
If they couldn’t knock this out quickly, the whole block could go up.
“What the hell?” Waylon exclaimed.
“The nozzle’s probably frozen,” Flash said, “or we’ve got a kink somewhere. Woods and Flores, try yours.” She banged the nozzle against the hard edge of the bar, which was close at hand.
“It’s dry too.” Woods did the same, striking his nozzle against the hardwood bar.
Flores traced the hose toward the metal door. “If there’s a kink, it’s outside.”
Trying again, Flash turned the valve, and the hose sputtered to life. Water hissed against the hot steel, sending steam curling into the smoky room. “Try yours now,” she said. Two jets soaked the door and its frame before Waylon kicked it open.
The flames surged higher, fed by fresh air pouring through the open doorway.
Unable to vent efficiently through the snow- and ice-covered roof, the flames lashed toward the new opening instead.
The firefighters swept their streams across the ceiling and upper walls before driving them into the heart of the fire, beating back the waves of heat.
“Fire department, call out!” Flash yelled against the fury of the inferno. If the manager’s in here, she can’t be still alive, she thought.
Then Flash noticed a shift. Instead of gray tendrils streaming from the ceiling tiles, dark brown smoke blasted from the openings as if the attic puffed on a huge cigar.
The roof trusses groaned overhead, and the smoke pushed lower.
Then she heard a crack. It was up there alright, eating away the wood supporting the roof at a tremendous rate. The fire was winning.
Time stopped as a dozen thoughts roared through Flash’s mind at once.
Captain Jake’s voice saying, “You’re a lieutenant now, and I’ll have no cowboy heroics out of you.
You’ve got more than your own life on the line from now on.
” Velasquez’s voice: “It’s tough to make the right call with only split seconds to decide,” then praising her courage.
The image of herself dashing through a wall of flames to rescue the woman in the hotel fire; the image of Woods slipping on that roof as a sheet of ice rolled out from under him.
He fell but caught himself on the ladder.
What if he hadn’t? The time she went back against orders to pull Woods from a blazing warehouse.
The impossible situation in the California wildfire when she’d led her whole team out of a flare-up by jumping a blazing pine tree.