Chapter 8 Chief Murphy Takes Command #3
"You really don't need to salute like this is the military. We're firefighters, not soldiers."
Dax grins—sudden, bright, completely unrepentant.
"We already know you're a badass chief from LA who'll get our cocks skinned if we don't follow orders exactly."
The crude phrasing should probably offend me, but instead I find myself fighting a smile at their honest enthusiasm.
I turn slowly toward Bear, eyebrow arching in silent question about exactly what reputation preceded me.
He shrugs, completely unbothered by my accusatory look.
"Trust me," he tells the rookies, though his eyes remain locked on mine. "The rumors are true. Best behavior, or face consequences that will make you reconsider every life choice that led to disappointing Chief Murphy."
"Yes, SIR!" they respond, apparently deciding Bear also deserves military deference.
He gestures toward the remaining vehicle—smaller than the main response trucks, configured for quick transport rather than equipment hauling.
"Fire van is ready with a driver. You can change in the back while we're en route."
I nod, already moving, adrenaline singing through my system in ways I haven't felt since Los Angeles. The familiar rush of emergency response, of lives potentially hanging in balance, of training and instinct taking over from conscious thought.
This is what I was made for.
The two main fire trucks are already pulling out, sirens wailing, lights painting the station interior in rotating red and blue. Their departure is coordinated, efficient, completely transformed from the chaos that greeted me ten minutes ago.
Ten minutes.
That's all it took to reorganize complete disaster into functional emergency response. Ten minutes of clear authority, specific commands, consequences for non-compliance.
Why wasn't someone doing this already?
The question nags as Bear and I jog toward the waiting van, but answers will have to wait until after we handle whatever fresh hell is currently burning in Sweetwater Falls.
I climb into the back, Bear following, the driver already accelerating before we're fully settled. The van lurches forward, siren joining the symphony already fading into distance.
Turnout gear waits on the bench—coat, pants, helmet, gloves, boots. Not custom like Bear's equipment, but functional, well-maintained, approximately my size through either luck or someone's quick assessment of my dimensions.
Rodriguez.
Has to be. Tom Rodriguez, who'd called me Chief at my rescue two weeks ago, who'd been making inquiries according to Hazel Martinez, who apparently anticipated I might need gear if circumstances arose.
"Clever man," I mutter, already shrugging into the coat while the van sways around corners.
"Who?" Bear asks, his own gear already perfectly positioned despite the moving vehicle.
"Rodriguez. For having equipment ready in my size."
"He's been hoping you'd accept the position.
" Bear's tone carries something complicated—respect, resignation, maybe concern about implications for his own pack dynamics.
"Keeps talking about your qualifications, your innovations in LA, how Station Fahrenheit needs someone with actual vision instead of just warm body filling administrative role. "
The compliments sit uncomfortable, weighted with expectations I'm not sure I want to meet.
But you're already meeting them.
Already commanding these Alphas like you never stopped being chief.
Already running toward danger instead of hiding from it.
The gear settles into place with familiar comfort—heavy, protective, smelling of smoke and potential and purpose. I secure the last strap as the van takes another corner, Bear's hand shooting out automatically to steady me when I sway.
"Thanks," I manage, meeting his eyes in the dim interior.
"Always," he responds, simple word carrying weight of promises neither of us should be making three hours after meeting.
The van's siren drowns out whatever I might have said in response, which is probably divine intervention preventing me from saying something irrevocably stupid.
I settle onto the bench, turnout gear settled into place, adrenaline thrumming through my system like electricity, purpose flooding back into spaces that have felt empty since I left Los Angeles.
This is who I am.
Not the woman hiding in vintage dresses.
Not the victim running from her past.
Chief Murphy, who runs toward flames instead of away from them.
Through the van's small window, I can see Sweetwater Falls passing in blur of familiar landmarks—Main Street, Rosie's Diner, Wildflower & Wren in the distance. My adopted home, my sanctuary, currently hosting fires that someone's setting deliberately to destroy, threaten, or draw me out.
The thought crystallizes with cold certainty.
Gregory can try whatever game he's playing.
Him and his pack can discover what happens when you back a fire chief into corners.
Bear's watching me with unreadable expression, dark eyes tracking whatever he sees in my face.
"You're terrifying when you're focused," he observes, tone carrying admiration rather than criticism.
"Good," I respond flatly. "Terrifying keeps people alive. Terrifying makes crews follow orders without hesitation. Terrifying is what transforms chaos into coordination."
"And here I thought you were just a pretty Omega who baked excellent pies."
The teasing in his voice makes me smirk despite the circumstances.
"I contain multitudes. Some of them involve pastry, others involve commanding Alphas twice my size with nothing but voice and attitude."
His laugh fills the small space, warm and genuine.
"Lucky for us, we appreciate both skill sets."
The van slows, siren cutting off as we apparently approach the scene. Through the window, I can see smoke rising—not the massive column from earlier, but significant enough to require full response.
Residential structure.
Possibly commercial.
Definitely deliberate, because coincidences don't exist at this frequency.
Bear moves to the door, hand on the release, pausing to look back at me with expression gone suddenly serious.
"Whatever we find out there—follow my lead on pack dynamics. Aidric's technically in command until official chief is designated, and he gets territorial about authority challenges."
I nod understanding, filing away information about their pack's internal hierarchy.
"I'll play nice. Until lives are at stake, then all bets are off."
"That's what I'm afraid of," he mutters, but he's grinning as he opens the door, revealing the scene beyond.
Smoke, flames licking from second-story windows, civilians gathered at safe distance, two fire trucks already positioned with crews deploying equipment with impressive efficiency despite their earlier chaos.
My chaos.
My commands transformed them from disaster to this functional response.
Pride swells unexpected and warm, reminding me why I loved this job enough to dedicate fifteen years to perfecting it.
I jump from the van, boots hitting pavement, turnout gear settling with familiar weight, purpose flooding my system like the most potent drug.
Let's see what Station Fahrenheit is made of.