Chapter 35
FLAMES AND FINALITY
~WENDOLYN~
The sound penetrates sleep with surgical precision—electronic intrusion that transforms peaceful unconsciousness into confused awareness.
Alert.
Phone alert.
What—?
My hand fumbles blindly across unfamiliar surfaces, seeking a device that's apparently demanding immediate attention despite the ungodly hour that must be—
Dawn.
Barely dawn, based on weak light filtering through curtains.
Why is anything alerting at dawn?
Aidric grumbles beside me—sound of profound displeasure at interrupted sleep, body shifting in nest cushions with clear intention to ignore disturbance and resume unconsciousness.
Same.
Strong agreement with ignoring everything.
Sleep is a precious commodity we're all desperately needing.
We're still arranged exactly as we collapsed last night—tangled configuration of limbs and bodies, my position secured in the center with four Alphas surrounding me in protective formation that probably looks ridiculous but feels absolutely perfect.
Warm.
Safe.
Exactly where I belong.
A second device joins the chorus—different ringtone, same insistent demand for attention.
Two phones.
Two separate emergencies?
Or coordinated alert system?
Then a third—Bear's phone based on proximity and a particular jingle that's somehow both cheerful and aggressive.
Three phones.
Three simultaneous alerts.
That's not a coincidence.
That's something serious.
Consciousness arrives with uncomfortable speed as pattern recognition overrides the desire to remain in a comfortable nest. Emergency response training kicks in automatically—body moving before brain fully engages, instincts developed through years of service activating without conscious authorization.
Fire alarm.
That's a fire alarm notification.
All our devices are receiving simultaneous fire alerts.
We're moving collectively—disentangling with efficiency that suggests everyone else reached the same conclusion, pack coordination eliminating the need for verbal communication as we scramble for clothing and equipment.
"Where?" Calder's question articulates what we're all wondering. "Where's the fire?"
Good question.
Critical question.
Because we're at the ranch, miles from town, and response time is going to be—
Aidric reaches for the radio first—emergency band communication that should connect us with Station Fahrenheit dispatch, allowing coordination even from a remote location.
"Station Fahrenheit, this is Chief Hawthorne requesting a status report. Received fire alert, need location and severity assessment."
Static.
Nothing but static greeted his transmission.
That's wrong.
Radio should work regardless of location.
Unless—
"Station Fahrenheit, respond. This is Chief Hawthorne requesting an immediate status update."
More static—empty airwaves that suggest either equipment malfunction or something significantly more concerning.
Communication failure.
During an active emergency.
Every nightmare scenario firefighters train for.
We're dressing frantically—pulling on whatever clothing is immediately accessible, knowing that time is a critical factor and proper gear is stored in the truck for exactly this scenario.
Emergency suits.
Kept in the trunk specifically for situations requiring rapid deployment.
Thank fuck for my paranoid preparation.
Aidric tries a different frequency—switching to the backup channel that should provide an alternative communication pathway.
"Any Station Fahrenheit personnel, this is Chief Hawthorne. Respond with current status."
Crackling—then a sudden burst of sound that makes everyone freeze.
"FIRE!" Dax's voice cuts through the interference—pure panic evident, professionalism abandoned in favor of basic warning. "CHIEF, THERE'S FIRE—"
"Where?" Aidric snaps with command authority. "Dax, where is the fire?"
"THE FIREHOUSE!" The scream is nearly incoherent. "Station Fahrenheit is—"
The line cuts—dead air replacing panicked communication, leaving us with incomplete information and rapidly accelerating heart rates.
The station.
Our station is on fire.
The place where our crew sleeps, where our equipment is stored, where—
Oh fuck.
How many people were on duty?
Who's inside?
We share a look—a split second of silent communication where pack bonds transmit everything words would take too long to express. Terror and determination and absolute certainty that we're about to do something dangerous without adequate preparation.
"Truck," Aidric commands with authority that brooks no argument. "Now. Emergency gear from trunk, fastest route possible."
We're moving—coordinated chaos as five people navigate out of the nest room, through the house, toward the garage where Aidric's truck waits.
Fifteen minutes.
Maybe fifteen minutes to cover the distance between the ranch and town if we ignore speed limits and safety protocols.
Fifteen minutes while building burns.
While people might be trapped inside.
I'm dialing Officer Hazel before conscious thought authorizes action—emergency contact list pulled up with muscle memory, her number selected automatically.
She answers on the second ring—voice sharp with awareness that suggests she's already mobilized.
"Murphy, I'm actually behind you. Putting sirens on now."
Behind us?
How is she—?
"Why are you nearby?" Relief floods through me despite confusion about her fortuitous positioning.
"Long story involving surveillance and protective details I'll explain later." Her voice carries urgency that eliminates space for extended discussion. "Push throttle as fast as safely capable. My unit is right behind you—we'll provide escort and assistance."
Surveillance.
She's been conducting surveillance.
On what? On who?
Gregory—
Oh fuck, Gregory.
The pieces click together with horrifying clarity—his face in treeline, the hallucination that wasn't hallucination, my instincts screaming danger that I'd dismissed as paranoia.
He's here.
Violated court order, traveled to Montana despite restrictions, orchestrated this—
This is him.
This is Gregory finishing what he started.
Aidric drives with controlled aggression—pushing the truck to speeds that are definitely illegal but absolutely necessary, navigating the ranch road with expertise that speaks to intimate familiarity with every curve and pothole.
"Fifteen minutes," he announces grimly. "Maximum fifteen minutes if I maintain current speed without a catastrophic accident."
"Do it," I encourage despite terror at velocity. "Whatever it takes. People are inside."
Our people.
Our crew, our family, possibly trapped in a burning building because someone wanted revenge.
The landscape blurs—early morning light transforming Montana wilderness into a streak of colors, beauty completely wasted on passengers too terrified to appreciate aesthetics.
Hazel's sirens wail behind us—audible even through closed windows and engine noise, providing escort that's simultaneously reassuring and terrifying because it confirms the severity of whatever we're rushing toward.
Please let everyone be okay.
Please let them evacuate.
Please let this be property damage rather than casualties.
The truck eats miles with mechanical efficiency—distance closing faster than seems physically possible, though every second feels stretched to breaking point.
Twelve minutes.
Ten minutes.
Eight minutes.
Station Fahrenheit appears on the horizon—a pillar of smoke visible long before the building comes into view, a thick black column that speaks to intense heat and a significant fuel source.
Burning.
Actually burning.
Our home is burning.
We screech into the parking area with probably illegal deceleration—the truck barely stops before we're evacuating, rushing toward emergency equipment stored in the back.
The scene is controlled chaos—firefighters in various stages of dress working suppression efforts, equipment deployed with professional competence despite obvious shock at having their own station targeted.
They're alive.
Most of them are alive and functional.
That's good.
That's—
Blaze barks frantically from a safe distance—a distinctive sound that I recognize immediately because I've heard it before. Not general alarm barking but a specific pattern that means someone is still inside, someone needs help, why aren't you rescuing them?
Same bark from the kitten rescue.
Same desperate insistence that we're missing someone.
Someone is inside.
Someone is still inside the burning building.
The three rookies cluster near the parking area—Dax, Rook, and Flynn, holding kittens who are surprisingly calm given the circumstances, focused on keeping small animals secure while chaos erupts around them.
"Everyone accounted for?" I'm already moving toward them, emergency suit half-secured but functional enough for initial assessment.
They exchange glances—uncertainty evident, collective realization that they don't actually know.
"We're not sure," Dax admits with guilt evident. "Everything happened so fast—alarm sounded, we evacuated, tried to do a headcount, but people are scattered—"
No complete accounting.
No confirmation that everyone escaped.
Which means—
I look toward Aidric, find him already staring at me with identical realization crystallizing simultaneously.
Chief Tom.
Where's Chief Tom?
He should be here, should be coordinating, should be visible and commanding—
And he's not.
We nod—silent agreement to the course of action that's probably stupidly dangerous but absolutely necessary, pack bonds transmitting certainty that neither of us could abandon someone without attempting rescue.
Helmets secured, breathing apparatus checked with rapid efficiency born from countless drills, we move toward the building entrance that's belching smoke with ominous intensity.
"MURPHY! HAWTHORNE!" Multiple voices shout warnings—crew members recognizing our intention, trying to stop us from entering a structure that any reasonable assessment would declare too dangerous.
Can't stop.
Won't stop.