Chapter Thirty-Three
ADRENALINE AND AFTERMATH
Cole
The kitchen smells like burnt toast and overconfidence.
Brennan’s standing by the toaster, shirt half untucked, smirking like he didn’t just absolutely butcher breakfast.
“I told you it was on the wrong setting,” I say, flipping through the morning log with one hand and pointing at the blackened bread with the other.
He shrugs. “I like it with a little crunch.”
“That’s not crunch. That’s ash.”
Trey walks in with a mug of coffee and snorts. “Are we toasting bread or Brennan’s culinary skills again?”
“Same thing,” I mutter.
“Both,” Brennan says, holding up the toast like it’s a trophy. “And I stand by it.”
Trey slides into a chair across from me, kicks his feet up on the bench. “You planning on cooking for your date Friday? Or are you just gonna hand her a smoke detector and pray?”
“Please,” Brennan says, tossing the burnt toast into the trash. “I’m not wasting moves on date one. That’s rookie behavior.”
“You are a rookie,” I say.
“I’m a gift.” He shoots me a grin. “A rare and precious gift, and you’re just mad I’ve got better hair and a more compelling origin story.”
Trey chokes on his coffee. “What is this, Marvel?”
Brennan shrugs again, totally unbothered. “Tell me I don’t give off golden retriever energy with a tragic backstory.”
I roll my eyes, but I’m grinning. This is how most mornings go—banter, trash talk, and someone forgetting how a toaster works. It’s easy. Good. Like muscle memory.
We’re halfway into a debate about whether or not Brennan could survive one week in the woods with only a pocket knife and a granola bar when the tone sounds overhead.
Dispatch crackles through the speaker. “Engine 4, respond to multi-vehicle accident—possible entrapment, Highway 42 at mile marker 18. Hazmat possible. Tanker truck involved. Repeat—tanker truck involved.”
Everything shifts in an instant.
Trey’s already on his feet. Brennan tosses his half-full water bottle in the trash and grabs his coat without a word. I slide the logbook closed and follow them out to the truck.
No more jokes. No more toast.
Now it’s just go time.
Luckily, I was born for this. It’s like second nature.
We gear up and climb in the truck—radios on, helmets buckled, oxygen tanks prepped. I glance over at Brennan, who’s seated across from me, tugging on his gloves.
He catches my eye and gives me a quick nod.
I nod back.
We don’t need to say anything. We’ve done this a hundred times.
But something in my chest goes tight anyway.
Because sometimes, it’s the days that start normal—the ones where you laugh too loud and think you’re untouchable—that blindside you hardest.
We pull up fast, lights flashing against the thick haze of smoke already curling into the sky. The smell hits before we’re even out of the rig—gasoline, burnt rubber, something sharp and chemical that makes the back of my throat go tight.
I hop down from the truck and take it in.
It’s bad.
The pileup stretches across three lanes of highway—cars crumpled like soda cans, some flipped, one pushed clear off the shoulder into a shallow ditch. In the center of it all is the tanker truck, jackknifed and tilted at an angle that screams unstable.
Flames lick along the asphalt near its rear wheels. Not full-on engulfed yet, but close. Too close.
I hear sirens in the distance—backup en route—but for now, it’s just us.
“Let’s split it,” I bark. “Trey, take the southbound side—check that sedan and the pickup. Bren, with me. We’ve got movement in that Toyota.”
We move fast, practiced. Adrenaline sharpens everything—sound, smell, instinct. I barely register the heat baking off the pavement or the sweat already dripping down my back.
There’s a woman trapped in the Toyota, dazed, bleeding from the scalp. I check her pulse. “Hey,” I say, voice low but firm. “Can you hear me?”
She nods faintly. I call for stabilization and extraction gear, and Bren’s already there, tossing me the hydraulic cutters like we’ve rehearsed this a thousand times. Because we have. Good training will save your life.
We get her out together—clean, efficient. She’s loaded into the back of the ambulance within minutes.
It’s chaos all around—metal groaning, glass crunching under boots, radios squawking, someone crying nearby—but we’re locked in. Focused.
I barely look at Brennan as we move on to the next vehicle, but I can feel him at my shoulder, matching my pace, reading my mind. This is our rhythm. This is the job at its best—knowing that people are going to walk away because we showed up.
We get to a minivan next. Driver’s out. Backseat’s crumpled in on itself. I squeeze inside to double-check for kids. Empty. Thank God.
“You good?” Brennan calls out.
“Yeah,” I say, already climbing back out. “Your turn. Check the hatchback over by the guardrail—I saw someone moving.”
We switch spots.
I’m halfway to the next vehicle when it happens.
A low, vibrating boom that doesn’t sound like anything at first—just pressure, a hum in the air—and then everything erupts.
The sound. The heat. The force.
I don’t even have time to turn around.
Just a flash of light.
And then—
Nothing.
Just black.
Like the world I knew no longer exists.