It sat closed, smoke seeping from a narrow gap. I grabbed the handle and yanked. It moved an inch and jammed.
“Motherf—” I cut myself off and slammed my boot against the base. The door rattled but held stubbornly, a metal middle finger.
“Bar!” I snapped, holding out a hand.
Moose slapped the pry bar into it. I wedged it under the latch and heaved. My shoulder burned with the effort, gear digging into my ribs. Smoke poured through the widening crack.
The latch screamed like tortured metal before finally snapping loose. The door swung outward, vomiting a rolling wave of hot gray smoke.
Thick, suffocating heat wrapped around me as I ducked inside.
The truck was longer on the outside. Inside it felt like a coffin. The air shimmered with heat, the stainless steel walls throwing back my flashlight in jagged, distorted beams. The espresso machine hissed angrily against a glow coming from behind the prep counter—something electrical, definitely. Maybe a relay popping, or a wire gone bad.
“Jess!” The smoke instantly swallowed my yell.
I swept along the narrow aisle, checking under every counter, every corner. The smoke stung even through the respirator; my eyes watered, heat prickling my neck under my collar.
Something small and tan caught my beam—a boot.
Her boot.
I crawled closer, breath strangling in my chest even with the mask feeding me air. Jess was curled on her side near the back, half hidden behind the stainless prep station, one hand raised like she’d tried to cover her mouth. Her foot was trapped under the edge of the warped counter.
“Jesus, Jess,” I whispered, dropping hard to my knees beside her.
I touched two fingers to the side of her neck.
Pulse. Fast, too fast—but there.
Alive.
I blew out a breath and eased her into a sitting position enough to get leverage. The metal trapping her foot wouldn’tbudge at first. I braced my shoulder against the counter and pushed until something bent with a dull metallic groan.
Her foot came free.
“Got her!” I yelled toward the door.
My flashlight bounced wildly as I gathered her into my arms. She slumped against me, head against my shoulder, hair catching on my gear as I carried her toward the open door. I stumbled only once when the floor lurched from a swelling pocket of heat behind me. Cold air slapped my face as I emerged onto the sidewalk.
“Clear!” I shouted, and Moose was already there, grabbing the med kit.
We set her down several yards from the truck, far enough to avoid the worst of the smoke. Her breathing came in short, shallow pulls—too quick, too thin.
Her lashes trembled.
Her lips parted.
A weak sound escaped her throat—a cough, a gasp, something in between.
“It’s okay,” I murmured, brushing soot from her cheek with the back of my glove. “I’m right here.”
Moose pressed the portable O2 mask into my hand. “Here.”
I secured it over her mouth and nose. The hiss of oxygen filled the tense air.
Color came back slowly—first to her lips, then her cheeks. Not fully, not comfortably, but enough that the tightness in my chest eased a fraction.
She coughed again, a painful sound that tore at me.
