chapter
one
The alarm shatteredthe relative quiet of Station 2 at 0347 hours, and I was moving before my brain fully processed the dispatcher's words.
"Structure fire, Sunset Manor Retirement Community, 1247 Oak Street. Engine 18, Truck 12, Battalion 3, respond."
Structure fire. The two words that made every firefighter's pulse spike, no matter how many times it turned out to be burnt toast or malfunctioning smoke detectors.
I was already moving, my crew falling into our practiced rhythm without a word needed. At five-foot-seven and lean from years of hauling equipment, I wasn't the most physically imposing lieutenant in the department, but I'd learned early that presence wasn't about size. It was about certainty.
And I was certain.
Martinez headed for the driver's seat while Thompson and Benny moved to their positions. This was muscle memory, built from hundreds of calls. We were almost at the end of our 48 hour shift, and B-shift was still moving sharp. That's what separated us from the others — we didn't slack off on day two.
Around me, the station exploded into controlled chaos. Each of us hit our designated gear rack. I stepped into my boots — bunker pants pre-positioned around them,suspenders hanging ready on the outside. Step, pull up pants, suspenders over shoulders, tighten.
Radio strap went under the coat first, adjusting it slightly to sit flat against my sports bra — a lesson I’d learned the hard way as a rookie when I'd trapped my radio under my gear. The department had finally gotten women's cut turnout gear two years ago, but the radio straps were still designed for someone without curves.
Antenna positioned along my back. Hood around my neck. Turnout coat on and zipped, radio mic clipped to the tab where I could find it blind. Gloves in their usual spot on my belt.
Fifty-four seconds. Not my best time, but respectable, especially for oh-dark-thirty. Benny was already in the driver's seat, doing his mental checklist, Martinez climbing into the back.
"Thompson, don't forget your irons," I called out, catching his eye. Thompson — forty-six, built like a fire hydrant and prematurely gray hair he claimed was from raising two daughters — flipped me off good-naturedly while securing his Halligan bar.
"One time, L.T. I forgot themonetime..."
"Engine 18 responding," I radioed as Martinez fired up the diesel engine, air brakes hissing as we rolled out into the pre-dawn darkness.
"Engine 18. Be advised, caller reports heavy smoke visible from Building C, possible occupants still inside."
My stomach tightened. Sunset Manor housed over two hundred elderly residents, many with mobility issues. If this was real — if we had an actual working fire with potential entrapments — this could go bad fast.
"Thompson, start thinking water supply," I called over the engine noise. "There's a hydrant half a block south of the main entrance. Martinez, position us just past the building — leave room for Truck 12 to set up their aerial."
"Copy that, L.T."
I keyed my radio again. "Dispatch, Engine 18. Do we have confirmation on occupants?"
"Engine 18, be advised, facility staff is conducting headcount now. Battalion 3 is responding from quarters, ETA four minutes."
No confirmation. Which meant we had to assume the worst and hope for the best. I ran through the building layout in my head — single-story structure, decent egress, but filled with people who couldn't move quickly. We'd done walkthroughs here during day shifts. I tried to picture Building C specifically. Corner unit, if I remembered right.
"Thirty seconds out," Benny announced, his voice steady as always. Twenty-three years on the job, and he still drove like every run mattered. He'd been my father's driver back in the day — probably the only reason my application to Station 2 hadn't hit any mysterious roadblocks when I'd transferred in as a rookie.
The red brick buildings of Sunset Manor came into view, emergency lighting casting everything in harsh relief. I scanned for smoke, flame, any sign of actual fire. Building C sat dark and quiet, no visible smoke from the exterior.
"Engine 18 on scene," I radioed. "Three-story residential facility, nothing showing from the Alpha side. Investigating Building C."
We positioned the engine and I was out before Martinez had fully stopped, grabbing my SCBA and helmet. Chin strap secured, mask hanging ready around my neck — we only masked up when we had confirmed smoke conditions. Thompson stood ready at the crosslay, hand on the loops, waiting for my size-up. No point pulling two hundred feet of hose for burnt toast.
"Thompson, Martinez, grab the water can and come with me. Benny, stand by at the panel."
A facility supervisor in pajamas and a bathrobe rushedover, looking frazzled but not panicked. "Lieutenant, I'm so sorry. Mrs. Jones in C-Wing tried to make popcorn in the microwave at three a.m. The bag caught fire, set off the smoke detector. We thought we had it out, but protocol says — "
"You did exactly right calling us," I assured her, though internally I was already deflating. Another false alarm. But we'd run it exactly like the real thing, because that's what you do. The day you assume it's nothing is the day someone dies. "Let me just confirm it's fully extinguished. Which unit?"
"C-4, just down this hallway and to the right."
