Coughing swallowed the rest. A hard, choking sound. Then static. Then nothing.
The room tilted sideways. I was on my feet before I consciously decided to stand.
Marquez looked up from the front desk where everyone had to cover since Maliah left. “You good?”
“No.”
That was all I gave him. My voice was already somewhere else. My head already running time-distance calculations. If she’d called me after she smelled smoke, ignition had already happened. That meant growth stage. That meant conditions were changing by the second.
I grabbed my jacket and moved, dialing dispatch as I walked.
“This is Hunt. I need a unit rolling to—” I read the address from her pin. “Possible active structure fire. The Slopes.”
There was typing on the other end.
“Copy. We have that call in the queue now. Fire and EMS are en route. Units just got toned out.”
Good—she’d called first. That meant she was still conscious when she did it.
“How far out are they?” I asked.
“First engine is leaving the scene of another incident. Fifteen minutes, maybe less.”
Too long.
“I’m already nearby,” I said. Not a lie. Not entirely true either. “I’ll assess.”
“Hunt—you are not assigned suppression.”
I hung up before the rest came through because I was already moving.
There was no way I could lose Sanaa this way.No fucking way.
I sawthe smoke before I reached the address, a low gray ribbon slipping sideways through the trees instead of climbing clean into the sky. My hands tightened on the wheel, then deliberately loosened. Grip like that leads to overcorrection. Overcorrection leads to mistakes. I forced myself to breathe in through my nose, out through my mouth, the same cadence drilled into every live burn I’d ever walked.
Assess first. React second.
The house came into view as I rounded the last incline. Modern construction. Steel, glass, sharp geometry. Too new to have history. Too clean to justify what I was seeing. And the smoke wasn’t venting from the roofline. It was pushing from the rear structure.
That told me everything I needed to know.
Not an accident. Not electrical. Not a kitchen flare-up that got away from someone. It was a set fire. Low origin point. Likely accelerant. Designed to build heat before anyone noticed.
Designed to trap.
My jaw flexed once, hard enough to ache, but I parked without rushing, without slamming the door, because panic isloud and loud gets people killed. I reached into the back seat and pulled the minimal gear I kept in the truck. Respirator mask. Gloves. Pry bar. Nothing close to full turnout, nothing that would let me stay long.
But enough to get in. Enough to get to her.
The front door was locked. I hit it with the heel of my palm once, a warning more than a knock.
“Sanaa!”
No response.
I hit the door with my shoulder once, then again, and the latch tore free with a splintering crack. The moment it opened, heat shoved out hard enough to make me brace. Not just warmth. Pressure. The kind that tells you the fire’s already building inside the walls.
And this time I could see it.
