Rodriguez had been my captain for eight years. He'd seen me at my worst. And now he was looking at me with something that might have been resignation.
"Shane. Brian. You're with him."
Shane was already gearing up.
"Third time," Rodriguez muttered under his breath. "Third time one of my guys runs into a burning building for a woman. I'm starting to think this crew has a type."
"Cap—"
"Go." He released my arm. "Twelve, east side. Stairwell B is passable below ten. After that, you're on your own." He held my gaze. "Bring her back, Stone. And bring yourself back too."
Mask on. Air adjusted. Halligan gripped until my knuckles ached.
"I will."
The stairwell was a chimney.
Smoke pouring down from above, thick and black, visibility near zero. Single file. Shane on point. Me in the middle. Brian on rear.
Seventh. Eighth. Ninth.
My legs burned. My lungs burned. Everything burned.
But I kept climbing.
Tenth. Door warped from heat. Shane hit it with his halligan, once, twice, and it gave way.
The hallway was worse than the stairwell.
Fire everywhere. Racing along the walls. Eating through the carpet. Sprinklers running but not enough. The accelerants had done their work.
"Stay low. Near the walls. Watch your footing."
Every step a calculation.
I love you. Please.
I moved faster.
Eleventh. Worse. Ceiling tiles falling. Sections of floor glowing orange from beneath.
"Stone." Brian's voice, tight. "Floor's soft. We need to spread out."
"Single file. Edges."
Twelfth.
Inferno. Flames climbing the walls, licking the ceiling, dancing through spray from sprinklers that couldn't keep up. Even through my gear, the heat pressed against my skin.
"East side."
Past burning cubicles. Melting monitors. The ruins of what had been a newsroom.
And then, a door at the end of the hallway. Glass walls. An office.
Behind the glass, a figure huddled low.
"Sloane!"
