I’m disoriented for a beat, and I close my eyes.
Breathe, London.
I drag in a lungful.
Exhaling, I open my eyes. The city lights streak across the window as the engine roars through the street. The alarm wails overhead. Schmidt barks the rundown into our headsets.
How I wish it was not his week to be captain.
“Tennison, you’re with me on perimeter. Owens and Davies, take the hoses. Sandy, this big girl is all yours, since she only plays nice for you. Hammond, you’re on crowd control.”
“Copy,” we chant in unison. Hammond glares at Schmidt, like he knows something the rest of us don’t. Or maybe he’s pissed because the high-rise fire fell on Schmidt’s alternating week.
Maybe he’s one of those trophy-collecting first responders you hear about. Gathering war stories like goddamn shiny objects for his shelf.
Honestly, I wouldn’t put it past either of them.
When we arrive on scene, another engine, 37, is also there. Their ladder is already extended to the second level. Sandy turns the engine to face the sidewalk and we pile out, everyone rushing to their tasks like there’s no time to waste.
There isn’t.
I reach for the rebreathers and hand one to Schmidt. His fingers glide over mine as he studies my face. Engine 37 has people climbing out the second-floor window, making their way down the ladder. Police are cordoning off the sidewalk. Blue and red lights oscillate around the block, flooding the night’s darkness with flashing color.
A man walks up behind Schmidt as I rip my hand from his.
“Captain, coordination is over at 37.” The man glances my way with a concerned expression before Schmidt retracts his hand, now holding the mask, and follows who I assume is the chief.
I stand stunned for a heartbeat.What the hell in a Hawaii hurricane was that shit?
“Tennison! Hoses.” Hammond is running for the engine, Owens behind him.
I haul out the first hose, and Owens grabs it from me, hiking it down the street to the nearest hydrant. “Engine hose, now!” Hammond is by my side helping me haul it out as I unscrew the metal cap on 53 and start winding the end on.
It jams.
I wind it back, resetting the metal ring over the opening. I’ve cross threaded it, again, as Hammond rolls the hose out toward the burning five-story building.
The hose tugs.
I’m out of time.
And the thing is not attached.
“Fuck,” I seethe.
Taking a steadying breath, I lift the metal end and hold the air in. Like that will help me focus.
“Now, Tennison!”
My hands shake around the metal end, and a burning starts behind my eyes. “God, no fucking way.”
I bring the hose end down onto the engine opening and let it settle before flinging it clockwise. It takes. I spin it harder, faster, until it’s secure and hits the corresponding lever. The hose fills, knocking me sideways instantly—53’s pressure power is more solid than me right now.
I file in behind Hammond, my hand touching his shoulder, the universal sign to let a crewmember know you’re there. And take up some of the weight of the hose.
It’s heavy.
But not as heavy as the tangled unease from Schmidt and disappointment in myself. Engine 37 has the building clear and joins the fight to water down this blaze twenty minutes later. I doubt much inside the building will be able to be saved.
