Or my team.
I run through the process and triple-check Owens and Davies before coming to London last.
Big brown eyes look up at me through the mask.
I close in on her space, turning her tank off.
As her eyes widen and her gloved hand closes around my wrist, I flick the knob over, releasing oxygen to her mask.
She says something, but the words are muffled. Owens hands her an extinguisher and she takes it without breaking eye contact with me.
“Ready, Cap,” Davies says, falling in beside me.
I drag my gaze from London and give him a nod.
I doubt it, bud.
But here we go . . .
I lead the crew toward the front door, my gut in more knots than I ever thought possible. Owens has the rear, our probies in between us.
The front door doesn’t budge. I slam the butt of the extinguisher into it.
Nothing.
Gripping my axe, I smash my way in. The damn thing was locked at the top of the door. Keeping something in. Now it hangs on its blackened hinges. I step over the threshold, and ash and debris crunch under my boots.
“Fucking hell,” I utter.
The house is littered with mess. Like some meth-cooking hoarder lived here. No damn wonder the place ignited.
Piles of junk and miscellaneous items line the narrow hallway. I hold up a fist as one sways. Boots halt behind me.
Ash floats around us, and the heat from the fire and the explosion is still very much palpable. Steadying the leaning tower of shit with a hand, I release it cautiously before opening my palm and waving it forward.
“Break left,” I snap out on the crew channel as we reach the end of the hallway.
Owens and Davies break off, and London and I take the right.
Into the living room and dining area.
What’s left of it.
Charred beams have fallen in and destroyed the kitchen table. The countertops have melted and blackened.
The windows, all blown out, are still adorned with the remnants of curtains that now swing in the breeze, ragged patches falling away with every flick.
I move toward the living area and stop dead in my tracks when my gaze reaches the sofa.
I feel London walk up behind me and snap a hand back, holding her behind me.
“Don’t.”
She disregards the order, coming to my side, my grip still around her wrist.
“Oh no.” Her eyes stay stuck on the two small bodies on the sofa. The blanket they have wrapped around them—for protection, I’m guessing—is singed. Melted in places.
Fuck.
