She tossed the bottle back to Boyd. He’d just set it down on the blistered plastic seat of the forklift to dry when their radios crackled static that turned into Harry’s clipped, fire-hoarse voice.
“We got a structural fire on Jessmyn and Kendall,” he barked. “We’re up. Stow the hoses and get in the rig.”
Tom said something, but Boyd tuned him out. He fumbled with the radio for a second with clumsy fingers before he lost patience and stripped off the heavy gloves. He set them down next to the whiskey, ready to grab on his way out.
“Where on Kendall?” he asked harshly. “Harry?”
There was a pause, and then Harry admitted, “It’s Shay Calloway’s shop. Doesn’t change a thing we do, Maccabee. That’s our best every time. Now get in the rig. We got a job to do.”
Boyd’s mind fritzed out.
THE NEARBYshops had emptied out. People lined the street, clustered together in small groups as they watched black smoke billow out of the shop and flames flicker at the windows. Most of them murmured among themselves ortutted their tongues at how long the fire engine had taken to get there. One woman, head still bristled with foils, stood outside the hairdresser’s with her phone stuck up in the air as she recorded.
“Did you get in touch with Shay?” Harry asked as he hit the horn to get people out of the road so they could pull the fire engine up in front of the shop. People backed reluctantly out of the way as though they thought being close enough to melt their sneakers on the tarmac was a good day out.
“No.”
Boyd shoved his phone back into his jacket and zipped it up to his throat. Eight calls to add to the four earlier for an even dozen. Each time it had rung through to voicemail. The last two cut in automatically, without even an attempt, so the phone was dead.
The truck stopped up to the curb, and they spilled out. A second crew, tanker attached, pulled up behind them.
“You sure he’s in there?” Harry asked as he shrugged the tank onto his back. “He could be in someone’s bed or in a cell. He might not have come back here last night.”
Boyd shrugged as he buckled his helmet on. He knew. Shay could hold his drink, nurse a couple of beers all night, and be the life and soul of the party. But occasionally he drank to get mean, bottles of whiskey lined up ready so he could wipe out a whole week at a time. He never wanted company for that, and he didn’t stop drinking at last call either.
“He might have, though,” Boyd said. “I’ll take point—”
Harry grabbed Boyd by the shoulder strap and dragged him back. “You’ll do as you’re told. Charge the hose.”
When Boyd didn’t answer immediately, Harry gave him a shake. “I vouched for you to the disciplinary board,” he said. “Told them you were a good firefighter, kept a cool head in a crisis. Donotprove me wrong. Charge the hose.”
It felt wrong, but Boyd clenched his jaw and nodded. If he didn’t get Shay out, someone else would. He knew that. That should have made it easier.
“Danni! Tom!” Harry barked as he turned around. “Get to the roof. Vent on my call. Jessie, get the deluge gun hooked up. I want you to cool down the ground floor. We have cars and gas in there, and I do not want this fire to spread. Boyd, you’re with me. We breach the building once the vent is made.”
Relief washed through Boyd at the order. If he had to, he could have waited, done his job out here and put his trust in the others, but he was glad he didn’t have to. While Harry snapped orders to the second crew, he hooked up the hydrant, locked the hose in place, and the slack ribbon that was stretched across the tarmac fattened as the water flowed into it.
“Got it, sir,” he said as he loped back. Jesse tossed him the hooligan bar out of the rig and then hitched the hose up onto his hip. “Ready when you are.”
Harry grunted, ax dangled from one hand, and watched the roof for Danni and Tom. Water battered against the side of the building as Jessie and the other fire truck turned on the hoses. It turned to steam and hung in a damp cloud over the building. Boyd bounced on the balls of his feet and chased the still calm that usually turned up before he went in. This time it stayed just of reach, and Boyd grimaced to himself as he cracked his neck from one side to the other.
It was fine.
The crowd behind them was as on edge as he was. “I think I see her!” a woman yelled. There was a low mutter of worried excitement from the crowd as they strained to see.
A yellow helmet appeared over the edge of the roof, and then Danni pulled herself up. She walked, one foot in front of the other and her hand gripped around the axe near the head, and raised one fist in the air.
“We’ve got a hot spot at the rear of the building. No skylight, so we’ll vent a hole,” she said over the radio. “Eyeballing it, fire was set back there. We’re ready when you are.”
Harry nodded and pulled his SCBA into place. He waved his hand at Boyd.
“Get the door,” he ordered. “Jessie, surround and drown.”
Boyd still had the jitters. His brain was full of a dozen fractured timelines where he’d done something differently last night, this morning, ten minutes from now. That was fine. He just had to work harder to focus through the chaff.
He jogged across the forecourt to the dented steel doors and swung the hooligan bar in a short, hard arc. The flat wedge hit the door and lodged with a thunk of impact that jarred up into Boyd’s shoulders. Harry stepped up to the side, slid the handle of the axe through his hands, and hammered the hooligan in like a nail. Three strikes, and the wedge sank deep enough to deform the door around it.
Boyd threw his weight against the handle, arms braced. The door creaked, bent, and the lock finally gave way. He caught it as it flew open and felt the sting of hot metal against his hand. It startled him for a second, but then he remembered the soft thump of the reinforced gloves as he tossed them down at the last call.
