Page 43 of Burn Protocol

“Fuck,” I mutter and look up at the boys. “Now I need to break in a whole new uniform.”

Their laughs are rough and short, enough to break the tension. The radio crackles again.

“Come in, south team,” the Chief urges now.

“South team here, roof of train collapsed. PAR 3, airtime…” I glance down quickly, “14.”

“Copy, south team. All units, emergency traffic: flashover and explosion confirmed, structural collapse risk. Maintain PAR. Evacuate tunnel immediately. Switch to defensive operations.”

I nod at the crew. The boys crouch back through the train. They move faster than I can, but I hold my tongue. Let them get out. To safety. I’m right behind them.

The pain in my hip flares up and I flinch. My hand automatically reaches for it right as there is another loud explosion behind me. I can barely keep myself standing, and the whole train shakes violently. When I look over my shoulder, I see the ceiling of the other wagon collapsing. The flames curl furiously around the debris. Fuck! This whole thing is going to cave in. We have to get to the platform. Now.

When I look in front of me again, I see that Díaz and Rivera are already moving back toward me.

“No! You two, out as soon as you can. That’s an order.”

For a moment it feels like they are going to protest. I gesture wildly with my hand for them to go, my own feet moving as fast as they can. The train shakes violently again, as more parts come down. One of the iron bars snaps free. It crashes down so close to my head that I can hear the whooshing sound through my helmet. Fuck, fuck, fuck! I grit my teeth and speed up.

“Move, now!”

My voice no longer holds a professional calm. It’s urgent, with a slice of panic. It’s enough to make Díaz gaze back over his shoulder. We are almost there, almost to the first open door that leads us back to the platform. Just one more wagon.

The train shakes violently as a loud crash vibrates through it. The sound echoes through the tunnels, bouncing back off the walls. I gasp as the lights crash down around us. We don’t speak, but we move as one. No more crouching. This time we are fully running for the exit. Three more steps, two, one… Rivera jumps out, followed closely by Díaz, but right as I set my foot on the platform, the train tilts backwards and the world moves.

Díaz’s strong arms wrap under my armpits and he yanks me out, right as the bottom of the wagon crashes onto the rails. We fall on the platform, panting heavily. My hip is screaming now, but I have never been so grateful to be in pain.

“Are you okay, boss?”

I blink and look up at him. For a moment I am not sure. Calm down, Gonzales. Do your body check. I close my eyes. I wiggle my toes, flex my calves, twist my torso… Ouch! My fingers and arms work and I don’t have any spinal pain. I should be alright.

“Yeah, thank you. What about you?” My voice refuses to comply, so my question comes out as if it has been dragged over gravel.

“Me too. You, Rivera?”

“Me too.”

Before any of us can say another word, one of the other extraction teams comes rushing in. Torres appears from the smoke, like our savior in need. His hand is already reaching out to help pull me to my feet.

“Gonzales, sleeping on the job now, are we?” he teases playfully.

“Fuck off, Torres,” I bite back, but grab his arm regardless.

“Chief wants you and your crew upstairs ASAP. And so does your girlfriend.”

I snap my head toward him, my eyes glaring even though he can’t see them behind my visor. My muscles tense and my jaw ticks.

“What did you just say?” I ask him, my voice a few octaves lower now.

Torres raises his hands and takes a step back. He chuckles, but the sound is thin and nervous.

“The journalist chick, she was worrying about you and your crew. Can’t really blame her.” He shrugs and then turns on his heels before I can tell him to stay the fuck out of my business.

Díaz and Rivera shuffle a bit uncomfortably as I glare back at them.

“You heard the man,” I snap. “We are commanded to get back up. Let’s move.”

But there is no strength behind my words. No fuel left for the fire. It sputters out on the last syllable, right as my crew starts moving. I limp after them, crouched low again. The pricking in my eyes is not from the smoke or the strain. Not from the claws ripping at my hip, or the exhaustion washing over me. It pricks because we walk away from the train without the last victims we were to collect. And even though Torres and his crew will extract the last few survivors from the back wagons, Marta will not be among them. I am walking toward a daughter who didn’t want to leave her mother behind, to tell her that it was the last time she saw her alive. That I couldn’t keep my promise. That I let her die.