Page 125 of No Good Fight

The engine lurches onto the road.

I meet his eyes, and whatever he sees there makes his jaw tighten.

“Do your job,” he repeats.

I nod once because that is the only answer I have.

Josh sits across from me, already masked by fear he doesn’t know how to hide. His knee bounces once before he pins it still with his hand. There is soot on the cuff of his coat from a call earlier. He keeps staring at my phone in Bell’s hand, like if he looks hard enough, he can drag his sister through it.

Bell puts the phone near his radio. Alex’s call is still connected. The personal alarm wails. Her breathing fades in and out beneath it.

“Alexandra,” Josh says, and the use of her full name tears through me worse than yelling would have.

No answer.

The engine takes the corner hard onto Mason. Smoke is already visible above the roofline when we hit the block. Not rolling from the whole building yet. Concentrated low and ugly from the first-floor hall and one unit near the front.

Mrs. Vance’s curtains hang crooked in the window. The living room window is open a few inches.

The alarm is louder outside.

She did that. Alex got it near the window.

“That’s my girl.” I whisper to no one.

The engine stops and I’m out with the rest of them, boots hitting wet pavement, helmet down, gloves on. Rain spots the visor. Neighbors crowd the far sidewalk, held back by a cop I barely register. Someone is crying. Someone else is pointing toward the first-floor windows.

I see Alex’s car at the curb.

Then nothing matters but the window where I know she’s at.

Bell catches the back of my coat before I break formation. “Cook.”

“I’ve got the window.”

He nods, his helmet bobbing. “You go with Casey. Mask on. Two victims. Just like any other call. Quick grab.”

The order saves me from myself because there’s no way in hell I’m not getting her.

I mask up, grab the tool, and cross the slick grass with Casey at my shoulder. Josh moves with the hose team toward the hall entrance, but his eyes stay on the window until smoke takes him from view.

The window frame is swollen, half-jammed, the latch bent where someone hit it from inside. The glass cracks under the Halligan and gives with a sharp burst. I clear the frame with one sweep, rain and smoke mixing in my face while Casey calls for the stretcher.

Inside, the apartment is black-gray and orange at the edges. Heat presses hard from the hall side, but the living room is still reachable. Barely. The personal alarm screams from the floor.

I go in low.

The floor is hot through my gloves. Smoke chews at the room in layers. TV flickering on mute. Tea cup tipped near the recliner. Bear spray on the couch. A heavy flashlight near the window, streaked with paint and metal dust.

Then I see Mrs. Vance.

She’s on the floor near the couch, curled toward the window with Alex’s sweatshirt sleeve pressed across her mouth. Alex is beside her, one arm thrown across Mrs. Vance’s waist, fingers locked in the older woman’s housecoat like she refused to let go even after she went unconscious.

And the roof is hanging on by a thread, chunks of material already scattered around and across them.

Alex’s eyes are closed.

Her face is gray under soot.