Skin Deep (Station Seventeen #1)(67)
Kellan reached out to slide open the small window at his side. Breathing in, he took in every detail of the surroundings flying by him, from the bright blue sky to the crisp morning air that said autumn had truly arrived. The tightly knit buildings on both sides of the city streets made getting a clear visual on the fire’s smoke-line tough, but the sharp, charred-ash scent beginning to filter in through the window made the back of Kellan’s neck prickle.
Here we go.
17
“Looks like we’re first on-scene,” Gamble said, pointing through the engine’s windshield at the empty street in front of them, and Kellan didn’t waste any time taking in the details. Small, squat houses lined either side of the narrow strip of pavement, each one in various states of dinginess or disrepair. A thick haze of gray smoke blanketed the block, chugging steadily from a two-story cottage midway up the street, and whoa, fighting this fire was going to be a goddamn chore. Not that he and everyone else from Seventeen wouldn’t rise to the challenge of kicking this thing’s ass, but they were going to sweat for every penny of today’s paycheck.
Kellan shouldered into the harness of his SCBA tank, his heavy-soled boots thudding to the asphalt the second Shae pulled the engine to a stop in front of the house. Bright orange flames illuminated each of the four main-level windows in angry, persistent streaks, their color a direct contrast to the dark smoke funneling up toward the roofline. The second floor looked pretty intact, but with how fast this fire seemed to be moving, he was shit-sure that wouldn’t last.
The radio on his shoulder crackled to life. “Alright, people,” came Captain Bridges’ voice over the line from the spot where he stood twenty paces away in full gear. “Dispatch has a report of a methamphetamine lab on the premises, so mask up and proceed with care. Hawk, Gates, get a vent on that roof. Dempsey, you and Faurier take Walker and McCullough for search and rescue. Gamble, you’re on the nozzle with Slater once the house is clear. Go to work.”
“Copy that,” Kellan said, his pulse flaring faster and his feet already in go-mode toward the storage compartment in the engine that held his Halligan bar. Taking one last mental snapshot of the scene, he fell into step with Shae, following Dempsey and Faurier over the scraggly excuse for a lawn. The front door easily succumbed to Dempsey’s well-placed kick, and a blast of heat and smoke rushed out to greet them like the world’s rudest hostess.
“Masks,” Faurier barked, each of them tugging their equipment into place over their faces. “McCullough, you and Walker take floor two. Dempsey and I will shake and bake down here. Let’s make it quick.”
“Copy,” Shae hollered past the hiss of her regulator. Following Faurier and Dempsey into the hazy space of the foyer, she and Kellan cut a quick path toward the set of stairs to their left. He counted his paces, making a fast mental note of how far the exit was in case visibility got any worse. Sweat formed a hot band of moisture over his forehead, and he did his best to blink it back, taking slow, even breaths to make the most of the oxygen from his SCBA. The house seemed less fire-ravaged the farther they ascended, but only just. Whatever had sparked this blaze had dug in hard and deep.
After a few more steps, he and Shae reached the top of the staircase, a dark, narrow hallway splitting off to either the right or the left. “I’ll take Bravo, you take Delta, we’ll meet back here in the middle. Good?” she asked, turning toward the left side of the hall.
“Copy that.” Kellan’s knuckles tightened over his Halligan bar even though his Teflon-reinforced gloves padded much of the contact. Six paces over the floorboards brought him to a door on his left, and he shoved his way over the threshold without pretense.
“Fire department! Call out!”
The only answer was the crackling whoosh of flames trailing up the far wall. Kellan moved farther into the space, and wait—he spun on his boot heels—the room was completely empty. No furniture, no curtains on the single window allowing a few feeble shafts of sunlight past the soot and smoke.
No nothing.
A prickle of unease slid over the back of his neck, but he shoved the feeling aside. This house was on fire, and not a little bit. He didn’t have time for weird coincidences.
Another ten seconds turned up a just-as-empty closet, and Kellan strode back toward the hallway, jamming the door behind him shut so the flames had less of a chance to spread. The radio chatter at his shoulder told him Hawk and Gates were more than halfway to getting the roof vented, and once they did, chances were high Bridges would want to hit this place with enough water to fill an Olympic-sized swimming pool.
“Fire department. Is anybody in here?” Kellan tried again, shouldering his way past the only other doorway at his end of the hall. The room on the other side was way smaller and way more darkly shadowed than the bedroom he had just checked, and despite the limited visibility, he instantly recognized the space in front of him as a bathroom.
He caught sight of the woman curled up in the bathtub a half-second later.
“Whoa!” He dropped to his knees, his Halligan bar jangling to the tile and his pulse sending a steady stream of adrenaline to every last cell in his body. “Ma’am? Can you hear me?” Kellan put a firm shake on the woman’s shoulder, but her head simply lolled, sending her dark hair over her face. Dammit.
Sucking in a breath, he slapped one gloved hand over his radio. “Walker to Command.”