He had to get this kid out of here in one piece. Alive. Breathing.
He powered his way past the front door, and for a split second, his senses overloaded in a jumble of sounds and lights and breathable air. But then Quinn was there with a gurney, Faurier helping to roll the kid safely from Gamble’s back to the white fitted sheet covering the padded vinyl mattress, and he flung back his helmet and mask.
“Positive loss of consciousness. Breathing. Crush injuries with severe burns on his lower extremities.” Gamble didn’t so much speak as vomit out the words, but Quinn nodded.
“Got it.” She turned to hustle the gurney away from the scene, presumably closer to the safety of the ambo. Even though it was August and not at all chilly, the nighttime air felt like an arctic blast on Gamble’s face. He recalibrated, tweaking first to the shift in temperature, then the unrelentingly bright lights coming from the pair of media vans parked at odd angles nearby. He opened his mouth to say something—what numbnuts had let reporters this close to an active fire scene, he had no clue—but the sound of Hawkins’s voice sounding off over the radio KO’d the words before they could form.
“Hawkins to command. Search on floor four is complete. This fire’s haulin’ ass. We’ve got a coupl’a minutes, tops, before it flashes over.”
Shit. “Shit,” McCullough echoed, and only then did Gamble fully register that she’d been standing next to him.
Bridges’s voice cut through the static on the line. “I want you all out of there, right now. Hawkins, Dempsey, Gates, fall out immediately.”
Hawkins burst through the primary exit a handful of heartbeats later, with Gates following fast on his heels. Flames engulfed more than half the building’s windows now, actively rolling up toward the roof, and the back of Gamble’s neck prickled in both warning and dread.
“Where’s Dempsey?”
“He was on my six in the stairwell,” Gates said, his chin whipping back toward the exit.
It was empty.
“Dempsey, report,” Bridges said over the line, waiting only a second or two before barking, “Dempsey, report.”
Gamble’s chest compressed, his pulse tripping in his ears. No, no. Oh hell, no. He wasn’t leaving anyone behind. Not ever again.
They’d all gone in together. He’d be goddamned if they wouldn’t all come out that way.
Alive.
His legs began to move before he even knew they would, driven by raw instinct. Vaguely, he was aware of Captain Bridges’s voice, swearing up a blue streak over the radio, just as he was aware of the epic ass-chewing he was going to receive for breaking both protocol and the chain of command.
Funny, it didn’t slow him down a bit. Gamble rushed toward the front door, yanking his mask and helmet back into place as he barged through the front door. The fire had spread like, well, wildfire, and God damn, he’d never seen a blaze travel with such speed or intensity. It was almost strategic.
Gamble’s radio crackled to life. “Dempsey to command,” came the firefighter’s voice, heavy with pain. “I fell on my way out. Pretty sure my leg is broken.”
“Dempsey, this is Gamble,” he replied, unable to keep his relief from spilling into his exhale at the sound of the guy’s voice. “I’m on floor one. What’s your location so I can get you out of here?”
“In the stairwell between floors one and two,” came the reply. But Gamble was already in motion, his boots thundering toward the stairs, and seconds later, he had eyes on his fellow firefighter. Sure enough, Dempsey was sprawled over the landing, his left leg bent at an unnatural angle that looked like his self-diagnosis had been spot fucking on.
“Hey.” Gratitude flashed past the pain in Dempsey’s stare, and Gamble acknowledged it with a lift of his chin.
“This fire’s bad. We’ve gotta go.” The unspoken I have to pick you up and it’s going to hurt bad enough to shrivel your balls must’ve carried in his tone, because Dempsey tensed with a nod.
“Do what you’ve got to do,” he said, grabbing Gamble’s coat sleeve at the last second to add, “Hey. Thanks for coming back.”
Gamble’s throat tightened, and he shook his head. “We don’t leave our people behind, D. Now, come on. Let’s get out of here, yeah?”
But before either of them could move, an explosion slammed through the building, knocking Gamble sideways and roaring against his eardrums as it shook everything right down to the bricks.
20
After ninety minutes of alternately staring at her ceiling and her cell phone, Kennedy gave up and got out of bed. Yeah, she was overdue to crash, and no, not a little bit, but her long, often odd hours at The Crooked Angel had made it so she and quality sleep hadn’t been besties for quite some time. Add the stress over her brother and the stress relief she’d found with Gamble to the deep-thoughts mix?
Yeah. There was a zero percent chance she was catching any zzzs tonight, because her brain was on total freaking overload.
Tapping her phone to life, Kennedy read, then re-read the string of texts between her and Gamble as she padded down the hall toward her kitchen. She’d been inelegant, she knew, just hurling the fact that she’d been thinking about him right out there like that. But he’d asked what had been on her mind, and what’s more, she hadn’t wanted to lie or even change the subject to avoid the question.
She couldn’t stop thinking about him. Or how good he’d made her feel.
And she’d wanted him to know it.
“Girl. You’re losing your shit,” Kennedy muttered to herself, placing her phone on the counter next to the sink before pulling a mug from the cupboard over the coffeepot. Since caffeine wouldn’t help her current state of sleeplessness and she did hope to get at least a few hours of shuteye before the sun did its thing with the horizon, she skipped over the java on the counter, turning instead to grab the milk from the fridge and a packet of hot chocolate from her stash in the pantry. It didn’t matter that it was August, nor did her meager attire of jersey shorts and a tank top factor into things. Hot chocolate wasn’t about literal warmth. It was about comfort. Kennedy had made cup after cup of the stuff for Xander over the years, mixing it with water when they couldn’t afford milk, pilfering packets from car repair shops and the middle school teachers’ lounge when she got really desperate.
Her stomach panged, and she dropped her gaze to the mug in front of her. She hadn’t heard from Xander today, but that, she supposed, was a good thing. The surveillance Capelli had put into place made state-of-the-art look like the stuff of fifth grade science fairs, and the intelligence detectives had no less than three sets of protocol in place in case of unexpected trouble. Anyway, Xander wasn’t supposed to meet up with Rusty again until tomorrow night. She’d thought about calling to check in with her brother regardless, but with the exception of letting her feed him last night, he’d been dodging her like a land mine ever since he’d chosen working with the RPD over going into protective custody. At some point, they’d have to have a Come to Jesus talk about the rift that had grown between them, but since the topic paled in comparison to the whole serial-arsonist-slash-part-time-bomb-maker-on-the-loose thing, it would have to wait.
Kennedy pulled out a saucepan, going full-on old school to warm up her milk. She filled the mug first with the hot chocolate mix, then with the warm milk, her spoon clinking softly as she stirred. The smell of creamy cocoa and pure sugar made her taste buds spring to life, and she ditched the spoon in favor of a big handful of mini-marshmallows.
“That’s more like it,” she said, padding out of the kitchen and over to her couch in the living space beyond. Her place wasn’t huge, nor was it the stuff of Pinterest boards (news flash: for as organized as she was at work, she’d never be in danger of anyone calling her a neat freak at home) but it was open and airy and decked out with modern amenities. When the landlord had first shown Kennedy the stainless steel appliances and granite countertops and gleaming hardwood floors, her first instinct had been to laugh. When he’d gotten to the master
bathroom, with the shower big enough for two and the separate soaking tub beside it, and the bedroom that boasted a small but private third-story balcony with a view of downtown Remington, her instinct had been to cackle in disbelief.
Only when she’d signed the lease, filled that tub to the brim with hot water that had shown no signs of running out, and sunk in up to her chin, had she allowed herself to cry with happiness.
Placing her mug on the coffee table, Kennedy grabbed the throw blanket from the back of the couch and got good and comfy. Yes, she and her brother were going to need to talk, and more yes, she had feelings for Gamble that were starting to slide out of the nothing-to-see-here category. But she couldn’t change either of those things tonight. She might as well channel surf her way to dreamland so she could figure out how to proceed with a level head in the morning.
Kennedy clicked the TV to life and hit the button for the electronic guide. The local news played in the background, sports scores and heat waves and, ugh, a spate of tire slashings three streets up from The Crooked Angel. She sipped her hot chocolate, focusing on the late-night/early-morning choices on the screen, when the thumbnail image from the newscast made her lower her half-empty mug to her lap in a rush.
“Oh, God.”
Heart wedged in her windpipe, Kennedy reached out to trade her mug for the remote, her hand sticky—damn it, she’d spilled her hot chocolate on the hem of her tank top—as she turned up the volume.
“…more to add to this breaking story as Remington firefighters battle a huge blaze in the two hundred block of Camden Avenue, which you can see here behind me. The cause of the fire is unclear, but paramedics are treating people who appear to have been trapped inside.”
The camera panned over to a blue and white ambulance with brightly flashing lights going full tilt, and Kennedy’s gut knotted further at the sight of Quinn and Luke working in brisk, urgent movements. She clicked on the thumbnail to make the image full-screen, her pulse knocking faster as the camera focused on a firefighter running out of the building with someone on his back. Quinn rushed up with a gurney, and even though the firefighter’s face wasn’t visible past all of his protective gear, Kennedy would know that hulking frame anywhere.
Gamble.
The firefighter lifted his mask, and, sure enough, Ian’s face flashed over the screen, turning frighteningly serious a few seconds later as he slung his mask back into place and retraced his strides toward the burning building to disappear inside.
The reporter continued, “A third fire house has just arrived on the scene, officially making this Remington’s biggest, and presumably most dangerous, fire of the year. No word yet on any injuries, but, as you just saw in our exclusive report, firefighters have assisted several more victims out of the building, and we—”
A huge explosion rocked the building behind the reporter, tearing a cry from Kennedy’s throat and making her drop the remote to the floor as she sprang toward the TV screen. The camera angle dropped sharply, showing a stilted view of glass shattering and flames bursting out from the windows on the upper floors before the image—no, no, no!—cut back to a shell-shocked news anchor in the studio.
“Well, we seem to have lost touch with Mike from the scene of that fire, but we’ll continue to keep you updated with the very latest as…”
Kennedy’s legs got the message to move on a three-second delay, her bare feet kicking into a sloppy run toward her kitchen. She scrabbled for her cell phone, tapping in her passcode with shaking fingers and pulling up the only number she could think of right now.
“Kennedy? What’s the matter?” came Isabella’s sleepy voice, and Kennedy plowed right in.
“Isabella! Isabella, turn on the news. There’s a fire, some kind of building fire, and it’s huge, and—”
“Okay, slow down,” Isabella said, the sound of fabric rustling in the background. “A fire? Our surveillance has been completely quiet. Wait, is Xander in trouble?”
“No, it’s not that.” It couldn’t be, right? Intelligence would’ve picked up anything tetchy on the surveillance monitors. “There’s a fire in a big building, near North Point, I think, and Seventeen is there. I saw it on TV.” Kennedy’s stomach pitched, but she forced a breath into her lungs. “The building exploded, Isabella. It exploded, and I think Gamble was inside, and—”
“Where?” Gone was the soothing tone in her friend’s voice, replaced by something calm and serious and made of titanium. “Did the news say exactly where?”
“I don’t”—her mind raced, her thoughts tripping together, until, ah!—“Camden Avenue!”
“Okay, hang on.”
Kennedy waited as Isabella’s voice sounded off in the background, presumably on a landline and hopefully getting an update of some kind. Unable to sit still completely, Kennedy paced into her room, pulling off her shorts and shoving her legs into a pair of jeans, then her feet into her boots.
She couldn’t just sit here. Not when Gamble could have been inside of that building. Not when he could be trapped or hurt or…
Yeah. She really couldn’t just sit here.
“Kennedy?” Isabella asked after an unbearable couple of minutes, although she didn’t wait for an answer—not that Kennedy wanted her to. “Dispatch is confirming reports that there was an explosion of some kind at the scene of that fire, but there’s no word yet on what might have caused it. I called Sinclair, and given the nature of the case we’ve been putting together and Rusty’s plans to torch those buildings downtown, he’s reaching out to arson investigation and the bomb squad, just as a precaution. Hollister checked in with Xander, and he’s fine. Surveillance monitors show him at home, safe and sound.”
Kennedy loosened an exhale that had the world’s shortest life span as Isabella added, “EMS does have reports of multiple injured parties from the scene that are all en route to Remington Mem. Two of them are firefighters, but I don’t know who.”
Kennedy’s blood turned to ice. “How bad?”
“I don’t know that, either,” Isabella said, the hitch in her tone becoming a promise with her next breath. “But we’re going to find out. How quickly can you get to the hospital?”
Grabbing her keys and a hoodie from the hook by her front door, Kennedy’s fear crystallized into purpose.
Go. Get there. Find him.
“I’m leaving right now. I’ll meet you there in twenty minutes.”
Kennedy slid her phone into her back pocket before continuing on a whisper, “Please, God, don’t let me be too late.”
Gamble’s head felt like someone had used it to play a round of speed golf…with a rusty Halligan instead of a nine iron. But since admitting that out loud wouldn’t win him any prizes—well, none that he wanted, anyway—from the doctors who had fast-tracked him into a private curtain area the second he and Dempsey had arrived in Forty-Two’s ambo, he kept his thoughts to himself.
“Well, Lieutenant, I’ve got to be honest with you. I’ve never seen anyone with luck like yours.”
The trauma doc, a young guy who looked more like an Armani model than an M.D., took one last look at the notes from the workup Gamble had tried to decline but had still totally received from the paramedic during transport.
“Does that mean I’m good to go?” Gamble asked, and the guy—Dr. Jonah Sheridan, according to his fancy white coat—laughed.
“I’ll try not to take that personally. But since you appear uninjured, you passed your rapid trauma assessment with flying colors, and you didn’t hit your head or lose consciousness at any point during the blast, I don’t see any reason not to clear you.”
“What about the guy I was brought in with? Ryan Dempsey.”
Sheridan paused, his unnaturally blue eyes growing less readable. “Officially, I can’t give out any information on another patient. Unofficially?” He stepped closer to the gurney Gamble had just swung his legs over the side of and dropped his voice a register. “His tibia looks like the day after Mardi Gras, but other than that, he’ll be f
ine. He’s in trauma two. Which I’m coincidentally about to walk right past, in case you were to, oh, maybe follow me and just happen to see him on your way out.”
“Coincidentally,” Gamble added. One corner of his mouth lifted, just a degree, as Sheridan nodded and broke into the sort of up-to-no-good smile that made Gamble think the guy would fit in just fine if he ever decided to trade in his white coat for a pair of bunker pants. Placing his boots on the linoleum, Gamble followed the doc out of the curtain area, and hey, what do you know, a couple dozen steps later, they walked riiiiiiight past a trauma room with a wide-open door and a gurney containing his fellow firefighter.
“Hey,” Gamble said, relief spilling through him at the sight of Dempsey awake and upright. The guy’s gear had been removed—with trauma shears, Gamble realized with a wince—and he’d been gowned up, his injured leg splinted nine ways to Sunday. But he looked otherwise okay, as promised. In fact, he looked a little too okay.
“Heyyyy!” Dempsey said, a goofy, lopsided grin emerging on his soot-smudged face as he turned to look at the doctor quietly clacking away on the electronic chart in her hand. “Hey, it’s my buddy. That’s Gamble. He’s a lieutenant.”
Dempsey extended the word to looooooootenant, and the doctor smiled. “Tess Michaelson.” She extended her hand, revealing the slightest baby bump beneath her dark green scrubs. “I take it Mr. Dempsey here is one of yours?”
“We were brought in together,” Gamble said, canceling out the sudden alarm on her face by tacking on, “Dr. Sheridan just cleared me.”
“Ah. Well, I’m sure he also told you that the two of you are extremely lucky. Mr. Dempsey’s broken tibia notwithstanding, of course.”
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