Down Deep_A Station Seventeen Engine Novel

by Kimberly Kincaid

  “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.”

  Gamble thought of how much worse the whole thing could’ve been—Christ, it was why he’d run back into the damned building in the first place—and nodded. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Isn’t she nice?” Dempsey said, his head lolling back against the pillow as his gaze tracked slowly from the doctor’s to Gamble’s. “Dr. Michaelson is really nice.”

  Gamble’s brows went up. “Morphine?”

  “Oh, yeah,” she agreed with a smile. “He’ll be fine. Off his feet for a while,” she added, giving Dempsey a look that read don’t get any crazy ideas. “But after some healing and PT, he should make a full recovery. You want to sit with him while we wait for ortho to take him up for a cast?”

  “You’re gonna let me?” Talk about an offer Gamble hadn’t quite expected.

  Dr. Michaelson laughed, further fueling his surprise. “I know the drill, Lieutenant. If I tell you no, you’re just going to do it anyway.”

  She did have a point. Still… “That obvious, huh?”

  “I was in the Army for three years,” Dr. Michaelson said, her smile sobering. “I get what a uniform does. Speaking of which, dispatch just got an update that that fire is under control, so the rest of the firefighters in your house are on their way here. I’ll be sure to send along an update that the two of you are fine anyway, though, so they don’t worry any longer than I’m sure they already have.”

  “Thanks.” Gamble’s thoughts of the flashover and the intensity of the fire itself tumbled as his adrenaline went into serious letdown, blurring everything together. “What about the people we pulled out of the building? There was a kid, burned pretty badly—”

  Dr. Michaelson shook her head to cut him off. “I don’t know details about anyone else, but I can tell you that if they were brought to this hospital, they’re getting the very best care possible. Now, why don’t you two just take it easy until your squad-mates get here? You’ve had a hell of a night.”

  “Thanks,” Gamble said. He waited for her to quietly close the door behind her before turning to look at Dempsey. The guy’s semi-focused, highly happy expression suggested he was well on his way to la-la land, but Gamble’s gut still torqued at the thought of how easily he could be mourning the guy instead of sitting here beside him.

  Five had gone out. One had come back.

  And that kid Gamble had pulled from the fire? He might never go home.

  “Maybe next time, you could skip the fucking theatrics, huh?” Gamble said, his voice rusty and gruff despite the levity he’d intended to stick to the words.

  Dempsey made a sound that probably meant to be a laugh, but with the pain meds pumping into the IV in his right arm, it came out more like a grunt. “You’re the dumbass who ran back into a burning building after Cap told everyone to get out,” he reminded Gamble. “He’s gonna be mad.”

  “Yeah.” Gamble shrugged, his suspenders shushing over the T-shirt he’d had to strip down to in order to be declared injury free in the ambo, then again once they’d arrived in the ED. “Well, you needed a boost. I didn’t want to leave you hanging, is all.”

  Dempsey pinned him with a bright green stare that was startlingly full of clarity, considering what his tox screen probably looked like. “Thanks for that. Not a lot of guys would risk getting their asses cooked in that situation. So, yeah.” Dempsey dropped his gaze to his hospital gown and the light blue blanket bunched up over his unhurt leg. “Just…thanks.”

  Time to get this conversation back on the rails and these emotions out of his gut, ASAP. “Yeah, well, next time you want time off, just ask for it,” Gamble said. “Now, close your eyes for a sec, would you? I’m going to go see if I can get an update on that kid before everyone from Seventeen gets here.”

  He saved the “and Bridges tears me a freshly minted asshole” part of the sentence all for himself, because there was no reason for Dempsey to worry about it, or—worse yet—feel bad that Gamble was almost certainly going to take a Jupiter-sized ration of shit for running back into that building when he’d clearly been told to fall out. Gamble had made that choice knowing the consequences. He’d take what he’d earned.

  It was worth every syllable.

  Dempsey nodded, his eyes drifting shut, and Gamble let out a breath of relief. Moving to the door, he swung it open to try and get his bearings and find the nurses’ station.

  But before he could get so much as one boot over the threshold, his arms were full of a very beautiful, very furious brunette.

  21

  Gamble stood, cemented to his spot, and tried like hell to process what had just happened. He knew the woman who had launched herself into his dance space was Kennedy—after the other night, there was no way he would ever forget every nuance of the way her body felt jammed up against his. But what had him thoroughly confused was why on earth she would come down to Remington Mem in the middle of the night, anaconda her arms around his neck, and hold on for dear, sweet life.

  “Oh my God, you scared me!” she said without letting go of him, so the words landed somewhere over his shoulder. “You scared the shit out of me! Are you hurt?”

  Not waiting for an answer—not that Gamble was prepared to get past all the holy-shit shock ripping through his veins to offer one—Kennedy ran her hands over him hastily, her green eyes wild as she followed every touch with a frenzied stare.

  Realization clicked in an instant, and his heart tackled his sternum.

  She’d been worried. For him. For his safety.

  Smart-mouthed, hard-edged Kennedy Matthews cared about him.

  “I’m fine,” Gamble said, his voice rough, as if it had come from way down deep inside of him. “Seriously, see?”

  He took a step back to show her. Or at least, he tried to, but she wasn’t having any full-bodied separation just yet.

  “I saw the fire on the news, and they said it was the most dangerous fire of the year, and there was a shot of you carrying someone out to Quinn, but then you ran back inside and the building blew up, and then it took me and Isabella for-freaking-ever to get past the front desk just now—God, those intake nurses are serious freaking pit vipers—she showed them her badge and everything, but they weren’t having it because you were being examined and they wouldn’t tell us if you were okay, and then—”

  “Kennedy. Hey. Kennedy.” With his heart pumping hard against his rib cage, Gamble pulled back to press a finger over her mouth, because with how shaken she looked and felt in his arms, it was the only thing that was going to grab her attention right now.

  Funny, she let him. “I’m all good,” he said. “Not even a scratch.” Okay, fine, so he’d collected a battery of bumps and bruises and probably a scrape or two when the building had flashed over and half the ceiling had become either dust or debris, but no fucking way was he going to split those hairs right now. “Really. I swear, I’m fine.”

  He let his index finger rest on her mouth for just a second longer while the words, and the reality that went with them, sank all the way in.

  “But you were inside the building.” Kennedy’s black brows gathered together over the bridge of her nose. “I saw you. I saw you go back in just before…”

  Gamble didn’t let her finish. Also, he didn’t lie to her. “I was inside. Dempsey fell and broke his leg, and he needed help getting out, so, yeah. I ran back into the building.” Goddamned TV cameras. They were going to have to figure out how they’d slipped past the safety perimeter Gamble was certain Bridges had set up around the scene. “But we were in the stairwell when the fire flashed over, so we weren’t hurt in the blast.”

  “Oh.” Kennedy swung a look past him, her gaze landing on a now-snoring Dempsey in the room over his shoulder. “But you could’ve been. If you’d been in a different part of the building—”

  “I wasn’t,” he promised. God, he knew all too well how fucked up those what-ifs
were once they got into your gray matter. He didn’t want to do that to her.

  A thought winged into his brain, and he rushed to add, “Kellan wasn’t in that building, either.”

  If Isabella had come to the hospital with Kennedy, that meant they both knew about the flashover. Which also probably meant that wherever Isabella was right now, she was out of her skull with worry.

  Kennedy shook her head, quickly dispelling Gamble’s concern. “I know. She’s talking to him out by the nurses’ station. He texted her from the engine to tell her he’s fine, in case she saw the fire on the news, but at that point, we were already on our way here. Kellan said the fire is contained, and a battalion chief came in to oversee the rest of the call so Captain Bridges could head over here to check on you and Dempsey.”

  She’d no sooner gotten the words past her lips than a heavy set of footfalls sounded off from down the hallway. Captain Bridges rounded the corner, and Kennedy’s muscles tensed against Gamble’s chest, her weight shifting to the balls of her feet as if she was preparing to put a whole lot of space between them.

  But rather than loosening his grasp to let her, Gamble held her even tighter to his side. “Captain Bridges,” he said, capturing the man’s attention from a dozen paces away.

  “Lieutenant.” Bridges’s normally neat brown hair was sticking up in about twenty directions, as if he’d been pulling at it from every angle. “Good to see you upright.”

  Gamble’s pulse kicked, nice and fucking hard. “Yes, sir. I’m fine. The trauma doc gave me the all-clear.”

  Relief traveled over Bridges’s face, but it didn’t last. “And Dempsey? Dispatch just put through an update about his leg definitely being broken?”

  Ah, Dr. Michaelson had been a woman of her word. “He’s going to be fine. His leg is broken, so he’ll be out of commission for a while, but once he heals up, he’ll be as good as new. He’s crashed out on pain meds in the trauma room.”

  “I’ll let him rest for now, then.” Bridges looked at Kennedy, then the grip Gamble had around her waist. “I take it you’re all set on getting home safely from here, then.”

  Confusion prickled a path up Gamble’s spine. “Once I finish my shift at oh-seven-hundred, sure.”

  His reports on this fire would probably take him that long, alone. Add to it the conversation he needed to have with the arson unit, the investigation they had to get on top of now that the fire was on its way to being out, the follow-up with the witnesses to figure out what the hell had happened in that building…Christ, he probably wouldn’t see the inside of his apartment for days. Not that it bothered him nearly as much as the oh-no-you-don’t look covering Bridges’s face right now.

  “You’re not going back to the house, or anywhere other than your house,” Bridges said slowly, but Gamble’s reply followed the claim, hot and quick.

  “What? Why not?” Dr. Sheridan had cleared him, for fuck’s sake.

  A fact that Bridges seemed to give not one shit about. “Several reasons, not the least of which is the stunt you pulled going back into that warehouse after being told to stand down.”

  Again, Kennedy stiffened against him, and again, Gamble held her close. “I know I broke protocol to go back and get Dempsey, but—”

  “I don’t think you want to go there with me right now,” Bridges said, his tone implying that if Gamble did, the captain had no problem taking his pound of flesh in front of Kennedy. “At any rate, with Dempsey’s injury and the nature of the call we just spent the last few hours on, dispatch has taken Seventeen off rotation until B-shift reports in at oh-seven-hundred. So you don’t need to worry about the rest of your shift.”

  Gamble’s heart lurched. “Okay, but arson investigation needs to get out to the scene of that fire as soon as possible so we can open an investigation, and we need to interview witnesses. With how fast that fire was traveling—”

  Bridges went for round two in cutting him off, looking none too happy about having to repeat the gesture. “Delacourt knows how to do her job, Gamble, and the RPD knows how to do theirs.” Bridges’s expression reminded him in no uncertain terms that the captain was in the loop on the recent arson case at The Crooked Angel, and that he’d made the same logic leap that Gamble had.

  If Rusty was diabolical enough to try to blow up a fire house and concoct a plan to burn down a bunch of buildings in the middle of the city, he was crazy enough to test his methods on something bigger than a dumpster.

  “Detective Moreno already called Sinclair in on this,” Bridges said quietly, waiting for a scrubs-clad nurse to pass by with an armload of electronic charts before finishing. “They’re interviewing as many witnesses as they’re able to right now, and both Delacourt and the fire marshal have been told to make this investigation their number-one priority. I know you’ve been tasked to assist the arson investigation team on another matter”—his expression warned Gamble not to argue in spite of that fact—“but we can’t just jump in with both arms swinging and assume these cases are related. We have to let the RFD and arson do their jobs so we have solid leads to pursue. And until then, you are just going to have to wait. At home.”

  Gamble’s mind stuttered and spun, but damn it, as much as he hated it, he knew Bridges was right.

  And oh, he really fucking hated it.

  He exhaled hard. “How’s the kid I pulled from the second floor?”

  “I don’t know,” Bridges said, but he’d paused too long for the answer to be the straight-up truth.

  “Quinn and Luke brought him in, right? How was he when they got here?”

  “Not good.” At Gamble’s unflinching stare, Bridges admitted, “He coded while they were en route. Luke was able to resuscitate him, and he was alive when they got here, but…”

  Gamble’s stomach dropped toward his knees, and fuck, he needed to shove these feelings way down deep where they belonged, before they rushed up to ruin him. “Right,” he managed. “Not good. Are there any other serious injuries?”

  “Three. Two burn victims, one smoke inhalation. Last I heard, they were all in critical condition.”

  “Are they…” Gamble’s voice stuck to his throat, but he forced the words out. “Are they all teenagers?”

  Bridges nodded, and Kennedy let out a soft gasp. “It looks that way.”

  Gamble’s control slipped further, and damn it, he needed a lifeline. Something to focus on so his emotions wouldn’t get the best of him. “I can help Delacourt with the investigation. Check out the scene, look for signs of arson. Cap, you know I’m good for it.”

  “What I know is that you recklessly ran into a burning building, against orders, even though you knew goddamn well that fire was going to flashover. So, no.” A muscle hardened in Bridges’s jawline. “Right now, you aren’t good for anything other than taking a breather until you get your head on straight and I can count on you not to shoot first and ask questions later.”

  He shifted back on the linoleum, although he didn’t lose the seriousness in his stare. Putting his hand into his pocket, he pulled out the keys and cell phone Gamble had left in Engine Seventeen’s front storage compartment out of sheer habit and handed them over.

  “Go home, Gamble. Get some rest. I know where to find you, and so do Delacourt and Sinclair. As soon as there’s something to tell, you’ll be the first to know. But until then…”

  Bridges sent a pointed stare at the door. Gamble wanted to argue. Hell, he wanted to pivot on his boot heels and march his ass in a direct line back to that scene and comb it for clues until he dropped. But his pulse was thumping like the blades of a UH-60 Black Hawk, his lungs cranking down as if someone had suddenly trapped them in a vise, and he knew from experience that no amount of work—no amount of anything—would keep him from going mission critical if he lost control and these emotions took over.

  So Gamble did the only thing he could.

  He crammed his emotions all the way down and walked toward the door.

  As far as Kennedy saw it, she had tw
o choices. She could either hustle to keep up with Gamble as he bolted for the door, or she could let go of him while he outpaced her.

  On second thought, with the rattling thump-thump-thump of his heart against the side of her body and the spring-loaded tension coiling through every last one of his muscles as he moved, she had no choice.

  She wasn’t letting go of him for fucking anything.

  Which made it sting all the more when he let go of her.

  “Whoa, wait!” she said, scrambling to fall back in beside him, then scrambling faster to keep up with his ridiculously brisk strides. “Seriously. Gamble, hang on for a second.”

  Annnnnd, no joy. He kept moving as if this building was also on fire and his number-one priority was to get the hell out, away from everything and everyone inside. “I’m fine, Kennedy. I just want to be alone.”

  The words sailed into her solar plexus, and—damn it! Her untrustworthy legs hitched, making her falter. “Okay, tonight has been crazy and you need some space to decompress, I get it, but—”

  “Believe me. You don’t get it.”

  Salt, meet wound. Still, despite her aching, hammering heart, Kennedy didn’t stand down. Gamble might not have been hurt in that fire, but the emotions churning in his nearly black stare told her he also wasn’t okay, and she cared about him. Even if he was acting like a horse’s ass right now.

  “Okay, so explain it to me,” she said. “I’m just trying to help you.”

  “No.” Gamble headed toward the hospital’s side exit without looking at her or breaking stride. The automatic doors whispered open, ushering them both out into the still, quiet darkness that marked the dead of night, and okay, Kennedy had officially had enough of this shit.

  She jumped in front of Gamble, so he had no choice but to either stop short or mow her over. Thankfully, he was good on his feet.

  He clapped to a halt, just shy of chest-on-chest contact. “I need you to move,” he said, his voice low and carefully metered, his lips pressed into a flat, thin line as he loomed over her on the sidewalk.