by Julie Miller
Murphy shouted after them, “Don’t call him Big John. He hates that.”
“Do you think I should get lifts in my shoes?” asked Joe.
Dean shook his head. “You’re tall enough.”
“Maybe we should be working out more.”
The two lovelorn rookies looked at Meghan for answers. She had none. But she was learning how this Station 16 family worked. She pulled a five-dollar bill from her pocket and tossed it onto the table. “Five bucks says she calls him Big John and the honeymoon’s over.”
Joe reached into his pocket. “I’ll take a piece of that. I say they go out to dinner, if not all the way.”
Dean laughed outright, throwing in his five dollars. “Murdock might get ticked, but I bet he gets some. She’s hot.”
Reassured by their unassuming companionship, Meghan joined their laughter. She returned John’s book to his recliner while the pool game resumed behind her. She could almost imagine life was returning to normal and that the bottom hadn’t dropped out of her world this morning in Gideon’s kitchen. Almost.
“Hey, Meghan, you want to play a set?” asked Joe.
“Sure, I—”
The station alarm rang, stopping all conversation. A familiar boost of adrenaline cleansed her thoughts and sharpened her senses. Tilting her ear toward the intercom, she followed Joe and Dean into the garage, listening to the location and assessment of the call being announced by the dispatcher.
Meghan hurried to her open locker and quickly stepped into her waiting pants and boots. She slipped the suspenders up over her shoulders and reached for her turnout coat. What might look like chaos to an uninformed outsider was actually a precise, well-rehearsed routine. Within minutes of the call, her unit, with two trucks and a paramedic van, was en route to a strip mall located near the river.
She was vaguely aware of the Channel Ten news van following them. Vaguely aware of the blare of the sirens and the pitch and roll of the truck. Vaguely aware of the directions and responses being traded over the radio.
Meghan’s focus was on the memory of a sea of yellow rose petals and a twisted declaration of love. Gideon had made the fear go away. He’d given her something to hope for and to care about and believe in. Until she’d destroyed it.
Gideon wasn’t here now. He might never be with her again.
Meghan dug deep, searching for some reserve of will that would get her through this. The froggy voice on the phone had said he wanted to see her.
That meant he’d be setting a fire just for her.
Meghan’s heart sank into her boots. Would this be the one?
“THE SUPPORT STRUCTURE looks good, but we’ve got patches of roof left on this thing.” Meghan tested the concrete block wall herself while John controlled the hose behind her. “I think it’ll hold. If we hug the outside, what’s left of the roof shouldn’t be a problem.”
The south end of the DK Mall was a wash. The last two stores had been nearly gutted, their glass display windows blown out by uneven air pressures or broken on purpose to prevent potential injury from flying debris. But they were well on their way to saving the rest of the building.
She tried not to be creeped out by the fact the store on the end had been a florist shop.
Static buzzed in her ear while the chief made his decision.
“I need eyes inside to see if that connecting wall is hot.” A strip mall such as this one would have been built with periodic fire walls to contain a blaze in one section and avoid catastrophic destruction of the entire facility. But the roof could have dropped fire on the opposite side of the wall, igniting a secondary blaze. Connecting ductwork could carry smoke and airborne embers that, while more than likely would burn themselves out, could still ignite dust or fibers within the ductwork itself. Both possibilities were unlikely, but worth checking out.
“Meghan. Murdock. You’re up. Let’s try to save this one, folks.”
“Got it, Chief.”
After handing off their hose to a backup team, Meghan and John ran a quick check of their gear, ensuring the seal on their masks, their gauges and level of oxygen in their tanks. They gave each other a thumbs-up, and John reported in. “We’re good to go.”
“Report your twenty,” the chief ordered. “And stay safe.”
With their helmet lights switched on and clean air running through their masks, they went inside. Pockets of flame still burned along the floorboards of the east wall, filling the building with smoke and rising gases. John radioed in their locations while Meghan turned on her hand-held flashlight and peered into the cloud of smoke and steam. The gray-black cloud hovered in areas where the roof was intact and drifted upward toward the blue sky above them in areas where the roof had collapsed.
Carefully climbing over the mini mountain of roof and merchandise debris, Meghan left the relative security of the outer wall and headed toward the fire wall. She shone her light above her. “We’ve got damage to the A.C. conduits. I’m moving west to see if it carried over into the next store.”
“Roger that.”
John moved toward the back of the building, following his own inspection route. “I’ll meet you on the outside in five,” he challenged her.
Meghan scanned the braids of bent pipes and metal grating that still clung to the roof yet hung like broken fingers toward the floor. “I’ll be there before you,” she promised.
The smoke thickened around her as she shimmied down the opposite side of the collapsed section, leading her to wonder if they still had a hot spot buried beneath the rubble. While she could still follow a visual path, she pushed her way past a hanging pipe and oriented herself in position to her destination.
“Visibility’s getting down to nothing over here.” She bounced on the balls of her feet. “The floor feels solid. I can’t tell where all the smoke’s coming from. There’s got to be a secondary burner in here somewhere.” Meghan turned off her flashlight. Similar to the high beams of a car on a foggy night, the light simply reflected back into her face, obstructing her vision even more.
Like ghosts flitting through the air, the hanging debris appeared and disappeared as the thickness and color of the smoke changed. Relying on her innate sense of direction as much as the man-made path of burned racks and display cases, she made her way through the aisles of what had once been a sporting goods store.
A hanging piece of charred ductwork butted against her shoulder and Meghan jumped. She must have gasped out loud because John was on the line immediately. “What’s up?”
She shook her head, feeling foolish. “It’s nothing. I just got startled.”
“I’m heading down to the basement. See if I can find your smoke source there.”
“Got it.”
Meghan checked her oxygen gauge one last time before the encroaching curtain of darkness swallowed her up. Plenty of air.
Translucent smoke gave way to a viscous curtain of gray and black. Meghan closed her eyes and tried to find that quiet place inside her in which she could detect the faint tinges of sulphur in the air that might lead her to the hidden fire.
There. With a new sense of direction, she opened her eyes. A flash of movement diverted her focus. A shadow darting past. Darker than the black smoke. She froze mid-step.
“John? You up here?”
“I’m downstairs,” he repeated.
“Are we sure this building’s clear?” She turned her head from side to side, knowing there wasn’t a damn thing to see out there. “I swear someone just ran past me.”
“Mall security said the stores had been evacuated.”
A creaking sound became a roaring groan as a ribbon of ceiling material careened out of the mist and swung past her face, missing her by mere inches. “Damn.” She jumped to the side as it crashed to the floor.
Her breath rushed out on a stunted gasp. She shook her head and cursed. She was jumpy. That damn stalker with his crazy messages had made her so paranoid she wasn’t getting the job done.
“Meghan?” She
could hear the worry in John’s voice.
“My bad,” she said, silently counting to four as she tried to even out her breathing and heart rate. “A piece of the roof just fell in. I spooked myself. I’m checking the fire wall and then I’m out of here.”
“Last one out buys the beer at Mack’s.”
“I hate beer.”
“You’re buying, not drinking. What do you care?” It was enough of a dare to leave Meghan grinning and determined and able to function again.
She inhaled a deep breath to clear her head and plunged forward. As thick and viscous as pea soup, the smoke forced her to navigate by instinct alone. But hers were good instincts. By the time her hand hit the reinforced fire wall, most of her confidence had returned. “It doesn’t feel like anything’s been breached,” she reported in. “I’ve got no updrafts or circulation. The fumes are hanging pretty heavy here. Besides our hot spots, I think we’ve got it.”
“That’s what I like to hear,” answered the chief. “Now get out of there.”
“Yes, sir.” Only too happy to leave the darkness behind her, Meghan turned, oriented herself against the wall, then headed out toward light and people and fresh air. “I’ve got your butt beat, John.”
“I don’t think so.”
There was no sound, no shadow to warn her until the instant before something hard smacked her in the head and knocked her to the floor. Her helmet flew off into the black pit of nothingness around her. “What the hell?”
“Meghan—”
Roof collapse? There’d been no forewarning sounds. She was vulnerable now. Her helmet had probably saved her life from the first blow. A second could knock her unconscious or worse. She needed to protect her head. She needed to escape.
She’d pushed up onto her hands and knees when she saw the feet in the layer of clear air at the floor. Black. They moved too fast for shape or details to register. And then they disappeared. “John?”
An unseen figure grabbed her around the throat, jerking her up to her knees. Someone strong. Determined.
Meghan screamed.
She snatched at the hands. They lifted her higher, onto her feet. But they weren’t helping her. She felt the jerk beneath her chin, the pinch of hair being plucked from her scalp as her attacker tried to remove her mask.
“No!” She swung out. She clipped an arm with her fist and loosened the grip. She spun around in time to catch a glimpse of shadow. To see a grotesque face, distorted beyond recognition through the smoke and shadows. “Leave me alone!”
But the shadow was stronger.
In a furious battle of kicking legs and twisting bodies, Meghan was thrown to the floor. A flashfire of pain exploded inside her head as she hit or was hit. Groggy and disoriented, she snatched at the hands as they attacked again, but she was no match for him.
He ripped off her mask, exposing her eyes and nose and mouth to the toxic fumes in the air. He ripped off her microphone, leaving her helpless and alone and unable to call for help. He flipped her onto her stomach with a vicious twist, and the distinctive hiss beside her ear warned her he’d just severed the hose to her oxygen tank.
“Why?” She grabbed his arm and held on with all her might. But he shook her off. Meghan skidded across the floor and crashed into a pile of debris that tumbled down around her.
She covered her head with her arms and lost sight of the shadow as it disappeared into the smoke.
After the last of the rubble hit the floor and rolled away into the darkness, Meghan came up for air. But as she breathed in, she coughed, choking on the carbon monoxide.
“Help,” she cried between coughs. Her eyes burned and watered with the sting of sulphur fumes. Had John been close enough to know her location? Or was he outside waiting for her? Had they heard her distress? Would they send in a team? How far from the wall had she come? Was she near the front or the back of the store?
Her head pounded inside her skull. She tasted something warm and coppery inside her mouth. She couldn’t see. She couldn’t breathe.
You freaking screw-up! Uncle Pete’s voice was the last thing she needed to hear right now. Why are you alive when my Rose is gone?
“Shut up.” Meghan whispered the words on half a breath. She deserved to live. She deserved…what? Her brain went fuzzy and she couldn’t think.
She leaned back into the rubble. She could just rest for a moment. But the coughing seized her again, tearing deep through her chest, smacking against the pain in her head. She pressed her fist to her mouth to try to muffle the next bout.
That was when she saw the glove clutched in her hand. Looking through a fog of aching head and oxygen-starved delirium, she lifted both hands in front of her face. She was wearing her own gloves.
She’d pulled this black beauty off her attacker. It was his.
A renewed sense of adrenaline, that innate instinct for survival that had brought her back time and again from loss and abuse and heartbreak, pounded through her veins.
“Meg?”
Gideon called her Meg. Was she imagining his voice in her head? Imagining his concern as a subconscious comfort to herself?
I’ll be with you. He’d promised. Gideon Taylor kept his promises.
“Gideon?” She hadn’t the strength to talk now. Only the will to survive. Only the promise to hold him to.
Meghan shrugged out of her tank and gear. Twenty pounds lighter, she staggered onto her hands and knees, staying low and lurching forward, dragging her off-kilter body in whatever direction it would go. It was like being lost in a black hole, a blind cave. No one would ever find her in this.
Not in time.
Chapter Twelve
“Meg!”
Gideon had long since ducked beneath the yellow tape that blocked off the fire scene from the gathering crowd of fans and press and evacuated employees. His official uniform and not-to-be-messed-with air of authority easily cleared his way through the chaos of equipment and firefighters. His search was quick and thorough. And fruitless.
She wasn’t here.
The news he wanted to share with her had to wait. Clutching fingers of impending doom tightened around his heart. Where was she?
A tiny, forgotten signal beeped to life in the corner of his mind, turning his attention toward the building itself. He knew the truth, knew it in his bones. “She’s still inside.”
His instinct to run and find her warred with his fear of failing. He could almost hear her inside his head, talking to her boys on gasping breaths, promising them the things she’d never had. He could see her crawling through the wreckage, her lips pressed into a thin line of determination. She was there. There.
He drifted a step closer to the blown-out windows of the building. The black smoke was changing to charcoal gray and silver. The fire was dead. She should be out. He moved in another step, barely hearing the world around him through the pounding pulse in his ears. Sweat popped out on his brow and the small of his back. She needed him. “Meg!”
His next step was thwarted by an unyielding grip on his arm. “Stay clear, Taylor. We’re on it.”
John Murdock’s soot-streaked expression challenged Gideon to defy him. Of all the dumb, territorial, testosterone-filled… Gideon snatched his arm away. He didn’t intimidate easily. “Meghan’s in there.”
“We know. We lost contact with her three minutes ago.”
“You son of a bitch. I told you to keep an eye on her.”
A twinge of remorse flashed across Murdock’s face. “I know. I dropped the ball. That’s why I’m going back for a fresh tank of O-2. I don’t want to wait until the smoke clears. But we’ll find her. You’re not the only one who cares about her, Taylor.” He tugged on one glove and reached into his pocket for the other. Murdock was already jogging away. “Now let me work.”
Gideon. The name flashed in his mind on a softly husky voice. He turned to look, as if he’d heard the plea with his ears, not his heart.
He turned toward the building, tuned in to that awful talent.
She was right there. In front of him. Should he trust it? Could love or luck or that fallible radar of his pull her to him? The noise around him faded into silence, the people moving past becoming a blurry after-image in his vision as he focused everything he was on that cry for help inside his head.
Frightening images from his nightmare tried to pop into his mind. But he pushed them aside. He would not lose her. There were some things a man could only stand once in his life. He couldn’t stand losing her twice.
Gideon. Help me.
He was already climbing through the front window before he realized his decision had been made. “Help’s coming, sweetheart.” He closed off his ears and his eyes to the distractions around him, bent low at the waist to buy himself air to breathe closer to the floor, and plunged into the barrier of smoke.
Without the proper gear he couldn’t go far, but if his radar was working, he wouldn’t need to. There. He turned. “Meg,” he whispered, conserving his breath.
“Gideon?”
A real voice. Husky and raw.
“Meg?”
He saw her, crawling on her belly, inching forward. Her hair caked with soot and matted to her head. Her hair?
Gideon fell to his knees beside her, rolled her over and scooped her up into his arms. “Where’s your gear?”
She pressed her cheek into his chest and grabbed a handful of his shirt in a weak fist. “He was here. Attacked me.”
He felt her weight sink against him as her strength ebbed. Gideon swore as her head lolled to the side and he glimpsed the red goo in her hair, sticking along her cheek and jaw. Blood.
“I’m getting you out of here.” Without thinking whether or not he could do it, he held her tight in his arms and pushed to his feet. “Stay with me, Meg. Keep breathing.”
Who knew what other injuries she’d sustained? Smoke inhalation and the blow to the head were the obvious ones. The oppressive heat would have sapped the moisture from her body, leaving her weak and woozy. But it would also slow the flow of blood from her wound.
Gideon followed his gut and retraced his steps as quickly as he dared, fearing the turbulent emotions inside him—anger, guilt, fear, love, pride and a fierce sense of possession that felt irrevocably violated—would all break free and flood his senses, throwing his sixth sense off-kilter the way it had with Luke. Meghan didn’t have the time or strength for him to get emotional or distracted or lost.