Page 11 of Arsonist’s Match (Blaze and Badge #1)

Two days later

F lash climbed off her motorcycle ten minutes early for her first shift back at Firehouse Eight.

She loved this station, her job, her captain, and her team, yet, for the past eight weeks, a sharp pain like a knife to her gut stabbed her every time she walked through the door.

Johnson’s youthful laughter echoed in her mind, silenced forever.

This morning, her emotions were all scrambled up. While thrilled to be back, a part of her knotted in dread. Avoiding the dining hall helped, but sometimes she had to walk in there. The place had been cleaned, repaired, and refurnished, but nothing could erase what happened there.

“Cash, take out the trash,” Smokey Aguilera had ordered.

“Probie, you take out the trash,” she’d said, or something close to it.

Then Captain Jake reprimanded her. “If Smokey says take out the trash, you do it—not pass the job to someone else.”

It should have been me. It was supposed to be me. The tightly wound ball of anxiety twisted in her stomach as she secured her helmet to her bike, staring at the impressive building with its bay doors open and shiny engines parked inside.

Smokey had gotten the pizzas, and Probationary Candidate Billy Ray Johnson had leaped in front, grabbing the box and throwing open the lid.

Flash hadn’t been there for that part, but she’d heard the explosion, rushed into the carnage, smelled the burnt flesh, saw the bloody mess, and realized the bomb had been meant for her.

“Welcome back!” rang out a familiar voice, snapping Flash to the present. A rough, summer-tanned hand slapped onto her shoulder and tugged at her backpack strap. “Let me take that; I’m feeling manly today.”

She didn’t need to turn around to picture Waylon Adams, with his full crop of blond hair, bulging muscles, and mischievous blue eyes smiling at her; she did so anyway. “Miss me?” Flash shot him a winning grin, allowing him to play the gentleman and carry her bag.

“Do mosquitoes eat you alive down at the bayou?” he laughed. “I heard you saved Bakersfield.”

She rolled her eyes with a chuckle and fell into pace beside her good friend and fellow smoke-eater. “The vineyards are safe, which I’m sure is your primary concern.”

“You know I’m a beer man,” he retorted lightly, leaning into her with a hip bump.

“What happened at the station while I was gone?” It helped Flash to have Waylon walk her in, easing her apprehension. He had been there and experienced it all with her—most of it, anyway.

“They promoted me to engineer on Truck Eight,” he announced proudly, his cheerful voice reverberating around the lofty apparatus bay. Minus one ambulance and the chief’s car, the modern garage smelled of rubber, polish, and adventure.

“Hey, that’s terrific!” Flash threw her arms around his neck for a quick, congratulatory hug, her eyes bright with pride.

Waylon leaned in with a hand to his mouth, adding in a hush, “You wouldn’t think Lieutenant Tightass got the message the way he’s been ridin’ me. Edwards has been all over me like gravy on a biscuit since Captain handed me the stripe.”

“You earned it, and you deserve it,” Flash declared.

“Look what the cat dragged in!” called Shaquille Woods as he stepped around the end of the second shiny red engine.

Also in the bay was a squad vehicle, an additional ambulance, the multi-patient AmbuBus, and a command van.

White teeth gleamed from his rich acorn-colored face as he trotted over to give his welcoming hug.

The young man, with several years of experience under his belt, stood shorter than Flash—well, shorter than anyone in the house except for the ambulance crew.

“I see you didn’t let Waylon starve while I was away,” Flash commented as she patted his back in camaraderie. “In fact, I think he’s gained a few pounds.”

“You measly little river rat.” With a playful smirk, Waylon punched her lightly on the shoulder.

“Oh, you’re askin’ for it now, Bubba!”

“No roughhousing in the fire station,” scolded a stern voice. “Cash went to California, and now she’s back. It’s not like she was locked up for a year.”

They all assumed dignified, serious demeanors when Lieutenant Christopher Edwards marched in, clipboard in hand. Everything in his tight, disapproving manner screamed how much he disliked her. Unfortunate since she had to work with him every day.

Edwards’ erect posture allowed him to stand on eye level with Flash, who couldn’t ever recall seeing him crack a smile. The lean man in his forties wore his dark brown hair in a crew cut, an athletic watch strapped around his wrist, and his narrow black tie perfectly straight.

“Yes, sir,” Woods acknowledged respectfully. Flash and Waylon echoed his reply.

The engine crews of Firehouse Eight had been without a lieutenant for a month before the fateful day Flash’s life had been flipped upside down.

During that time, Smokey had filled the leadership role as next in line.

Flash had been thrilled to hear he’d received his bugles to fill his new position as a full-time instructor at the Fire Academy, but she’d much rather her trusted friend and mentor be the one issuing her orders.

“It’s nine o’clock,” Edwards announced, with a glance at the digital display set high on the bay wall. “Flores!” he shouted. “Jones, Ramano, Wilson, Travino! We’re starting the day with calisthenics and drills, so get your butts over here and line up. ”

Flash spotted her best friend, Paramedic Juanita Lopez, and her partner, EMT Alberto Luis “Al Luis” Santos—Filipino, not Hispanic—slip past them to enter the building.

Nita grinned and waved, her dark eyes gleaming with delight.

Flash flicked her chin in her direction and took up a spot on the line.

She’d talked to Nita for an hour yesterday, catching up on the week, and she didn’t want to draw a growl from Edwards for appearing happy to see her.

“We’ll start with stretches, followed by jumping jacks and push-ups. Ready?” Edwards blew two short blasts on a silly whistle, and the line of firefighters complied. It was all good. Smokey used to have them exercise too—only they often were allowed coffee and a minute to stow their gear first.

Flash had just worked up a good sweat when the alarm bell blared through the bays. “Engine Eight, Ambulance Eight, Squad Eight. Multi-car accident on I-45 northbound.”

“All right, people,” barked the lieutenant. “Let’s go, let’s go!”

Flash and her crew rushed to the turnout room, stepped into their protective pants and boots, and shagged their turnout coats and helmets.

They were buckled into the engine in under sixty seconds.

Waylon flicked on the siren, pulled onto the street, and they were away.

Edwards commandeered the shotgun seat, leaving Flash, Shaquille, and the new guy, Bobbie Flores, in the rear.

“Welcome back, Cash,” Bobbie greeted her.

Experienced on both an engine and ladder truck, Waylon said he was a real firedawg—a solid firefighter—who moved from Station Seventeen because he’d made the mistake of dating an in-house co-worker.

After a messy breakup, one of them had to go, and Flores drew the short straw.

It turned out he was a good fit for their crew.

“Thanks, man,” she answered while double-checking her gear.

He slung back his long sweep of ebony hair and secured his black and yellow thermoplastic helmet. With a look of intense interest, he asked, “How was it out in the wild, tackling something that massive?”

Flash cocked her head, squinting, searching for a suitable example. “Kind of like working twelve hours a day at a very demanding landscaping job, only any minute the wind could shift and roast you like a marshmallow.”

“No kidding!” Bobbie’s expression morphed into surprise.

“Cash. Flores. Focus on your task,” Edwards threw over his shoulder—an order, not a suggestion.

“Yes, sir.” Bobbie’s crisp reply came with a grin and a wink at Flash that the lieutenant couldn’t see. She lowered her chin, trying to repress a grin. She missed Smokey.

When the big, bright truck pulled to a stop, it blocked two entire lanes of traffic.

A police car was already on scene, with an officer slowing and directing traffic around the vehicles involved.

At once, Flash saw why squad was called.

An SUV had punched a hole through the safety railing and dangled off the edge of an overpass.

It appeared a hair’s breadth from plunging into rush-hour traffic.

“Squad’s got the SUV,” Lieutenant Edwards called as they hopped out, ready to race into action.

“Adams and Cash, check out these other cars and drivers. Woods and Flores, get a hose ready if they find any gas or oil leaks.” As Nita and Al Luis headed toward the crash with a gurney and med kits at the ready, he held up a hand. “You two wait for the all-clear.”

“You’ve got it,” Flash replied, sharing a glance with Nita. The protocol was to always clear a scene of imminent danger before allowing the medics in.

She and Waylon split up, each trotting to a different car.

Waylon stopped at a navy sedan that had run up under a white pickup truck, the truck’s rear tires resting on its hood.

A spiderweb of cracks covered the busted windshield, and the passenger door, dented and jammed, trapped the people inside.

Flash detected movement inside as she skittered to a halt at the driver’s door of the Ford F-150.

“Sir, are you injured?” she asked, giving him an assessing once-over. He had a gash on his forehead and seemed disoriented.

Waving a hand randomly, he blinked, trying unsuccessfully to focus. “My kid … in the back.”