Page 7

LIV

C losing my eyes to rest, my recurring nightmare begins to play in my head as the light bleeds under the shade of my trailer window, casting the room in a dim, purplish hue .

My crew screaming. Flames roaring overhead, the sound barreling through the air with the force of a freight train.

The air’s too thick to breathe. My skin is damp with cold sweat, heart pounding as if it’s still trapped in that hell.

The wool blanket tangled around my legs smells faintly of old smoke and something scorched—phantom traces of loss that never quite fade.

Outside, a radio crackles with intermittent static, a jagged whisper struggling to cut through broken frequencies.

A ghost trying to speak. I squeeze my eyes shut, try to slow my breathing, but the weight of those voices presses in—too familiar, too loud in my head.

I throw off the blanket and swing my feet to the floor.

The wood is cold, gritty beneath my soles, grounding me better than any mantra.

I’m not waiting here. Not while whispers snake through the camp and inspectors circle like vultures. If someone’s loaded the dice, I’m going to find every single rigged piece before the sun climbs high enough to burn me—or her—again.

Tool Cache 2-Bravo

The air tastes of diesel and sawdust, dry and bitter on my tongue, until I crack the first can of saw-mix.

Then it hits—sharp, solvent-sweet, with a chemical sting that scalds the back of my throat.

The fumes rise hot and fast, more potent than the fifty-fifty gas-diesel blend we’re supposed to use.

I splash a few drops onto the packed dirt.

They hiss like oil in a searing skillet, then vanish in a flash of vapor that leaves the scent of scorched metal behind.

This isn’t fuel—it’s a death trap. Same bite, same fury as the jar I sampled last night.

Someone salted the line to burn us alive.

“Son of a...” I clamp my mouth shut, shove the can back, and grab another. Same chemical sting. Third one? Clean. Somebody salted just enough drums to guarantee a blow-torch flare once we light off.

I snap photo after photo, each click a hammer driving urgency deeper into my chest. My fingers fumble with the fluorescent tape, wrapping lids in glaring caution, the adhesive sticking to gloves slick with sweat.

I grab a shop rag, soak it with the volatile mix, the fumes making my eyes water as I shove it into a specimen bag and seal it tight.

The plastic crinkles like brittle ice. I clutch it hard enough to leave fingerprints.

This goes in the evidence box Mara Kim keeps locked in Supply—the one thing that can make this real, official.

If it doesn’t vanish before I get it there.

Bootsteps crunch outside—heavy, hesitant, gravel grinding beneath them.

The door creaks open and Charlie Diaz appears, framed in the dull metal light.

His rookie yellow jacket hangs half-zipped, askew like he threw it on in a rush.

Wind- burned cheeks glow against the rising chill, and he holds out two steaming coffees as if they’re a peace offering—or maybe penance.

The smell cuts through the chemical tang of the tool shed, dark and bitter with too little sugar.

His eyes flick toward mine, wary and apologetic all at once.

“You’re early,” I mumble.

He shrugs. “Couldn’t sleep. Figured you’d be here.”

I tilt the evidence bag toward him. “Tell me your nose says the same thing mine does.”

Diaz sniffs, lips flatten. “Not saw-mix.”

“Accelerant. Hot enough to roast us alive.”

His throat bobs. “I...” He glances down the corridor, lowers his voice. “I need to tell you something about the Bitterroot flashover.”

The words slam into my chest, a backdraft hitting hard—stealing the breath from my lungs and setting my pulse racing. My voice comes out sharp, cracked under pressure. “Talk.”

Diaz glances around again, as if the shadows have ears. “Night before the burn went wrong, I was doing fuel inventory. I saw a green truck idling outside the depot. Didn’t think anything until the report came down. License plate matched Danny Greer’s.”

My stomach turns to ice, a deep, biting chill that radiates through my gut and up my spine.

The evidence bag slips from my suddenly numb fingers and smacks the table with a hollow, echoing thud that feels too loud in the cramped shed.

My hands tremble. My chest locks down like I’ve taken a steel-toed kick to the ribs, breath lodged somewhere behind my sternum. “You’re sure?”

“Yeah. He was in the driver’s seat. Looked nervous.”

I bite down on curses sharp enough to draw blood. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

“No proof,” he whispers. “People already blamed you. I didn’t want to sound like I was piling on rumors.”

Great. The kid tries to protect me and ends up handing me a knife to the gut six months late—a slow, rusty blade twisted with guilt and hesitation.

My fingers tighten on his shoulder, not just to anchor him, but to keep myself from staggering.

The contact grounds us both, but the storm in my chest still howls.

“It matters now," I rasp. "Keep quiet until I talk to Command.”

In the supply trailer, the sharp scent of bleach and diesel clings to the air, thick enough to sting the nose.

A single hanging bulb casts a jaundiced glow over the cluttered workstation where Mara Kim stands, clipboard in one hand, the other tapping a rhythm against her thigh in a silent countdown.

Her dark hair is scraped into a knot so tight it looks like it might snap loose with a single exhale.

When I slam the evidence bag onto her table, the sound is too sharp and too loud in the silence.

Mara arches an eyebrow—unimpressed and already bracing for whatever firestorm I just walked in with.

“Morning, Monroe. Something wrong with your saw-mix?”

“Unless we started ordering napalm in bulk, yeah.”

She unseals the bag and jerks her head back as a blast of fumes punches the air.

Her eyes water instantly, nostrils flaring as she coughs once, then twice, the stinging chemicals clawing down her throat like smoke off a magnesium flare.

“Shit.” The word scrapes out hoarse—Mara rarely swears. “Where did you get this?”

“The fuel mix barrels.”

Mara shakes her head. “That can’t be. The manifest was clean yesterday. I checked it myself.”

“So was the one before the Bitterroot burn.” The words taste like rust and smoke, sharp on my tongue. My jaw tightens as heat climbs my neck—not from anger, but the familiar pressure of too many eyes, too many assumptions. “I need every truck grounded until we verify fuel. No exceptions. No delay.”

Mara rubs her temple. “When the Feds arrive, they’ll shut us down if we can’t prove chain of custody.”

“We don’t have a choice.”

She nods once—decision made—and snaps latex gloves on with a practiced flick that slices through the silence. Her jaw sets, all steel and focus. “I’ll start a new manifest. You bring Command proof they can’t ignore.”

I tuck the bag under my arm and stride toward the Mess Hall, boots grinding against gravel as the rising wind tugs at my collar.

The chill of dawn claws at my skin, but it’s nothing compared to the heat building in my chest. Every step is a countdown.

I mutter a silent prayer that the sun stays buried behind the ridge just a few minutes longer—long enough to deliver this before it all ignites again.

Mess Hall

News travels faster than flame. "She’s trying to cover her ass again," someone hisses near the coffee urn.

"Heard she’s sleeping with the new safety officer to keep her post."

By the time I grab stale oatmeal the room buzzes with whispers. Voices drop when I pass, but the burn is worse than open scorn.

I set my tray down anyway, chin high and jaw tight, because running only proves them right.

The room’s air prickles with judgment, thick as smoke before a flashover.

Across the hall, Kade sits with Battalion Chief Wilder and the federal auditor—a woman encased in a gray suit so sharp it could double as body armor.

Her expression says rules, consequences, and not a single second wasted on excuses.

Kade’s gaze locks on me, a heat-seeking round zeroing in. It’s hard, assessing—but something else simmers beneath it. Awareness. Recognition. The kind that sees too much. The hairs at my nape prickle, brushed by an invisible charge.

He excuses himself, rising from his seat with the fluid grace of someone who knows how to stalk both danger and attention.

Each step is smooth but loaded, a fuse burning toward detonation.

Conversations taper mid-sentence. Laughter dries up.

A hush rolls through the mess hall, thick and expectant, as if even the air holds its breath in his wake.

“Busy morning?” His voice is low enough the rumor mill can’t snag it.

I push the evidence bag across the table. “Found accelerant in saw-mix cans. Half the line’s spiked.”

Kade’s jaw ticks. “You sure?”

“Smell it.”

He cracks the seal, inhales, winces. “Yeah. That’ll cook lungs before breakfast.”

My pulse stutters at the small, rare show of humor, but it’s not enough to steady the surge of adrenaline snapping at my veins.

Focus. “Mara’s grounding engines. But if the Feds see the hold, Mara will call it sabotage.

I need Command to have proof first.” I force the words out past the tight ache in my throat, swallowing a pride that scorches going down—bitter and acrid as diesel backwash. “I need help.”

Kade’s eyes darken—storm clouds over molten rock. “You have it.”