Page 1 of Hemlock Firestorm (Black Timber Peak Hotshots #3)

ONE

JO

The steady thrum of the plane's engines vibrates through my bones as I double-check my gear for the hundredth time.

My fingers brush over the pouches of my Kevlar jumpsuit, cataloging each piece of equipment by touch alone.

Helmet secure. Radio in place. Reserve chute packed tight against my back.

The familiar weight of my gear is reassuring, a second skin I've grown accustomed to over years of jumps.

I take a deep breath, willing my heart rate to slow. The recycled air of the plane cabin fills my lungs, tinged with the scent of sweat and anticipation. It's just another jump. Just another day at the office.

Yeah, right.

Through the small window, I watch as Montana's pristine wilderness gives way to an apocalyptic hellscape.

Thick plumes of smoke billow upwards, staining the sky an eerie orange-gray.

Flames dance across the treetops, devouring everything in their path with terrifying speed.

The sight never fails to both awe and unsettle me.

Nature's raw power on display, beautiful and deadly in equal measure.

"Hadley." The spotter's gruff voice cuts through my thoughts. I turn to face Jerry, taking in his weathered features creased with concern. "You seeing this?"

Jerry is essentially my boss out here. I’ve done quite a few jumps under his supervision.

He’d been a smokejumper in his heyday but now he was old enough that he felt jumping was far too risky for him.

In all honesty, I think his wife, Alison, is the reason he stopped jumping.

She wanted to be sure he came home and that was fair.

It wasn’t a job for the faint of heart and we are damn glad to have both him and his experience as a spotter.

I nod, eyes drawn back to the inferno below. "Almost no natural barriers. It's spreading fast." The words come out clipped, professional. But inside, my gut churns with a mix of anticipation and dread.

He grunts in agreement, his calloused fingers tapping a restless rhythm on the edge of the map on a screen. "We've got a small window here. There's a clearing about half a mile southeast of the fire line. It's tight, but it's our best shot at getting you close enough to make a difference."

I scan the area he's indicating, mentally plotting my descent.

The clearing is small, barely large enough for me to navigate a safe landing.

But he's right, it's our only real option if we want to have any hope of containing this blaze. I can almost hear Cole’s voice in my head, lecturing about risk assessment and acceptable margins for error.

Cole Whitlock. The Assistant Superintendent of the Black Timber Peak Hotshots. The thought of him brings a flutter of something to my chest. I push it aside, focusing on the task at hand. Now isn't the time for distractions, no matter how tall, dark, and annoyingly bossy they might be.

"Roger that," I say, pushing away from the window. "I'm ready when you are."

Jerry gives me a hard look, his steel grey eyes searching mine. "You sure about this, Hadley? You and I both know you should be jumping with a buddy. No shame in waiting for backup."

I bristle at the implication, my pride stinging.

By all accounts I should have a jump partner.

I know the buddy system is important, but we are still short smokejumpers and time isn’t on our side.

"I can handle it." The words come out sharper than I intended, but I don't take them back.

I've worked too damn hard to be second-guessed now.

"We’ve got a small window here to make a difference before the Hotshot boys and girls can make it to the line. "

He looks at me as if he’s unsure. It sends goosebumps skittering on the back of my neck but then he nods. "Alright, Hadley."

I give him a tight smile.

"Just remember what Whitlock's always saying about these Roadless Area fires. They're unpredictable as hell."

We all know that. Hours of training on how fires move and flow mean close to nothing up in the mountains where one patch could be swamp, while another is essentially tinder.

A shift in wind is all it takes for carefully laid plans to go south.

Cole's warnings echo in my head as I do one final equipment check.

His voice, low and intense during our training sessions, rises unbidden in my memory:

"These fires don't play by the rules. Everything’s working against you with the terrain and wind patterns. You've got to stay alert and adapt on the fly. One wrong move and you're toast. Literally."

He’d said it over and over again during the joint training session between the smokejumpers and Hotshots, just a few weeks after we'd first met at that crew barbecue.

The scent of charcoal and grilled meat hung heavy in the air, mingling with the earthy smell of pine. Laughter and the clinking of beer bottles provided a constant backdrop as the different crews mingled, sizing each other up with good-natured ribbing.

I was reaching for a burger when a shadow fell across the grill.

I looked up, squinting against the late afternoon sun, to find myself face to face with the most absurdly handsome man I'd ever seen.

Tall, with broad shoulders and a jawline that could cut glass.

But it was his eyes that caught me off guard.

They were a deep, mesmerizing green that seemed to look right through me.

"You must be Josephine Hadley," he said, holding out a hand. "I'm Cole Whitlock. Heard a lot about you."

I shook his hand, hoping mine wasn't too sweaty. "Jo," I corrected automatically. "Only my grandma calls me Josephine. And likewise, your reputation precedes you."

He quirks an eyebrow at that, a hint of a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "Oh? And what reputation is that? "

I grin, unable to resist needling him a bit as we all do to one another. "Oh, you know. Hotshot golden boy. Too pretty for your own good. Probably spend more time on your hair than actually fighting fires."

To my surprise, he throws his head back and laughs - a rich, genuine sound that sends an unexpected shiver down my spine.

"Ouch," he said, clutching his chest in mock pain.

"You wound me, Hadley. And here I thought we could be friends.

" I watch his throat bob as he takes a drink.

"Though, I doubt you’re going to think of me as a pretty boy after training. "

Something in his tone makes my cheeks heat. I blamed it on the sun and took a hasty swig of my beer that was rapidly warming in my hand.

I shake off the memory, refocusing on the present. The spotter gives me the signal, and I move into position by the door. My stomach does its usual flip as I stare down at the patchwork of green and orange below. The smell of smoke is stronger now, acrid and choking even at three thousand feet.

I take a slow steadying breath, steeling myself for the jump. This is what I'm made for. This is why I'm here. The fear, the adrenaline - it's all part of the job. And I wouldn't have it any other way.

"All ready Hadley, Jump!" He slaps me on the back but just as I'm about to step off, Jerry looks at his screen and tension covers his face. "Fucking wind patterns! Do not jump. Repeat, do not-"

The rest of the message is lost as a gust of smoke obscures my vision. For a heart-stopping moment, I'm not in the plane anymore. I'm twelve years old again, paralyzed with fear as flames lick at my heels. The heat is suffocating, the smoke so thick I can barely see.

The memory crashes over me like a wave, vivid and terrifying.

The crackle of flames. The acrid sting of smoke in my lungs. Mom's voice, high and panicked, urging us towards the window before part of the ceiling collapses between us spraying us with embers. "Go, go! Dad is waiting!" She yells from the other side.

I'm frozen, rooted to the spot as the fire consumes everything around us. The heat is unbearable, sweat pouring down my face and back. I can't breathe. Can't think. Can't move.

Then my twin brother Jacob's hand is in mine, squeezing tight.

His voice cuts through the roar of the flames, steady and sure: "It's okay, Jo.

Dad is below the window. We can do this.

He moves me to the open window positioning me on the sill.

I let him guide my movements. "On three.

One...two...three!" I freeze as I look at Dad, his arms outstretched for me. Unable to move. I’m locked into place, frozen in fear.

And then I hear it. Jacob's voice, clear as day, cutting through past and present:

"Just jump!"

I freeze for a few crucial seconds. My body moves on autopilot.

This might be the only chance to stop this fire from engulfing this part of the mountain.

One second I'm in the plane doorway, the next I'm falling through empty space.

The sudden roar of the wind is jarring. For a breathless moment I'm in freefall, just me and the vast Montana sky stretched out below me.

The wind whips past, tearing the breath from my lungs.

Jumping from roughly three thousand feet doesn’t give jumpers much time. My ripcord is automatically pulled by the static line. There's a heart-stopping moment of resistance and then blessed relief as my chute deploys with a teeth-rattling jerk.

Reality crashes back as another gust of wind catches me, yanking me sideways.

I grit my teeth, fighting to stabilize myself as I plummet towards the ground.

The smoke is thicker than I anticipated, making it nearly impossible to gauge my altitude.

My eyes sting and water, vision blurring as I blink rapidly to clear them.

The cage of my helmet, protecting my face, only seems to obstruct my view worse at the moment.