Page 7 of Hemlock Firestorm (Black Timber Peak Hotshots #3)

FIVE

COLE

The forest is a tinderbox, and I'm stuck here with a woman who seems determined to get us both killed.

I track the fire's progress through the trees, my senses on high alert. The smoke is thicker now, carrying the acrid scent of burning pine. To my right, Jo navigates the uneven terrain with infuriating grace, her movements fluid and purposeful.

"We need to pick up the pace," I call out, my voice gruff with suppressed tension. "That eastern flank is moving faster than I anticipated."

Jo doesn't bother looking back, just gives a curt nod and somehow manages to move even quicker. I grit my teeth, torn between grudging admiration and the urge to grab her and drag us both to safety .

The heat presses in, a suffocating blanket that makes every breath a struggle. Sweat trickles down my neck, soaking into my already damp shirt. The conditions are deteriorating rapidly.

Jo scrambles over a fallen log, her movements precise and economical. I find myself watching the way her braid sways as she moves, then curse myself for the distraction.

"Hadley," I bark, "status report."

She pauses, turning to face me. Her amber eyes are sharp, assessing. "About another quarter mile to the proposed line. Terrain's rougher than the maps showed, but nothing we can't handle."

I nod, scanning the area. The fire's voice has changed, a low roar that speaks of hunger and impending danger. We're running out of time.

"Let's move," I say, shouldering past her. "I'll take point."

For once, she doesn't argue, falling into step behind me. We push forward, the urgency of our mission, and a physical presence between us.

Finally, we reach our destination. Without a word, we fall into a coordinated dance, unpacking Jo's firebox gear with practiced efficiency. She grabs a Pulaski. The double-ended tool with an axe blade on one end and a hoe-like blade on the other, is an extension of her arm. It’s the tool just about all smokejumpers would choose if they could only pick one.

It’s hell on the body but extremely effective.

I retrieve the chainsaw, quickly checking it for damage from the drop.

"Ready?" I ask, though it's barely a question.

Jo's already moving, her strikes precise as she begins to dig the line. I monitor her for a moment while she moves but she shows no indication of serious pain in her shoulder. She’s right arm dominant and is using the Pulaski as such. "Your shoulder good, Hadley?"

She looks over for a moment. "It’s fine. It will ache and probably bruise, but I’ve had it happen before. Nothing serious." When I hesitate to answer she tries to smile. "I mean it, Cole. I’m good."

"Okay." I fire up the chainsaw, its growl mixing with the ominous voice of the approaching inferno.

We work in tandem, Jo's Pulaski biting into the earth while my saw tears through the larger fuels. The synchronicity of our movements surprises me, as if we've been partners for years instead of recent colleagues.

Sweat stings my eyes as the heat intensifies.

I blink it away, my arms burning with the effort of wielding the saw.

A memory flashes unbidden – Jo on her first day of training alongside the Black Timber Peak Hotshot team, handling a Pulaski like she was born with it in her hands.

Even then, her skill had been undeniable.

I shake off the recollection, refocusing on the task at hand. "Hadley," I call out, pitching my voice to carry over the chainsaw's roar. "How's your progress?"

She straightens, pushing a stray strand of hair from her face. "Slow and steady. This root system's a bitch."

I nod, understanding the challenge. "Keep at it. I'll—" The words die in my throat as I catch movement in my peripheral vision. The fire's behavior is shifting, the wind driving it in an unexpected direction.

"Shit," I mutter, then louder, "Jo! We need to adjust. Fire's changing course."

She's already moving, reading the situation as clearly as I am. We're forced closer together, shoulder to shoulder as we work to widen the line. The back of my neck prickles, hyper-aware of her proximity.

"I’ve never seen the wind so friggin unpredictable," Jo's voice is tight with tension. "Tell me you've got a plan B just in case my plan gets toasted."

I meet her gaze, seeing my own concern mirrored there. "Working on it. For now, we dig like hell and pray for a miracle. "

A humorless laugh escapes her. "And here I thought you weren't the praying type."

"There are no atheists in foxholes," I mutter, then gesture to a particularly dense patch of underbrush. "Focus there. We need to create a bigger buffer."

We attack the vegetation with renewed vigor, but I can feel the situation slipping away from us.

The professional part of my brain is running calculations, assessing our dwindling options.

The rest of me is acutely aware of Jo. The determined set of her jaw, the way her muscles flex with each swing of the Pulaski.

A deafening crack splits the air. My head snaps up, eyes widening as I spot a massive snag toppling towards us. Time slows, survival instinct taking over.

"Jo!" I roar, lunging forward. My arms wrap around her waist, momentum carrying us both clear of the falling tree. We hit the ground hard, rolling through the underbrush in a tangle of limbs and tools.

For a moment, we lie there, hearts pounding in sync. Jo's body is pressed against mine, her breath warm on my neck. Time seems to stand still, the roar of the fire fading to a distant rumble.

Reality crashes back as a shower of embers rains down around us. I push myself up, extending a hand to Jo. She takes it, allowing me to pull her to her feet. Our hands linger, neither quite willing to break the connection.

"You okay?" I ask, voice rougher than I intend.

Jo nods, rolling her shoulder as if testing the weak one, her usual bravado cracking slightly. "Yeah, I... thanks. That was too close."

Our eyes lock, and I see a flash of vulnerability beneath her tough exterior. The reality of our situation sinks in, heavy and suffocating as the smoke that surrounds us.

The moment shatters as a wall of heat slams into us. The fire's roar is deafening now, drowning out everything but the frantic pounding of my heart. Even through our protective gear, the temperature is becoming unbearable.

"Cole," Jo's voice carries an edge of desperation I've never heard before. "This isn't working. We need a new plan, fast."

I scan our surroundings, mind racing. The firebreak we've managed to create is pitiful compared to the monster bearing down on us. Standard tactics aren't going to cut it, not if we want to make it out of here alive.

"Alright," I say, decision made. "Time to get creative. You up for some unorthodox firefighting?"

A fierce grin splits Jo's face, a spark of her usual spirit returning. "Born ready, Whitlock. What've you got in mind?"

I outline my plan quickly, watching Jo's expression shift from skepticism to grudging approval. It's risky as hell, but it's the best shot we've got.

"You're insane," she says when I finish. "I like it."

"That's reassuring," I mutter, but there's no real heat in it. Despite everything, I find myself grateful to have her here. If I'm going to attempt this madness, there's no one I'd rather have watching my back.

We gather our equipment, moving with renewed purpose. The plan is barely more than a Hail Mary, but it's given us both a desperately needed second wind.

"Jo," I say as we prepare to move out. She looks up, a question in her eyes. "Whatever happens, it's been an honor working with you."

Something flickers across her face, too quick to name. Then she punches my arm, grinning. "Save the speeches, Whitlock. We're not dead yet."

I shake my head, unable to suppress a wry smile. "Right. Let's go play with fire."

We plunge back into the inferno, shoulder to shoulder. The odds are stacked against us, but as I glance at Jo's determined profile, I feel a spark of hope. Come hell or high water —or in this case, a literal firestorm— we're in this together.

And God help me, I wouldn't have it any other way.

The forest blurs around us as we race against time and flame. Every instinct screams at me to retreat, to get us both to safety. But retreat isn't an option, not with lives and land on the line.

"There!" Jo shouts, pointing to a natural depression in the landscape. It's the spot we've been searching for, the lynchpin of our desperate plan.

I nod, conserving breath as we push towards it. The terrain is treacherous, loose scree and fallen branches threatening to trip us with every step. Despite her usual grace, Jo stumbles, and I reach out instinctively, steadying her with a hand on her back.

"Thanks," she gasps, flashing me a quick smile that does funny things to my insides. I grunt in response, shoving the feeling aside. No time for distractions.

We skid to a stop at the edge of the depression, quickly assessing the area. It's not perfect, but it'll have to do.

"Start clearing," I say, already reaching for my saw but she was already on it and was attacking the underbrush with her Pulaski. "We need a fifty-foot perimeter, minimum." I fire up the chainsaw, its growl nearly lost in the approaching roar of the wildfire.

We work in frenzied silence, acutely aware of every passing second. Sweat pours down my face, stinging my eyes and soaking my clothes. The heat is suffocating, each breath a struggle against superheated air.

"Cole!" Jo's shout snaps me back to the present. "I think we're good. What's next?"

I scan our handiwork, nodding in grim satisfaction. It's far from regulation, but it'll serve our purpose.

"Now for the fun part," I say, reaching for the drip torch. "You remember the plan?"

Jo nods, her face set in determined lines. "Light the ring, create a buffer. Use the air currents from our fire to disrupt the main front."

"And pray it works," I add, only half-joking. "You take the left flank; I'll take the right. We meet in the middle. And Jo?" I catch her eyes, holding them. "No heroics. If it gets too hot, you bail. Got it?"

For a moment, I think she'll argue. Then she nods, a hint of softness in her expression. "Got it. You too, okay? I'm not explaining to the Super that I lost his star quarterback. "

A surprised laugh escapes me. "Deal."

We split up, drip-torches at the ready. I take a deep breath, steeling myself, then flick the igniter. Flame sprouts from the torch, hungry and eager.

I touch it to the ground, and fire blooms in its wake. The heat is immediate and intense, forcing me to squint against it. But I push forward, painting a line of flame along our carefully prepared perimeter.

Across the clearing, I catch glimpses of Jo doing the same. Her movements are fluid, as she wields the drip torch. Even in this hellish landscape, there's a wild beauty to her that takes my breath away.

Focus, Whitlock. I shake off the distraction, redoubling my efforts. The fire grows quickly, feeding on the dry vegetation. Smoke billows up, thick and choking. I pull my shirt over my nose and mouth, grateful for even that small protection.

We're about halfway done when I hear it – a sound like a freight train, growing louder by the second. The main fire is closing in fast, faster than I anticipated.

"Jo!" I shout, my voice barely carrying over the cacophony. "Double time!"

She doesn't respond, but I see her pick up the pace. We're both almost running now, trailing fire in our wake. The heat is unbearable, sweat evaporating almost instantly in the inferno we've created.

Just as we're about to meet in the middle, a gust of superheated air slams into us. I stumble, momentarily blinded by a shower of embers. When my vision clears, my heart nearly stops.

Jo is down, sprawled on the uneven ground. Her drip torch lies just out of reach, still spewing flame. And beyond her, a wall of fire is bearing down with terrifying speed.

I don't think. I move.