Page 213 of Knotting the Firefighters

"Why are you nearby?" Relief floods through me despite confusion about her fortuitous positioning.

"Long story involving surveillance and protective details I'll explain later." Her voice carries urgency that eliminates space for extended discussion. "Push throttle as fast as safely capable. My unit is right behind you—we'll provide escort and assistance."

Surveillance.

She's been conducting surveillance.

On what? On who?

Gregory—

Oh fuck, Gregory.

The pieces click together with horrifying clarity—his face in treeline, the hallucination that wasn't hallucination, my instincts screaming danger that I'd dismissed as paranoia.

He's here.

Violated court order, traveled to Montana despite restrictions, orchestrated this?—

This is him.

This is Gregory finishing what he started.

Aidric drives with controlled aggression—pushing the truck to speeds that are definitely illegal but absolutely necessary, navigating the ranch road with expertise that speaks to intimate familiarity with every curve and pothole.

"Fifteen minutes," he announces grimly. "Maximum fifteen minutes if I maintain current speed without a catastrophic accident."

"Do it," I encourage despite terror at velocity. "Whatever it takes. People are inside."

Our people.

Our crew, our family, possibly trapped in a burning building because someone wanted revenge.

The landscape blurs—early morning light transforming Montana wilderness into a streak of colors, beauty completely wasted on passengers too terrified to appreciate aesthetics.

Hazel's sirens wail behind us—audible even through closed windows and engine noise, providing escort that's simultaneously reassuring and terrifying because it confirms the severity of whatever we're rushing toward.

Please let everyone be okay.

Please let them evacuate.

Please let this be property damage rather than casualties.

The truck eats miles with mechanical efficiency—distance closing faster than seems physically possible, though every second feels stretched to breaking point.

Twelve minutes.

Ten minutes.

Eight minutes.

Station Fahrenheit appears on the horizon—a pillar of smoke visible long before the building comes into view, a thick black column that speaks to intense heat and a significant fuel source.

Burning.

Actually burning.

Our home is burning.