Page 1 of Protecting What's Mine

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“Seriously? What’s next, chief? A cat in a tree?”

Linc smirked at the rookie slumped in his passenger seat.

Skyler—better known as New Guy despite her gender—was fresh off a bachelor’s in fire science from Purdue University, and like all rookies, she was restless when it came to the mundane grunt work of fire station life.

“You’re breaking a cardinal rule, rook,” he warned her. “Never even think the word s-l-o-w. We’ll all regret it.”

He checked his speed as he merged onto the highway, leaving Benevolence behind them. The V8 of his SUV, the cherry red chief’s vehicle, rumbled appreciatively as it opened up.

“I just expected there to be more action,” she complained. “Instead we’re running to Home Depot for extension cords.”

“It can’t all be four alarms and water rescues,” Linc pointed out, tapping out the beat in time with the radio. He was grateful for that. Earlier in his career he, too, lived for the action of a structure fire, the excitement of a crash with entrapment. But with time, experience, and considerable wisdom, Fire Chief Lincoln Reed had grown to appreciate the other side of being a firefighter. Training and community education. Fire safety plans. Outreach. They were just as important as the calls.

Sure, the paperwork sucked. But it had a purpose. And he could appreciate that.

It was a beautiful windows-down and sunglasses-on kind of day. Summer was butting up against the encroaching fall, daring the next season to steal its thunder.

“Oh, shit. What the hell is that?” Skyler said, pointing ahead as a shower of sparks shot up against the concrete barrier a few hundred yards ahead of them. A sea of red lights appeared as vehicles slammed on their brakes, skidding and sliding.

“Fuck,” Linc muttered, slowing down and yanking the wheel hard to the right. “Hang on.”

He punched the switch, and lights and sirens cut through the eerie post-crash silence. On the shoulder, he swerved around an orange construction sign and stomped the gas, flying past the stunned occupants of stopped cars.

A cloud of black smoke rose up in front of a jackknifed tractor-trailer truck. He could smell it. Burnt rubber, spilled chemicals, and fire.

“That’s not good,” Skyler said, already slipping out of her seatbelt.

“Call it in and kill the sirens,” he ordered. Slamming on the brakes, he threw the SUV in park and killed the engine.

“We’ve got a multi-vehicle collision on Highway 422, mile marker thirty-three,” he heard her saying into the radio as he jumped out of the SUV. “Benevolence FD chief is on-scene.”

He popped the hatch and dragged out his turnout gear. Adrenaline was his friend, keeping his movements quick and efficient. In seconds, he was geared up and heading in the direction of calls for help while he stuffed his gloves in his pockets.

“Hey, man! What can I do?” the driver of a tractor-trailer truck yelled from his cab window.

“Get some of your 18-wheeled pals to block traffic on both sides,” Linc called back. They’d need to land the helicopter on the other side of the highway.

The guy threw him a salute.

“Get the kit,” Linc yelled to Skyler when she popped out of the passenger side.

A woman, early fifties, with blood from a cut on her forehead dripping onto her bright blue tank top, walked dazedly toward him. She looked like she’d just come from a yoga class.

That was the kicker about this job. It was a constant reminder that life could change on a dime. People never knew when their everyday lives were going to come to an unceremonious halt. When their schedules and to-do lists would be interrupted by something that changed everything.

“Ma’am, if you can walk, I need you to move to the side of the road,” he said, squeezing her shoulders. “Can you do that?”

She nodded slowly.

“I got her.” A man in a business suit limped toward them. His shirt was covered in whatever he’d been eating at the time of the crash.

“Take her over there, as far away as you can get from the smoke. Grab anyone else you can,” Linc ordered.

He didn’t wait to see if they did his bidding. There were more people, climbing out of mangled metal. Broken glass crunching under feet that hadn’t intended to walk through disaster today. He reached the rear of the truck, still shouting for everyone to get clear when the heat hit him head-on.

Two cars—a Jeep and the sedan in front of it—were smashed between the eighteen-wheeler and the center divider. The engine compartment of the Jeep was engulfed in flames.