Page 3 of Raven (Golden Team Army Special Forces #5)

3

Beatrice

I enjoyed being a firefighter. I understood fire in a way most people didn’t.

You can’t fight something you don’t understand.

“Your turn to restock the engine, Jones,” Captain Ramirez said as he walked past with his coffee.

I saluted lazily. “On it,” I called out.

Mike was back at the house, hopefully not chewing through the couch. I would hate for Ryan to have another sofa chewed up. He hated being left behind, but it was protocol. I grabbed my gloves, zipped up my gear, and started checking hoses and fittings, keeping busy and staying focused.

But my mind wasn’t in it today.

Raven’s words kept circling.

I know someone was out here. And they came too damn close.

My gut agreed. Something was brewing. Something worse than the typical wildfire season.

“You good?” a voice asked.

I turned to see Eli Patterson, the new guy. Barely out of rookie status, but eager. Green, but with decent instincts.

“Peachy,” I said, shutting the compartment door.

The station phone rang inside. Five seconds later, the tone sounded—dispatch was on the radio.

“Engine Two, Ladder Five, medical fire call. Abandoned warehouse on Warbler Street. Possible explosion.”

Ramirez barked orders before we even climbed inside the trucks.

“Beatrice, you’re leading the hose on the south entrance. Patterson, you’re backup. Martinez and I will sweep the east. Get in, get out. Let’s not be heroes.”

I threw on my helmet, clipped my radio, and climbed in.

* * *

The fire was already visible when we turned onto Warbler. Orange flames licked out of the upper windows. Smoke curled into the sky like a fist.

The place had been shut down for years. Nobody was supposed to be inside.

But someone had called it in. And someone had locked the damn gates from the outside.

“Smells like diesel,” Patterson said, climbing out beside me.

I sniffed. He was right. “Yeah, it does.”

And that wasn’t just bad luck or a meth lab. That was intentional.

We busted through the chain-link fence and made entry. Visibility dropped to nothing. Thick smoke, electrical wire popping overhead, glass crunching underfoot.

“Ventilation’s shit,” I said into the radio. “Proceeding anyway.”

The air felt… wrong. It was hot and heavy, like the fire was feeding on something more than just wood and paint.

“Over here!” Patterson shouted, his voice muffled by his mask. “There’s someone!”

I rushed forward. A figure was slumped near the far wall. Female. Barely conscious. Covered in soot, but breathing.

We hoisted her between us and made the long, brutal crawl back outside.

* * *

Outside, EMTs took over. I pulled off my mask and gulped down fresh air.

“Who was she?” I asked as they loaded the woman into the ambulance.

“No ID,” one of the medics said. “We’ll find out at the hospital.”

But I already knew something was off.

Because as they cleaned soot from the woman’s face, I caught a glimpse of a symbol scrawled on her hand in black marker.

A jagged triangle with a slash through it.

I’d seen it before.

Years ago, on a compound we raided during a joint training op in Guatemala. It belonged to a private paramilitary group that specialized in torture, smuggling, and black-market arson-for-hire. I’d never told the whole truth about what I saw there.

And I had never, ever , told anyone that I used to work undercover for the government. We were hunting thousands of children who were sex trafficked, and we had word that some were in Guatemala. This fire wasn’t just a fire.

It was a message.

They found me.

And I’d just dragged that trouble right into a town full of Navy SEALs, pregnant women, and people who liked to grill steaks on the beach and eat fruit salad.

Perfect.