“You’re whiter than you were at your house. If you’re looking for him, you won’t be looking for anything else.”
She unclipped her seat belt and stood. “There could be survivors in there! How can you just sit here and wait?”
“There could be another bomb in there, Hannah!” He got in her face and pointed out the window. “There are propane tanks sitting right there! You bet your ass I’m going to wait!”
She looked. There were two large propane tanks at the back of the restaurant, probably still intact because of nothing more than a huge stroke of luck.
But her eyes focused on what was parked right behind those propane tanks. A large red diesel pickup truck. Stray bits of lumber had landed across the cab, denting the roof and fracturing the windshield. The passenger door was clearly visible.
Along with the MERRICK LANDSCAPING logo.
“It’s his truck,” she said. Her voice almost broke as she swept her eyes across the rubble again. No movement aside from the wisps of smoke rising from the wreckage. “Irish, it’s his truck.”
Irish knocked on the glass separating them from the front part of the cab, where her battalion chief sat. When the glass slid open, Irish said, “Chief, she can’t work this scene.”
“I can!” she cried.
“Look at me.” Irish put his hands on her cheeks. “Look at me, Blondie.”
“His brothers—we have to find him. They’re under eighteen—we need to find him—”
“Hannah. Look at me.”
His voice was firm, and his chocolate-brown eyes were locked on hers. His hands were warm and strong against her face. She looked at him.
“We’ll find him,” he said. “I promise.” He paused. “Don’t make me rescue you too.”
Something in his voice steadied her. She opened her mouth to respond.
Then the chief called for them to join the crew from the other trucks to form a plan of action. She pulled away from Irish, feeling warmth on her cheeks. He shifted past her to climb down from the truck.
When she moved to follow him, the chief said, “Not you, Blondie. Sit tight.”
“But—”
“That’s an order!”
His voice left no room for argument. She fell back into the seat.
Through the window, she could watch the flurry of activity. Groups of firefighters were getting orders. Some of it came across her radio. Police officers had blocked the roads, so no traffic could come through. A large truck from the county collapse unit rolled up—but still no one approached the structure. They were all waiting for the bomb squad.
She watched for any sign of survivors but saw none.
How long had it been? Twenty minutes?
Every minute counted. She knew. She’d been trained for this.
We don’t trade lives for dead bodies, Hannah.
Her father’s voice, so clear, even years later. A hard and fast rule.
Had they found evidence of a bomb last night? Had that been the cause of the “earthquake”? Her father hadn’t said—but he wouldn’t tell her, anyway.
Her breathing echoed in the empty truck. Despite the chill in the air, her bunker coat felt stifling. She couldn’t keep sitting here, wrapped in worry.
She climbed down from the cab, easing out of the truck on the side away from the rest of the crew. The chief couldn’t imprison her in the truck, but he could yell at her for disobeying orders. She’d seen her dad’s car, and all she needed was for him to hear her getting dressed down. He’d order her out of here in a heartbeat, and the only way she would leave was if she was handcuffed in a cop car.
She wouldn’t put it past him.
Her radio squawked on her shoulder, and she quickly dialed down the volume. She moved to the back of the truck and pulled her helmet onto her head, hoping it would make her less recognizable. She opened the cabinet at the back, taking down some tools, then putting them back. Trying to look like she was standing here with a purpose.
She was really watching the site of destruction.
No movement.
Across the parking lot stood the crew from company ten. She knew some of them, but not many. They wouldn’t know she’d been ordered to wait. She doubled back behind the fire trucks, walking with purpose, carrying a Halligan bar from the back of her engine as if she’d been sent to fetch something.
Yeah, right, like the guys from ten don’t have a bar on their truck.
But what else was she going to carry? The fire hose? Might draw attention.
Her radio chirped again, only loud enough for her to hear. At first she ignored the radio chatter, but then her brain latched on to the message.
Thermal imaging showed no signs of life. All rescue units were ordered to wait for the area to be cleared.
No signs of life.
Michael. Her eyes flew to his damaged truck.
Keep moving. Find a task.
What task? What could she do?
She couldn’t breathe. Had he survived last night only to die here and now?
Then she heard the clink.