Page 8 of Ashfall
I bring my clipboard up and jot it down, but my attention moves from his words to the posture of the others—shoulders tight, jawlines hard. They’re alert. Guarded. And not just from the fire. They’ve seen something, or at least think they have. Or they’re hiding something. Maybe both.
I press them for more by weaving questions between small talk and field data, probing for cracks in the wall they’ve clearly been taught to maintain. One guy hesitates for just a second too long when I ask about the ignition point timing. Another keeps his gaze too carefully on his boots. There’s a rhythm to field interviews—you can tell when answers are honest, when they’re filtered, and when they’re rehearsed. These are filtered.
By the time I move on to the next group, I can feel a certain level of resentment that I’m poking around their turf or worse, looking for someone to blame. But layered under that? I sense a certain level of respect—the kind men show a storm cloud they’re not sure will break or blow past.
Most of the next crew is as tight-lipped as the first. One guy—tall, lean, with a scar that says he’s danced with flame and survived—gives me a bit more. "The burn's wrong," he says. "We felt it as soon as we got here. It's like it was waiting for us."
Interesting. Not just the words—they spark something deeper, a low hum in my chest I can’t explain. That kindof phrasing—waiting for us—isn’t casual. It's not something a firefighter says unless he feels it in his gut. And I’ve felt that before, in other cases that never added up. Flames behaving like they had intent. Like they weren’t just burning—they were watching. A setup. A snare. A test.
After gathering what info I can, I head inside the ops tent; I spread the topographic maps across the table and overlay the fire progression reports. The familiar sound of static and hushed comms chatter fills the space, grounding me. This is where I do my best work—not in front of cameras or in courtrooms, but here, elbow-deep in data, watching fire reveal its secrets.
The patterns jump out at me like a slap to the face: mirrored flares, unnatural arcs, skipped fuel zones. Fire rarely moves like this. It consumes. It spreads. But this—this feels guided. Intelligent. Strategic. Like someone mapped this fire on a board and made sure it hit exactly where it would hurt the most.
Either the forest spontaneously combusted with GPS precision, or someone’s got a real thing for chaos. I suspect it’s the latter.
I’ve seen fires behave with intelligence before—but only once. And that case never left me.
In the foothills just outside Denver three years ago, the blaze had moved like it had eyes, bypassing open fuel to circle an old ranger outpost. No change in direction of the wind had explained it. No lightning, no humans, no equipment failure. Just fire that knew.
We couldn’t prove anything. No cause had been found. No suspect. The investigation had disappeared into red tape. But I remember the look on my supervisor's face when I brought him the early report. Not shock. Not disbelief. Recognition.
That same feeling creeps up my spine. But this? This feels like the same signature. It’s almost a perfect match.
I trace the looping path across the map with my finger, connecting arcs and flares like points in a hellish constellation. It’s not random—it’s deliberate. Someone’s painting with fire, and every burn scar is a signature. A pattern ripples outward, destruction pulsing from a single source. This isn’t just arson—it’s evolution. Precision. Whoever’s behind it is learning, refining their reach with each new blaze.
The real question isn’t how. It’s why.
Why this place? Why now? Who has the knowledge—and the patience—to wield wildfire like a scalpel instead of a sledgehammer? It’s not chance. Someone orchestrated this, a controlled chaos.
Fire as a message. Fire as a weapon.
And the deeper I look, the clearer it becomes—this isn’t about destruction alone.
Someone’s guiding the flame.
I feel him before I see him.Dax doesn’t announce himself. Just steps into the tent like he owns the air I’m breathing. I don’t have to turn to know it’s him—the room changes. The temperature, the weight of the silence, the pull on the back of my neck like a current sliding under my skin. He stops a few feet behind me, and I swear I can feel his eyes tracing every inch of my spine.
Of course, he shows up like Batman, minus the cape, but fully armed with a broody glower and a healthy dose of sex appeal. God, I need to get a grip… or get laid. Probably both.
"You always sneak up on women working?" I ask, not looking up from the maps, though my pulse has already noticed him. "Or is this some alpha male dominance thing, where startling your federal liaison counts as foreplay?"
"Didn’t realize you needed warning," he says, voice low. Rough. A little too close. But there's a flicker in his eyes—amusement, like he finds my snark more entertaining thanirritating. The corner of his mouth quirks upward—not quite a smile, but close enough to rattle me. He looks like he’s holding back something sharp and amused, like a man who just discovered his favorite game has unexpected teeth.
I glance over my shoulder, arching an eyebrow. He’s shirtless and damp from whatever hell he launched himself into and got out of. "You radiate ten feet of male dominance. Pretty sure it counts as a warning."
His lips twitch, like he wants to smile, but doesn’t trust himself with it. "You didn’t flinch."
"I don’t flinch," I shoot back. "Especially not for smokejumpers who drop out of the sky and play classified with arson data."
He steps around the table slowly, gaze flicking from the maps to me. Closer now. Too close. "You left out data," I say, tapping a section of the map. "Here, and here. Four ignition points in a triangle. That’s not wind. That’s math."
He doesn’t blink. "Not everything makes it into the report."
"Yeah? And what makes the cut? Whatever you feel like sharing?"
"Some things are off paper for a reason."
"You mean you don’t trust me.”
