Chapter one
Matthew
The radio crackled at 11:47 PM, slicing through the silence of an autumn night already heavy with the scent of wet leaves and cold pavement. "Unit Seven-Two, respond to multi-vehicle collision, possible fatalities, northbound I-5 near the Boeing Access Road."
Kayla's hand hit the siren before I could reach for the mic. "Shit night for this," she muttered, yanking us across two lanes of sparse traffic. The fog had been rolling in since dinnertime—thick, gray stuff that swallowed headlights and made everything beyond twenty feet disappear.
I checked my trauma kit for the third time in an hour—an old habit.Gear squared away before boots hit the ground. That was Dad's voice even years after he passed.
The small leather keychain was clipped to my belt—a piece cut from Dad's old turnout gloves before Ma boxed them away. All of my brothers carried something. Michael got the pin, Marcus got the helmet, Miles got his watch, and I got this. Small. Practical. Worn smooth from years of holding on.
I leaned toward Kayla. "How many vehicles?"
"Dispatch says at least four. Semi jackknifed across the northbound lanes." She took the on-ramp hard enough to rattle our equipment in the back. "Fire's already on scene."
Kayla had her collar zipped all the way up, breath fogging in front of her. I kept flexing my fingers—half from nerves, half to fight the cold creeping in through my gloves.
The collision site materialized out of the fog with red and blue strobes cutting through the murk. It painted the damp asphalt in violent splashes of color.
A delivery truck lay on its side, cargo scattered across three lanes. Steam rose from crushed hoods, and shattered glass crunched under our boots.
The screaming hit me first—a woman's voice, high and ragged, calling someone's name over and over. Then, the mechanical noise: car horns stuck blaring and the hiss of escaping steam and fluids. Smoke curled around the concrete median, full of the acrid smell of burnt rubber.
"Jesus," Kayla breathed, surveying the wreckage.
I was already moving. A firefighter waved us toward a blue sedan pancaked against the guardrail. "Woman and kid here, conscious but shocky."
I dropped to one knee beside the driver's door, where a young woman sat twisted in her seat, phone pressed against her ear with a shaking hand. Blood trickled from a gash across her forehead. In the back seat, a toddler wailed in his car seat—more scared than hurt, from what I could see.
"Ma'am, I'm Matthew with Seattle Fire. Can you tell me your name?"
"Jessica." Her voice was thin but alert. "I called my mom. She's coming, right? My head feels... strange."
"You're going to be fine, Jessica. Let me take a look at that cut." I kept my voice level and steady. The same tone I'd used ondusty roads in Afghanistan when mortar rounds were falling. It still worked.
Around us, chaos reigned. Kayla worked on an older man thrown from his motorcycle, calling out vitals to the arriving backup unit. Firefighters moved with practiced efficiency, checking for fuel leaks and directing the few cars still moving around the wreckage. Someone walked past us barefoot, dazed, and holding a torn jacket against his shoulder.
Amid everything else, the silence underneath the overturned delivery truck drew my attention. I saw a dark shape wedged in the shadows. No movement. No sound.
Jessica was still conscious and still breathing. In a mass-casualty scene like this, my work was about managing limited time and attention. She was stable. Whatever was under that truck might not be.
"Kayla, I need to check the vehicle under the semi."
She nodded without looking up from her patient. "Watch for shifting metal."
I left Jessica with a pressure bandage and clear instructions to stay still. A second EMS unit had arrived, and one of their medics was already easing the toddler out of his car seat while another knelt beside Jessica to take my place.
I caught her eye long enough to nod, knowing she and her child were in good hands, then ducked under the truck's twisted chassis. Choking odors hit me immediately—gasoline, antifreeze, and the copper tang of blood.
The SUV's roof had been compressed nearly flat on the driver's side. For a moment, I thought it was empty.
Then I saw the hand.
Pale fingers pressed against the spider-webbed passenger window, unmoving. Blood streaked the glass. A dark shape slumped behind the wheel, barely visible in the compressed interior.
"Got someone in here!" I called to the nearest firefighter, already reaching for my flashlight.
Captain Rodriguez jogged over with a Halligan bar and bolt cutters. "Alive?"
