“All right, people,” barked the lieutenant. “Let’s go, let’s go!”
Flash and her crew rushed to the turnout room, stepped into their protective pants and boots, and shagged their turnout coats and helmets. They were buckled into the engine in under sixty seconds. Waylon flicked on the siren, pulled onto the street, and they were away. Edwards commandeered the shotgun seat, leaving Flash, Shaquille, and the new guy, Bobbie Flores, in the rear.
“Welcome back, Cash,” Bobbie greeted her. Experienced on both an engine and ladder truck, Waylon said he was a real firedawg—a solid firefighter—who moved from Station Seventeen because he’d made the mistake of dating an in-house co-worker. After a messy breakup, one of them had to go, and Flores drew the short straw. It turned out he was a good fit for their crew.
“Thanks, man,” she answered while double-checking her gear.
He slung back his long sweep of ebony hair and secured his black and yellow thermoplastic helmet. With a look of intense interest, he asked, “How was it out in the wild, tackling something that massive?”
Flash cocked her head, squinting, searching for a suitable example. “Kind of like working twelve hours a day at a very demanding landscaping job, only any minute the wind could shift and roast you like a marshmallow.”
“No kidding!” Bobbie’s expression morphedinto surprise.
“Cash. Flores. Focus on your task,” Edwards threw over his shoulder—an order, not a suggestion.
“Yes, sir.” Bobbie’s crisp reply came with a grin and a wink at Flash that the lieutenant couldn’t see. She lowered her chin, trying to repress a grin. She missed Smokey.
When the big, bright truck pulled to a stop, it blocked two entire lanes of traffic. A police car was already on scene, with an officer slowing and directing traffic around the vehicles involved. At once, Flash saw why squad was called. An SUV had punched a hole through the safety railing and dangled off the edge of an overpass. It appeared a hair’s breadth from plunging into rush-hour traffic.
“Squad’s got the SUV,” Lieutenant Edwards called as they hopped out, ready to race into action. “Adams and Cash, check out these other cars and drivers. Woods and Flores, get a hose ready if they find any gas or oil leaks.” As Nita and Al Luis headed toward the crash with a gurney and med kits at the ready, he held up a hand. “You two wait for the all-clear.”
“You’ve got it,” Flash replied, sharing a glance with Nita. The protocol was to always clear a scene of imminent danger before allowing the medics in.
She and Waylon split up, each trotting to a different car. Waylon stopped at a navy sedan that had run up under a white pickup truck, the truck’s rear tires resting on its hood. A spiderweb of cracks covered the busted windshield, and the passenger door, dented and jammed, trapped the people inside. Flash detected movement inside as she skittered to a halt at the driver’s door of the Ford F-150.
“Sir, are you injured?” she asked, giving him an assessing once-over. He had a gash on his forehead and seemed disoriented.
Waving a hand randomly, he blinked, trying unsuccessfully to focus. “My kid … in the back.”
Flash took a step away, raising a hand to her eyes to block the sun’s glare off the glass. The three- or four-year-old little girl, strapped securely in a car seat, was conscious and crying. Before trying a door, she squatted to peer under the partially upended truck. One whiff put her on alert—gasoline.
In her peripheral vision, Flash spotted the squad crew hooking chains and straps on the precarious SUV to secure it before extracting the driver. “Hang on, ma’am,” Jackson instructed in a calm, authoritative tone. “We’ll have you out in a jiffy.”
But Flash had an assignment. She had to focus on her task.
“Woods, Flores!” Flash yelled toward the engine. They had unrolled a hose, and Woods was screwing it into an onboard nozzle. “Get over here and hose down this pile up.” She didn’t want to shout the word “gas leak” where the driver could hear her and panic. Shaquille would know it was important.
Shifting back to the driver, Flash tried the door, and it creaked open. “Sir, let’s get you out. What’s your daughter’s name?”
“Ashley,” he said as he stumbled his feet over the side rails. The chunky man gripped the doorframe and stared down at asphalt littered with broken glass and metal.
“Do you think you can stand?” Flash asked, then glanced over with relief to spy Woods and Flores hauling the hose toward the wreck.
“I think so,” he answered. “A little dizzy.”
“Flores,” she called, since his stature matched the victim’s. “Help him over to the ambo. I’ve got to get the little girl.”
“Sure thing.” In a blink, Flores had the driver in hand while Woods positioned the hose.
“Under here,” Flash directed, pointing to the intersection of the two smashed vehicles. “Keep an eye out while I grab the kid.”
Flash had to stretch to reach the backdoor handle. “Stuck!” she exhaled in frustration. At that moment, the spilled gasoline ignited in a whoosh, causing her to jump back and cover her face. A cloud of black, sooty smoke, rank with pungent petroleum odor, curled at her like an enemy’s fist.
“Flores!” Woods yelled.
Flash took up a position behind Shaquille, bracing him and the hose. “Let her rip.”
He opened the valve, spraying water over the hood of the car and undercarriage of the truck bed. Flash detected screams and voices shouting over the noise from the hose.
