There was no time to wait for squad. Flash struck off up the stairs into intense heat and radiating waves of fire. She pushed the button on the radio clipped to her coat collar. “Cash heading upstairs to secure child victims. Adams has custody of the father.”
“Roger,” came a male voice through the crackling speaker. “Squad on the way to assist.”
Taking the steps two at a time, Flash arrived on an engulfed second floor. “Fire department, call out!”
A high-pitched scream cut through the roar of the blaze, followed by the words, “We’re in here!” Not a helpful description, but Flash could discern the direction they’d come from. Hugging the railing, she skirted a burning wall, its flaming tongues licking the ceiling, and stopped at a closed door. Smoke puffed from under it, and she heard frantic voices within. Flash yanked off a glove to test the door’s temperature, then the knob. Hot, but not scorching. Nothing about the fire’s activity suggested the room presented a flashover point, especially since the crack under the door was at least two inches above the hardwood floor.
Jamming her hand back into the glove, Flash opened the door an inch, two, then flung it wide. A curtain of flames lashed out, cruel and lethal, through the middle of the playroom, rapidly consuming a pile of stuffed toys. One little girl hopped up and down crying on Flash’s side of the barrier, while another child—boy or girl, she couldn’t tell—pressed against an exterior wall on the far side of the conflagration.
With only a split second to act, Flash made an instinctual decision. She could, without question, rescue the girl nearest the door, so that’s what she did. Dashing into the blaze, she grabbed the child, hauling her to her hip, and pushed her face into the folds of her protective coat.
“Hang on, kid. I’ve got you.”
“Terry!” she wailed.
“I’ll come back for Terry,” Flash promised as she bustled the child from the room and down the hallway. The growing firestorm, no doubt egged on by synthetic fabrics, a wooden floor and framing, and whatever composed the insulation, chased them down the stairs. Two squad members met her at the landing, and Flash handed off the child.
“There’s another one up there,” she said. “I’m going back.”
“I’ll get ‘em,” asserted the other firefighter as he stepped past her.
“I promised,” Flash argued, shadowing him up the staircase. Suddenly, the stairs gave way. Flash hit hard—pain lanced her leg. They tumbled into a heap of steaming, scorched wood with combustion popping up all around them.
Flash pushed call on her radio. “Arredondo and I are stuck in a collapsed stairwell. Get a ladder up to the second-floor window on the west side immediately. There’s a child trapped, and we can’t get to him.”
Lieutenant Edwards answered, “Damnit, that’s the side with the raging fire. We’ve got hoses spraying over there. Adams!” he clicked off, and Flash began helping Arredondo pry debris out of their way.
Searing heat assaulted them in waves. A glance over Flash’s shoulder alerted her as the hellish jaws of the monstrous beast snapped ever nearer. Like a dancing sprite, a flame erupted in the rubble an inch from her boot. Playing the role of avenging giant, she stomped it out.
“We’ve got you,” said Lieutenant Jackson as he and another squad member pried a broad hole in the side of the wrecked stairs.
“Thanks, man!” Flash and Arredondo wiggled out just as flaming fingers ignited the debris.
“The kid?” Arredondo asked.
“Don’t know,” replied Jackson, “but nobody’s getting back up there from here.”
With a knot the size of Rhode Island tightening in her gut, Flash seized the nozzle end of the hose she and Waylon had left lying in the front room. “Give me a hand,” she called to whomever would respond. Jackson moved in behind her, holding the hose tight, and Flash opened the valve. Water battled fire as they made a slow retreat, steam sizzling, blaze crackling, and smoke stinging their eyes.
Wilson and Trevino from Engine One pressed in beside them in their battle to drown the monster. “We stopped it from jumping houses,” Wilson said.
“What about the second-floor kid?” Flash asked with concern. “Did they get him?”
“Don’t know,” Trevino replied. “Captain told us to come help in here.”
Overwhelmed with water and having consumed what it could, the fiery beast capitulated, giving up the fight. Ten minutes later, only a thin trail of smoke rose from the burnt-out hole in the roof. Flash stood solemnly between Waylon and Nita on the front lawn when Lieutenant Jackson descended the ladder, carrying a small, motionless bundle in his arms. The mother’s sobs drifted through the silence.
Not wanting to watch, Flash scanned the crowd of onlookers until landing on a handsome young man with longish black hair and stylish clothes, video-recording on his mobile phone. Fury flared through every cell in her body at his insensitive intrusion on this family’s tragedy. Without a word, she stormed over to him and ripped the phone from his hand. Although her temper demanded she smash the offending device—and punch him in the nose—she stopped herself.
The fellow gaped at her. “Give that back. You have no right—”
“Youhave no damn right! What kind of sicko are you?”
“I was just filming the fire and you guys putting it out,” he replied innocently.
“The fire’s out, dickwad. You can stop filming now.” Her glare bore into him like her brother’s oil rig drill plunging through rock.
“Is there a problem here?” A uniformed police officer approached, with Lieutenant Edwards on her heels.
