A fireman in yellow, face streaked with sweat and soot, walks up to the line of parked cars.
“We’re asking everyone to move down the road a bit. Safer zone’s just around the bend, near the turnout.”
I nod, turning back to my car. But then, like a scene straight out of a disaster movie, the wind shifts.
Hard.
The smoke whips sideways. The fire follows, eating up the dried brush. It’s coming straight for us.
“Get in your cars!” someone yells.
I fumble for the handle. The heat is unbearable now, like standing too close to an open oven.
Then the chopper comes back.
And this time? The bucket tilts right above us.
Water slams down like a tidal wave, a soaking cascade that hits the fire, the cars…and me.
The shock steals the breath from my lungs. I gasp, even as I duck instinctively. The force of the drop makes my knees buckle. Myshirt clings to my skin, my hair dripping, and my shoes squelch when I move.
And my sunroof was open.
Fantastic. Just great.
I look up, furious and soaked. The fire is gone, at least this patch of it. Smoldering and wet. But so am I.
What. The. Hell?
The chopper circles once more, then veers off. Mission complete.
Some people laugh. One guy’s filming with his phone. But me?
Oh, I’m not amused.
Whoever that cocky show-off is in that bird, he’s got a storm coming.
And her name is Ruby Jackson.
Chapter Two
Jake
This is the part of my job I live for.
Rotor blades slicing through hot wind, smoke rising like ghosts from the tree line, every nerve in my body tuned to the fight. I’ve got maybe six more passes before this thing either dies out or doubles back and eats the road to town alive.
It’s not the biggest fire I’ve fought, not even close. But it’s dangerously placed. Right along the main drag where traffic bottlenecks. Too many civilians trapped with nowhere to go. A scene that can boomerang into a nightmare if we don’t act fast.
I loop the bird around and dip low over the river, swinging the bucket steady and deep until I feel the weight shift under me. Full. Clean. I rise again, banking right toward the line where flames creep closer to the stalled line of cars.
I can see their faces from up here.
Pale. Sweaty. Some filming me like this is a goddamn air show and not a rush job to keep their asses from getting torched.
Then the wind changes.
Sudden. Sharp. Southbound.
