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 | Meljean Brook, Chris Marie Green, Erin McCarthy, Susan Sizemore |
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 | Claudia Dain, Allyson James, Robin Schone, Shiloh Walker |
Excerpt Prologue "Oh my God, the ceiling's coming down!" It was all Mitch Malvaso got out. In seconds, a crushing weight slammed him into the floor, face first. As he hit the concrete, he thought of his sister Jenny, who was also in the warehouse, slapping water on the fire that caused the collapse. "Please God, don't let her die," he murmured. Then the world went black. When he awoke, outside in the bright sunshine, he started. Pain lacerated the backs of his legs. Burns. Through his bunker pants. Sucking in a breath, he slitted his eyes and forced them to focus. The first thing he saw was that the fire, which had blazed like an angry monster, consuming Sinco Automotive's five hundred square foot warehouse, was out. Black smoke still curled from the building, where several companies of the Hidden Cove Fire Department had been called to the four alarm blaze. Were some of his men still inside? He took inventory. He was lying on a stretcher, his airpack gone and his turnout coat off. Then things crystallized. And reality hit him--where was Jenny? When he tried to move, the burns scraped raw. He let out a long low moan and consciousness momentarily dimmed. Then, he heard sirens and shouting, and people barking out orders. He shifted, and his breathing escalated with what now felt like hundreds of tiny pinpricks on the backs of his legs. He caught sight of his sister, lying on a blanket off to the left. He managed to yell, "Jenny, you okay?" but it came out like a rusty saw on wood. After worrisome seconds, she inched up onto her elbows, groaning with the effort. "Yeah. I'm okay." As if she'd been awakened from a deep sleep, she looked around. "Oh, no." She scrambled to a sitting position. "Ahh...shit, that hurts," she spat out but came up on all fours and crawled over. Kneeling above him, she said, "Mitch, oh, God, Mitch are you all right?" He drew in a breath. "I'm burned. But all right." He reached out and gripped her hand, which was streaked with grime like her face. Her dark hair was damp and matted. "You sure you are?" "I guess." Someone approached them. A medic, Jimmy, from Engine 12. "Hey, you two hanging in here?" "Yeah." Mitch surveyed the scene. Several smoke eaters lay on stretchers, the ground or blankets. Some coughing, some too still. Medical personnel were tending to a few, left others alone. Jimmy frowned. "Don't worry, Cap, we're working on getting your brother outta there." Both Jenny and he gasped. "Our brother?" Mitch said. "Zach's not here, he's on the night shift this week." All three Malvaso firefighters worked at the same station, he on the elite Rescue Squad, Jenny on Group One, Zach on Group Two of Quint/Midi 7, housed at fire department headquarters. The young medic's face blanked. Then he said, "Mitch, Zach showed up here when he heard about the fire on his scanner. He barreled inside when he realized the damn thing was out of control and you two were in there." "Son of a bitch." Mitch gripped the medic's arm. "You know anything else?" "The men that've been rescued said he pushed them out of the way when the wall started to cave on them after the ceiling fell on you guys." Mitch struggled to get up. He couldn't. "Fuck, I can't move." "You're burned bad. We did some work on you already, but others were hurt worse so...we're gonna take you to the hospital right now." "No, I'm not leaving here until I know Zach's okay." "Mitch--" "No!" He reached out again for his sister; she flinched when he made contact with her arm. Burns reddened her skin. "Get Jenny some help. Do what you can for me, but I'm staying." His heart in his throat, Mitch transferred his gaze to the building, watched the smoke circle like a lazy cat along the flat roof and wondered if his baby brother was alive. # Fifteen minutes later, they still didn't know what was happening with Zach. Jenn sat beside Mitch, ignoring the pain that danced along her upper body like electrical sparks. She stared at the warehouse where her brother was still inside. The medics had done some preliminary burn treatment on both her and Mitch, but since Mitch had dug in his heels and there were so many casualties and life threatening injuries, they were allowed to stay here and wait. It had been the worst fifteen minutes of her life. "You okay, kiddo?" Mitch asked in that tone which always made her soft. The oldest of all five of them, he played the father role much of the time. "Uh-huh." She stifled a sob. As one of ten female firefighters in the Hidden Cove Fire Department, about a hundred miles north of New York City and west of the Hudson, Jenn was tough. But this... The fire had been routine; five trucks had arrived within minutes of each other. Three of the crews had mounted an interior attack when the ceiling fell, complete with beams and searing plaster; several firefighters had been trapped. Apparently they'd rescued hers and Mitch's crews. Now, special teams were digging the rest out. She rubbed her eyes with her thumb and forefinger. "Does it hurt bad, honey?" Mitch asked. "No. Yeah. I guess." She looked down at him, and smoothed back his hair. "You?" "Like at bitch." Mitch coughed and sputtered. He'd removed his SCUBA gear--his air had run out because he'd been in the warehouse longer than her--while waiting to be rescued. Consequently, he'd inhaled a lot of smoke. Again she nodded toward the warehouse. "Mitch, Zach's still in there...do you think he's..." Jenn's eyes focused on the structure. There were dead smoke eaters inside and out here. She just prayed Zach wasn't one of them. Though her brother rode through life on a short fuse and chased after too many skirts for her taste, she didn't know what she'd do if something happened to Zach. All three Malvaso firefighters were close--since childhood they'd stuck together against their other brother and sister, and the world in general. What if... Her hand crept out to the side. "Mitello?" They only used their given, Italian names when things were really bad. Mitch found her hand, clasped it. "Yeah, Genevieve?" "If he gets out of there..." "When he gets out of there." "When. We're going to do things different. All of us." "What do you mean?" "I wanna have a baby." Her brother chuckled, then choked like a rookie eating his first smoke. His voice came out in a wheezy rumble. "Better find yourself a fella first." "What would you do different, if you had the chance?" Pain turned her voice raw. "I know you haven't been happy with Cindy." "No, I haven't been happy. And my kids need help." "Promise me, when this is over--" she gripped his hand tighter "--you'll do something about all that. You'll make your life better." "Okay, I promise." She glanced back at the warehouse. "Zaccaria, too. He's gotta get his act together. We'll help him." Momentarily, Mitch closed his eyes. He looked like he was struggling to stay conscious. "All right. The three of us, we'll do better. We'll live better lives." Just then a shadow came over them. Both she and Mitch looked up and when she saw who it was, Jenny's eyes started to tear. "Oh, God, Grady." Her best friend in the world, and coworker on her crew, crouched down. Despite the cast on his arm, which had kept him off the line and out of harm's way for this fire, he clasped her to him. She buried his face in his big safe chest. "I just heard and came over." He knelt to hold her more securely. She felt a hand in her hair. Soothing her, he said to Mitch, "What's going on?" "Zach..." Mitch cleared his throat. "He's in there." "What?" Jenny heard Mitch mumble an explanation. Grady said, "Son of a--" but stopped. Stilled. His body went taut. Jenny drew back; Grady was staring at the building. She turned to see two firefighters stumble out. Both were covered with a layers of grime and white dust. One held on to shoulders, the other on to the feet of an HCFD smoke eater. She tensed. Though she couldn't make out who they carried, Jenny knew in her heart it was her brother. He looked dead.
Chapter 1
Clouds of gray smoke billowed from the old two-story house as the Rescue Squad vehicle swerved onto North Park Ave. The blare of sirens and the screech of the tires made adrenaline pump double time through Mitch's veins. Hopping off the truck, he hurried to Incident Command, the makeshift site where the battalion chief had spread out a sketch of the house on the hood of his truck and diagramed how they would fight the blaze. The nearest firehouse rig, Engine 12, was first-in and had already set up hose in the front. "Malvaso," the battalion chief called out. "Get your crew around back." He pointed to a drawing. "Engine 4's laying a hose here, in the rear. We laid a line in the front but the entry's blocked now." He nodded to the aerial ladder rising from the truck, already dumping a master stream on the outside. "The bucket's up and they're about to ventilate." "Who's in there?" Mitch asked. His men came up behind him. They'd be conducting search and rescue. "Kids. Teenagers. We have reason to believe they were doing drugs upstairs." Mitch cringed, thinking of his daughter Trish. The school's "intervention" meeting last week, called with him and Cynthia, flashed through his mind. He suppressed it ruthlessly to concentrate on the present. Without further discussion, Mitch hustled around the back of the house with his squad. It was dark in the rear. Somebody from the second-in group, Engine 4, was hooking up a generator for light, but it wasn't on yet. The huge wooden door to the house was locked or stuck; firefighters were taking it with the rabbit ram. Mitch and his crew stood back as they popped the door. Then the spotlight came on, blindingly bright, after the darkness. The lieutenant on 4 nodded to Mitch. "We'll go in first with the hose." "I'm right behind you." Mitch yanked off his helmet, donned his airpack over his Nomex hood, hooked up the hose and situated his helmet again. Then he followed the two inside, his men trailing him. Engines 12 and 4 would knock down the fire and his guys would find survivors. Or victims. A semi-opaque curtain of charcoal gray smoke assaulted them as soon as they stepped through the doorway. Something must be burning that they didn't expect; the color of the smoke darkened--and was more dangerous--depending on how noxious the substance was that caught fire. Was it lead? Asbestos? Two feet in, he heard the chief's instructions over his radio. "Stairway's through the kitchen to the right. A neighbor says the kids' bedrooms are at the top of the stairs." "Confirmed. I--" Mitch heard somebody yell in the background and the battalion chief barked something out to them. They'd just reached the doorway leading to the living area when a sudden blast slammed them back. Flames roared in a fireball in front of them. The linemen with the hose landed on their asses, as did Mitch and his four men. What the hell? He thought the first-in group had already ventilated. They all scrambled up; the guy on the nozzle slapped water on the fire, trying to knock it down. Everybody was grumbling and swearing. Mitch plodded on; later, he'd haul somebody's ass about the delay in ventilating. When he entered the living room, he was hit by an inferno so potent, he dropped to his knees, signaling his men to go down. The Red Devil burned hot, taunting them with its fiery breath. It was slow going up the stairs. Rivulets of sweat ran down Mitch's back and dripped into his eyes. Even with the airpack, he was sucking in breaths. He unbuttoned the top of his navy blue turnout coat. Finally, he reached the second floor. Still crouched down where it was cooler, his hand sliding along the wall, he made his way to what he hoped was the first bedroom, per the chief's instructions. Pitch black in here and furnace hot, the place reminded him of Sinco. For a minute, his heart constricted. Every time they went into a fire now, all HCFD firefighters experienced momentary unease. Mitch did, too, even though his sister and brother had survived. Mitch shook off his fear and stopped to listen; a smoke eater's sense of hearing could save his life, or the lives of others. He heard faint moaning. "Somebody's in the first bedroom," he yelled into his radio to his men. "Snyder, search the left side with Thomas. McKenna you're with me. LoTurco, stay back in case we need you." He found a bed by sheer blind luck and pressed on the mattress. It bounced, indicating a somebody was on it. He gripped solid form: a leg. It kicked in response. "I got one." He dragged the victim toward him. He groped around. "Shit, more than one." His hands slid up and down a body, which again moved. From across the room, Snyder called out, "There's a couple here. Both movin'." It was a minute before Mitch said, "Jesus H. Christ, mine's fuckin' naked." He heard laughs. "Mine, too." "Birthday suit on mine." Hoisting his victim up in a traditional fireman's carry, Mitch fitted the boy over his shoulders. Slowly, he found the wall again and squatting as much as he could, given the weight of the kid, he made his way to the door of the bedroom. Out of it. The victim was heavy; Mitch's shoulder muscles burned with the load. Navigating the stairs was a bitch. He shifted gingerly with each step. Once, he'd seen a firefighter and victim tumble down stairs, causing major injuries to both of them. "Careful," he said into the radio. "Railing'll be loose." He took another step, stumbled, gained his balance and inched down. By rights, the fire should have been out by now. That he could see flames to left, along with the thick black smoke encompassing the first floor, told him something had gone wrong. And the hose to follow out was no longer there. Capitalizing on a well-honed sense of direction, Mitch felt his way. He made it through the living room, to the kitchen, where he heard noise. The battalion chief was at the back door yelling. "Right here, Mitch baby. We're right here. Follow my voice." For some reason, he thought of the men and one woman who didn't make it out of the Sinco fire. They'd been trapped, but died before an encouraging voice could lead them out or rescue crews could find them. Shit, he couldn't afford this now. Following the BC's voice, Mitch found his way to the exit. When he reached the clean air, the absence of heat hit him first. Someone slid the kid off his back and Mitch fell to his knees. His head down, he tried to regain his equilibrium. Finally he was able to stand. Whipping off his helmet and hood, yanking open his coat, he pulled off his gloves and surveyed the scene. Son of a bitch. Four teenagers, three boys and a girl, naked as the day they were born and covered with smoky grime, lay sprawled out on the grass. "Somebody get blankets," Mitch yelled. "Why?" Snyder asked, still on his knees. "They aren't modest. They were probably having some kind of orgy." Still, it didn't sit well with Mitch to gawk at them. He reissued the order. Amidst the wail of sirens and flashing red lights, another person appeared on the scene. Mitch didn't recognize her. Tall, solid but slender, with wispy blond hair, she wore a navy pantsuit with a white blouse underneath. She crossed to the officer in charge, who was within hearing distance of Mitch. "Battalion Chief Jackson?" she asked. "Yes, ma'am." She flashed a badge. "Detective Hale." Ah, the new addition to Hidden Cove's Finest. Mitch had heard a woman from New York City had come on board their police force a few weeks ago. "The radio report said suspicion of drug use," Jackson commented. "Yeah, there is." A kid writhed on the ground. The sound of his moans caught Hale's attention and she crossed to him. Mitch shifted and saw the boy was about Bobby's age, only sixteen. Detective Hale picked up a blanket someone had brought, draped it over the kid, then squatted down. "You okay?" "Man, I'm gonna puke." Gently, Hale turned the boy on his side, straightened and stepped back. She faced a uniformed cop while the kid barfed violently on the ground. "They going in the ambulance?" "Yeah." "Go with them. Get down what they say." Her gaze locked on Mitch. As she crossed to him, he unhooked his turnout coat and shrugged it off, noticing his white captain's shirt was streaked with grime. The October night had turned warm and he was sweating like a pig. Up close, Hale was attractive enough, though not what Zach would call a fox. But those eyes--they were huge, light brown, and almost almond shaped. He wondered briefly if she was a real blond. Only one way to tell, his brother often crudely commented. "...Detective Hale," the woman was saying. "Mitch Malvaso." He wiped his hand on his shirt and held it out. "Jesus, you're burned." He glanced down. His wrist had gotten singed where the turnout coat met his gloves--a common side effect of fire fighting. "Get a medic over here," Hale yelled. The ambulance had pulled in and an EMT Mitch knew approached him. "Let me see, Mitch." "It's nothing, Louie." Louise Schroeder--a big German woman with nerves of steel--had grown up three streets over from him. Hale watched for a minute as Louise got out a cloth to clean away the dirt. "You see anything suspicious up there?" Hale asked when the doctoring was underway. "No, ma'am. Not a thing. It was pitch black." "You sure?" "Hard not to be sure when it's totally dark." "Damn. We've had this house under watch for days." At his questioning look, she said, "Got a tip about drugs." "Kids must be stoned on something. They were all--" He started. "Christ, Louise, that hurts like hell." "I'll kiss and make it better when I'm done." Hale glanced at the EMT. From a big city, she probably wasn't used to knowing all the rescue personnel on a call. "I'd like to talk to you, Firefighter Malvaso," she said. "It's Captain Malvaso," Louise said with pride in her voice. "Yeah, sure. You going back to the fire house, Captain?" "Uh-huh." She checked her watch with brisk efficiency. "I'm coming over as soon as I get a statement from these kids." "I told you I didn't see anything." "I still want a formal report." "It's your time," he said easily. "That it is." Turning, she walked away. "I'm on the Rescue Squad. We're housed at Quint 7, connected to headquarters," he called out after her. She waved her hand above her head without looking back. He noticed she had a nice ass. When Louise was done with the bandages--geez, he was glad the burns were only first degree--Mitch followed his crewmen to the truck. The first-in group would stick around for salvage and overhaul. Cleanup was one thing he didn't miss being on the Rescue Squad. He slid into the shotgun seat. As they pulled away from the curb, Snyder angled his head to the left. "She's a looker, isn't she?" "Who?" Mitch asked. He was thinking about how young those kids were. "The Detective." "Is she?" "Hey, just 'cause you ordered, don't mean you can't read the menu, Cap." He thought about his wife, Cynthia. Yeah, he'd ordered all right. But had he made the right choice? It was such a cliché. She came from a wealthy family in New York. He'd met her when he was twenty, and in the city for a convention. There had been such sizzle between them that neither had thought of what their life would be like if they hooked up. He'd gone through a fancy wedding, and taken money from her parents to buy her the house she wanted. She'd moved to Hidden Cove, had his babies, but had never truly accepted his lifestyle as a firefighter. He was away too much. He should move up the ladder faster. He should quit altogether and go back to school, make something of himself like his brother Paulie. For the last five years, up until the Sinco fire, their relationship had been a constant battle. The worst part had been her temper tantrums. They were worthy of a five-year-old. But, he held his ground about the fire department he loved. And he rarely considered leaving her because of the kids. She could never be trusted alone with them. For Cindy's part, overly concerned with appearances, she'd kept up the front. As far as everybody outside the family knew, they had a good relationship. Amazing how you could hide the truth from so many people for so long. Only now, since Sinco, Mitch didn't want to keep everything to himself anymore. He wanted to be fully involved in life, like he'd promised Jenny that day. Truth be told, he wanted out of the dead-end relationship that his marriage had become. Too bad Cynthia didn't feel the same. Christ, she'd turned from Shrew-of-the-Month to June Cleaver since the fire. Mitch wasn't buying it, though. Mostly, he was just waiting for the old Cynthia to show her colors. Meanwhile, he didn't know how to handle her "rekindled feelings" for him and her desire to "keep the marriage together for the kids." As if he hadn't been doing that for a decade. Exhausted, his wrist throbbing, he lay his head back on the seat as the men joked around him and the rig bumped its way back to the station house. Nothing made sense to Mitch any more, so why should Cynthia's behavior? Since the fire, all of life had turned murky. Wearily, he wondered if anything would ever be right again. # Megan Hale just wanted to make it through the day. Or rather, she thought glancing at her watch, the night. But she had one more stop to make before she headed home. Some home. A little rented studio on Fourth Street. Well, hell, she'd only been in Hidden Cove a few weeks. Who would expect her to morph into Martha Stewart so fast? She could almost hear her police chief father laugh. Martha Stewart, my ass. That'll be the ever lovin' day. Thinking of her dad made her heart clutch. Just three months ago, the big strapping Englishman had raced into a drug bust and been ruthlessly gunned down by cops turned bad. Damn! She wasn't going to go there. Especially since she'd felt the stirrings of a migraine coming on. She'd taken the medicine she was never without, but still, she didn't want to tempt fate. Banishing the images with a cop's cool efficiency, she concentrated on the task at hand. Quint 7 station house was connected to the fire department headquarters and City Hall, and housed the Rescue Squad; it was quiet at ten at night. As she entered the bay area, she stared at the rigs; she only recently learned the difference among them. There was the Rescue Squad vehicle, a five person truck with equipment for accidents, water rescue, rappelling, etc, but which carried no water or ladders. The two-person Midi was smaller, and went on EMS calls as well as to fires. And the premier truck was the Quint, which could perform five different functions--dumping water, carrying ladders and the like. Hard to believe it cost more than half a million dollars. The faint smell of smoke and gasoline surrounded her as she crossed through the bay; she called out but no one answered. Usually firehouses would be all locked up, but the trucks had just returned and the big, garage-like doors were open wide. Hidden Cove was a small town, anyway, unlike New York. Apparently they didn't worry all the time about crime. Which is one of the reasons you left the city. "Can I help you?" A firefighter had come out from the glassed-in watch station beside the last bay. He looked ridiculously young, with a buzz haircut and a freshly shaven jaw. She flipped her star. "I'd like to see Mitch Malvaso." The man studied her. "You must be the new detective." "Guilty as charged." She introduced herself. He stuck out his hand. "Tim Townsend. Come on in and sit. I'll get Mitello." Mitello? Would she ever understand men's penchant for nicknaming each other? That's your problem, Meggie, her dad once said. Always tryin' to figure out men. We like to eat, drink, and watch TV. Then he'd winked. Throw in some hot sex, some close football games, and we're happy as pigs in shit. Townsend showed her to the kitchen. "Want some coffee?" "Sure. Black." "Have a seat." He motioned to a man-size table, poured coffee, brought it to her, and left to get Malvaso. Wearily she sank down into a chair and sipped from the mug which said, "Firefighters do it on their knees." The coffee was hot and strong--typical firefighter's brew. And hers. While she waited, she scanned the kitchen. One big rectangle, it had been recently painted a light yellow--she could smell a faint whiff of the paint--which made the space bright. There were huge appliances, a double sink, a big row of windows, and a black and white linoleum floor, which was spotless. Though they might be slobs at home, firefighters were renown for keeping the station house clean. She picked up a newsletter laying on the table and shook her head. Man, here it was again; this thing was haunting her. It was the same newsletter she'd gotten in the mail the other day. The same one she couldn't stop thinking about. Taking a breath, she reread the article on page one. It was about an upstate New York camp established a few years ago for kids of rescue personnel who'd been killed in the line of duty. Part of the nationally known Bright Horizon Camps, which started off as a recreational summer facility for children with cancer, it had expanded to encompass kids with HIV, sickle cell anemia, kids who were victims of violence, and most recently, the law enforcement/firefighter camp for the children of slain firefighters and police officers. She and her dad had worked at it for three summers. "Detective Hale?" Looking up from the newsletter, she saw Mitch Malvaso standing at the end of the table. Without his gear and the grime that covered his face, he seemed different--bigger and more muscular in a navy T-shirt which outlined his broad chest. With it he wore sweat pants and no shoes or socks. His still-wet dark hair glinted almost black in the overhead lights. A faint growth of beard shadowed his jaw. "I didn't mean to rush your shower." "You didn't." He raised his arm; a gauze bandage bound his wrist. "McKenna wouldn't let me go until I got this doctored again." "Hurt?" "Like a bitch." Crossing to the pot, he poured coffee, asked if she wanted a refill, then sat adjacent to her. She got a whiff of subtle aftershave that made her think of one of those underwear models on TV. Up close, his eyes were bloodshot, but they were a soft, velvety brown. His lashes were girl- thick. "So, you enjoying your new job at Hidden Cove?" he asked. "Uh-huh." "Settling in okay?" "Yep." She drew out a small notepad and peeled back the cover. "I need to ask you some questions." His brows rose in annoyance. Well, shit, it was late, she didn't know the guy and she wasn't exactly interested in making friends with a group of firefighters. What she needed was information. "Are you sure you didn't see anything when you walked into that upstairs bedroom?" "I'm sure, Detective. Like I said before, it was totally black." "Totally?" "Yeah." His tone was exasperated. "I take it you never been inside a burning building." "Can't say I have." "It can be like wearing a blindfold. At the risk of spouting clichés, I couldn't see the hand in front of my face." "Then how did you find your way in and get to those kids?" "Instinct. Feeling the walls. Knowing what to look for." "Like?" "Beds are usually against the wall. If they bounce, people are on them. That kind of thing." "Did you kick anything on the floor?" "Nope." "Smell anything?" He snorted. "Black smoke stinks worse than cow shit, Detective Hale." She closed her book. "I'd like to talk to your men." "Fine, but they're bunked in now. I'd rather not wake them. Mostly because they won't have seen anything either." "Statistics show people remember more in the immediate aftermath of an incident. At the risk of ruining their sleep, I'd like to question them now." Friendly dark eyes turned hard as steel. "Is this necessary?" Sighing, she rubbed the back of her neck wearily. She felt like she'd gone a couple of rounds with a violent suspect. "Look, Captain, those kids were sixteen and seventeen. I need some answers here." His jaw tightened. Used to studying people, she took note of the reaction. He was pissed at her. Finally he said, "I'll go get--" Static blasted out of the loud speaker. "Structure fire at the corner of Wilson and Main. Rescue Squad go into service." "Sorry, Detective, you're going to have to wait after all." She rose, too, as he headed for the bay. On impulse she followed him. He ducked into the watch station, ripped a paper from the printer, and strode toward the rig. Several men raced into the area. "Another fire," Malvaso shouted. "It's a bad one." The firefighters hurried to the truck. Boots stood by the Rescue Squad rig, all cleaned up and ready to go with their droopy pants folded over them. She'd read somewhere this was called turnout gear because it was what firefighters turned out in for an alarm. Malvaso quickly donned socks, stuck his feet in the boots and pulled up the bunker pants--she guessed they were called that because fighting a fire was a lot like fighting a war. Suspenders crisscrossed his chest. He grabbed a coat from a hook, along with his helmet, and jumped into the front seat. The truck pulled out just as the last guy tagged on. Megan stared after them, wondering how these exhausted men were going to deal with a yet another fire. |
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