She hated bothering firefighters in the middle of a blaze when they were exhausted and desperately needed downtime. But the longer it took her to find the arsonist, the more potential danger the firefighters faced. And so she'd forge ahead with her investigation and continue asking hard questions.
“Excuse me, I'm looking for Sam MacKenzie.”
The man looked up at her and she was momentarily startled by his looks. His eyes were a penetrating blue, his hair jet black, his jaw was actually chiseled, and his forearms were sinew and muscle.
“Ma'am.”
She swallowed uncomfortably, hating what had to be said.
“You're Mr. MacKenzie?”
He nodded, pushed back his chair, and stood up. Tall with broad shoulders, he gave off the impression of great strength. “Ms. Jackson, you are just the woman I wanted to talk to.”
“Chief Stevens informed me that several witnesses saw a man bearing your description standing outside my hotel room yesterday afternoon.”
“That's right.”
Hotshots never backed down from a challenge. Well, neither did she. She looked him directly in the eye. “I need to know why.”
He crossed his arms over his chest. “I came to talk some sense into you.”
The tiny hairs on the back of her neck stood up. “Excuse me?”
“You've got the wrong suspect.”
She couldn't stand to add another hotshot to her list. But Sam seemed intent on writing his own name down for her. “Are you telling me you know who the right one is?”
“No, ma'am, I don't.”
For a minute there, she'd been afraid he was going to say You're looking at him.
She breathed a small sigh of relief before saying “Witnesses said you slipped a note under my door.”
“I wanted you to know I'd been there. That we needed to talk about Logan. We depend on him. Hell, he nearly died yesterday trying to save my brother in a blowup.”
Softly, she said, “I was there. I saw what he did. What you did.”
But Sam wasn't impressed by her admiration. “You sent him into the site of the explosion with that damn sniffer, didn't you?”
“He offered.”
“And you were more than happy to let him risk his life for you, weren't you? After all, if he'd died, he would have just been another casualty on your spreadsheet.”
Maya's hands fisted at her sides. “How dare you accuse me of something like that? I didn't want him going anywhere near that fire.” She stopped herself from admitting that her heart had nearly stopped a dozen times while she stood on the roof and watched Logan collect the data.
Sam was unrelenting. “All I know is that he could have died getting your damn data. Two dead hotshots in two days, is that what you want?”
Her heart stopped beating. “Two?” She must have heard him wrong. “Robbie's in the hospital. He's alive.”
For the first time, Sam's expression softened. “The call just came in from the hospital. Robbie's gone.”
Logan raced to Tahoe General in record time, but he was too late. Standing in the hallway, staring at Robbie's empty bed, images flashed by, one after the other, of Robbie's antics, his practical jokes on the other hotshots, how much he'd sucked at cleaning the burned chili out of the bottom of the aluminum pot. He'd been no more than a kid, but they all knew he'd grow into a hell of a firefighter one day.
Now he was gone.
Logan's legs were stiff as he followed the nurse to Connor's room. She opened the door and put her hand on his arm as he walked past her.
“I'm sorry,” she whispered, her eyes soft and sympathetic. “I'll leave you alone with your friend.”
Logan watched Connor's chest steadily rise and fall as he moved toward the bed. Even though Connor was heavily drugged for pain, every few breaths he grimaced. Logan stared at his friend's face, remembering too well the agony etched across it as they'd outrun the fire.
He owed it to his men—especially to Robbie and his family—to find the arsonist soon, before anyone else got caught in his flaming trap.
Quietly, he left Connor's room. Out in the hallway, he called his squad boss. “He's dead, Gary.”
Because wildland firefighting was one of the most dangerous professions in the world, clinical psychologists spent a couple of days with the crew every year forcing them to talk things through. Hotshots understood that even when they did everything right, death was sometimes an inevitable outcome.
But everything was different this time. Robbie hadn't been killed out on the mountain, wielding a Pulaski. He'd been caught in a madman's web.
Gary's sound of anguish mirrored what was in Logan's heart. “He was just a kid.”
“I'll be back at the station in fifteen,” Logan said. For Robbie's sake, if nothing else, he needed to take down the fire while Maya continued to track the arsonist.
The killer.
But Gary wasn't on board with that plan. “The winds are too squirrelly for any of us to be out there. Everyone on crew is already on their way back in. I'm not authorizing anyone to fight fire again until morning. Not even you.”
Futility tore through Logan. “Shit. I should have been there.”
“None of this is your fault,” Gary said. “None of it. Go home, Logan. Try to get some sleep.”
The signal went dead before Logan could pull rank. He wanted to be in Desolation Wilderness fighting the goddamned fire. But Gary was right about one thing—he couldn't let his men see him like this. It was his job to keep it together no matter what. His crew looked to him for strength and he wouldn't disappoint.
He drove home on autopilot while Robbie's favorite Bruce Springsteen song played on the radio.
Maya wasted a precious hour driving first to the hospital and then to the station. The nurse said she'd missed Logan by a matter of minutes and Gary hadn't said much of anything at all, just that he was glad she'd finally come to her senses and taken Logan off suspension. The fact that she'd felt like a fly buzzing around a swatter was irrelevant. All that mattered right now was finding Logan and making sure he didn't blame himself for Robbie's death.
She breathed out a deep sigh of relief when she pulled into Logan's driveway and saw moonlight glinting off the bumper of a station truck.
“Excuse me, I'm looking for Sam MacKenzie.”
The man looked up at her and she was momentarily startled by his looks. His eyes were a penetrating blue, his hair jet black, his jaw was actually chiseled, and his forearms were sinew and muscle.
“Ma'am.”
She swallowed uncomfortably, hating what had to be said.
“You're Mr. MacKenzie?”
He nodded, pushed back his chair, and stood up. Tall with broad shoulders, he gave off the impression of great strength. “Ms. Jackson, you are just the woman I wanted to talk to.”
“Chief Stevens informed me that several witnesses saw a man bearing your description standing outside my hotel room yesterday afternoon.”
“That's right.”
Hotshots never backed down from a challenge. Well, neither did she. She looked him directly in the eye. “I need to know why.”
He crossed his arms over his chest. “I came to talk some sense into you.”
The tiny hairs on the back of her neck stood up. “Excuse me?”
“You've got the wrong suspect.”
She couldn't stand to add another hotshot to her list. But Sam seemed intent on writing his own name down for her. “Are you telling me you know who the right one is?”
“No, ma'am, I don't.”
For a minute there, she'd been afraid he was going to say You're looking at him.
She breathed a small sigh of relief before saying “Witnesses said you slipped a note under my door.”
“I wanted you to know I'd been there. That we needed to talk about Logan. We depend on him. Hell, he nearly died yesterday trying to save my brother in a blowup.”
Softly, she said, “I was there. I saw what he did. What you did.”
But Sam wasn't impressed by her admiration. “You sent him into the site of the explosion with that damn sniffer, didn't you?”
“He offered.”
“And you were more than happy to let him risk his life for you, weren't you? After all, if he'd died, he would have just been another casualty on your spreadsheet.”
Maya's hands fisted at her sides. “How dare you accuse me of something like that? I didn't want him going anywhere near that fire.” She stopped herself from admitting that her heart had nearly stopped a dozen times while she stood on the roof and watched Logan collect the data.
Sam was unrelenting. “All I know is that he could have died getting your damn data. Two dead hotshots in two days, is that what you want?”
Her heart stopped beating. “Two?” She must have heard him wrong. “Robbie's in the hospital. He's alive.”
For the first time, Sam's expression softened. “The call just came in from the hospital. Robbie's gone.”
Logan raced to Tahoe General in record time, but he was too late. Standing in the hallway, staring at Robbie's empty bed, images flashed by, one after the other, of Robbie's antics, his practical jokes on the other hotshots, how much he'd sucked at cleaning the burned chili out of the bottom of the aluminum pot. He'd been no more than a kid, but they all knew he'd grow into a hell of a firefighter one day.
Now he was gone.
Logan's legs were stiff as he followed the nurse to Connor's room. She opened the door and put her hand on his arm as he walked past her.
“I'm sorry,” she whispered, her eyes soft and sympathetic. “I'll leave you alone with your friend.”
Logan watched Connor's chest steadily rise and fall as he moved toward the bed. Even though Connor was heavily drugged for pain, every few breaths he grimaced. Logan stared at his friend's face, remembering too well the agony etched across it as they'd outrun the fire.
He owed it to his men—especially to Robbie and his family—to find the arsonist soon, before anyone else got caught in his flaming trap.
Quietly, he left Connor's room. Out in the hallway, he called his squad boss. “He's dead, Gary.”
Because wildland firefighting was one of the most dangerous professions in the world, clinical psychologists spent a couple of days with the crew every year forcing them to talk things through. Hotshots understood that even when they did everything right, death was sometimes an inevitable outcome.
But everything was different this time. Robbie hadn't been killed out on the mountain, wielding a Pulaski. He'd been caught in a madman's web.
Gary's sound of anguish mirrored what was in Logan's heart. “He was just a kid.”
“I'll be back at the station in fifteen,” Logan said. For Robbie's sake, if nothing else, he needed to take down the fire while Maya continued to track the arsonist.
The killer.
But Gary wasn't on board with that plan. “The winds are too squirrelly for any of us to be out there. Everyone on crew is already on their way back in. I'm not authorizing anyone to fight fire again until morning. Not even you.”
Futility tore through Logan. “Shit. I should have been there.”
“None of this is your fault,” Gary said. “None of it. Go home, Logan. Try to get some sleep.”
The signal went dead before Logan could pull rank. He wanted to be in Desolation Wilderness fighting the goddamned fire. But Gary was right about one thing—he couldn't let his men see him like this. It was his job to keep it together no matter what. His crew looked to him for strength and he wouldn't disappoint.
He drove home on autopilot while Robbie's favorite Bruce Springsteen song played on the radio.
Maya wasted a precious hour driving first to the hospital and then to the station. The nurse said she'd missed Logan by a matter of minutes and Gary hadn't said much of anything at all, just that he was glad she'd finally come to her senses and taken Logan off suspension. The fact that she'd felt like a fly buzzing around a swatter was irrelevant. All that mattered right now was finding Logan and making sure he didn't blame himself for Robbie's death.
She breathed out a deep sigh of relief when she pulled into Logan's driveway and saw moonlight glinting off the bumper of a station truck.
