Line of Fire (23 page)

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of the next book in the

Firefighters of Station Five series,

RIDE THE FIRE

Coming from Signet Eclipse in December 2010

On the night the world ended, Blair Tanner told her husband to go to hell.

The argument was stupid. Just one of many they’d had lately, going at each other like scalded cats in a sack. Sean leaned his back against the grille of Engine 171, arms crossed over his chest, and stared out the open door of the fire station’s bay, watching brown leaves drift from the trees to litter the ground outside.

Everyone assumed he and Blair were blissfully happy, the quintessential Barbie and Ken couple with their two gorgeous children, lavish home—thanks to Blair’s fancy job—and a pair of nice vehicles.

His teenage son and six-year-old daughter were perfect. Even more than the job he loved so much, he breathed for his children. Not, however, according to his pissed-off wife when they’d had it out over the phone earlier.

Your son is going to be so let down. How can you do this to him, Sean?

Bobby understands. I can’t leave my men in a bind—

Oh, save it! Always with the excuses, and they’re getting old. You know, if you can’t appreciate what you have here, someone else might.

What the fuck is that supposed to mean? Blair?

“Hey, Cap. What’s with the long face? In the doghouse again?”

Sean turned to see Clay Montana swagger toward him, grinning like a fool. “Is my name Sean Tanner?” He couldn’t help but smile back at their resident cowboy.

“Ouch.” Clay grimaced in sympathy. “That’s what happens when you break the first rule of bachelorhood.”

“What’s that?”

“Never sleep with the same woman twice. Unless a man wants to end up like you—pussy-whupped and with a couple of rug rats biting at your ankles.”

Sean laughed, shaking his head at the cowboy’s earnest expression. The guy wasn’t joking. “Yeah? At least I know where my woman’s been, and I happen to like my rug rats just fine, thanks.”

Clay shrugged. “Whatever, it’s your blood pressure, not mine. So, what happened?”

“Blair ripped me a new one for working overtime tonight instead of going with her and Mia to watch Bobby’s football game. He’s the starting quarterback again, and he’s doing really well since he took over for the first-string kid who got injured. He’s even been approached by a couple of college scouts.” His chest puffed out with pride at that.

“Hey, that’s great! For Bobby, anyhow. We can probably swing it if you want to take off and catch the last half. If nothing else, we can try to call in the lieutenant to cover.”

For a long moment, Sean was tempted. “Nah, that’s okay. I already asked Six-Pack, but he couldn’t make it in, and I don’t want to leave you short a man. Besides, there’re a couple of games left in the regular season, and I promised Bobby I’d make those.”

“Sucks being the boss, huh?”

“Only when I have to disappoint my kids to come ride roughshod over you bozos,” he said, shooting the other man a grin. “Someday you’ll understand.”

Clay shuddered. “Not me, man. No freaking way will you see me stick my head through the golden noose.”

Sean snickered as Clay strode back inside. His friend protested too much. Firefighters were family people, nurturers at heart. They all fell eventually, and he’d bet Clay would be no different.

The evening crawled at a snail’s pace with only a couple of minor calls, and Sean began to think he’d given up his day off for nothing. But if he hadn’t come in, the station would’ve gotten called to some real disaster, and he would’ve ended up here all the same. Murphy’s Law.

It was almost a relief when dispatch sent them out to an accident—except this one was major with two possible fatalities and a third person, a screaming child, trapped in the burning car. In the front passenger’s seat of the quint, Sean stared intently down the highway, knowing time wasn’t on their side. They weren’t going to make it before the fire consumed the vehicle, and he hoped the police or bystanders were able to free the child and anyone else involved.

Behind the wheel, Clay gestured to the blaze in the distance, growing closer. “Is that what I think it is?”

“Sure as hell is,” John “Val” Valentine said grimly from the back. “We’ve got a car bred to an eighteen-wheeler, folks.”

The police hadn’t yet arrived. The eighteen-wheeler was parked on the shoulder, as though it had some sort of engine trouble. The car that had hit the rig from behind was fully involved with flames, the blaze beginning to engulf the back end of the big semi. Clay pulled the quint as close as they dared, the ambulance on their tail, and they all jumped out. Clay and the others scrambled to grab hoses while Sean and Val went to assess the situation, check on survivors and their injuries. Other cars had pulled onto the shoulder, and shocked witnesses stared at the spectacle, a couple of women sobbing.

One older woman grabbed the sleeve of Val’s heavy coat. “They c-couldn’t get the little g-girl out! The older boy who was driving the car, a-and the woman, they were dead. But the little one was screaming for her daddy to put out the fire and—and . . .” The woman clapped a hand over her mouth, overcome by recounting the horrifying events.

Sweet Jesus. Her words made Sean’s blood run cold. “Ma’am, are there any other survivors you know of?”

“The driver of the big truck says he’s fine. He’s over there,” she said in a wobbly voice, and pointed. Sean followed the gesture to a distraught man sitting on the shoulder of the highway, face in his hands, and doubted the man was fine at all.

“Val, check on the driver while I go talk to the witnesses.”

“Got it, Cap.”

Pushing his fire hat back on his head, Sean turned and began to walk toward the inferno and the agitated witnesses. Three men were pacing too close to the fire, hopeless expressions on their faces. There was nothing they could have done, and Sean felt sorry for the poor bastards. Nobody should have to encounter something as sad as this.

He opened his mouth to yell at the three men to move back—

And that was when he saw the license plate on the back end of the car, curling and blackening from the intense heat. Saw the letters and numbers rapidly being consumed by the flames.

Blair’s car.

An older boy and a woman.

A little girl screaming for Daddy to put out the fire.

“No.” He stopped, rooted in place, his mind resisting the truth. Unwilling to make the final connection, to make it real.

Because if it was real, he had nothing. Was nothing.

“Oh, God . . .”

His knees buckled, hit the asphalt. He struggled to draw in a breath, to scream, but his lungs were frozen.

“Cap! Cap, what’s wrong? Talk to me!” Someone crouched beside him and a gloved hand grabbed his arm.

“That car,” he whispered. “That’s my wife’s car. My family . . .”

“What? No, no, I’m sure you’re mistaken. Sean?”

The truth swept in, as black and bitter as the stench of gasoline and burning bodies, and he couldn’t stop the images.

Blair. Bobby. Mia, his sweet baby.

Blair was right to damn him to hell. He’d put work above his family, and they’d paid the ultimate price. He hadn’t deserved them, and now . . . No, please, God. Please.

He slumped sideways, falling into darkness.

“Sean? Oh, Jesus. Somebody help me over here!”

But there was no help for him.

Not ever again.

Sean Tanner leaned against the porch railing and wrapped his hands around his coffee mug, relishing the warmth. The fall morning was crisp and cool, sporting enough of a bite to justify the light jacket he wore over his navy fire department polo shirt. As he watched the horses graze, his thoughts tumbled one after another, a lengthy, confusing list of things to do.

Amends to make.

Emotions assailed him, a cacophony of trepidation, anxiety . . . and hope.

Hope, because as terrifying as the tasks before him, the miles left to travel, all of these intimidating thoughts and emotions had one important thing in common.

They were those of a sober man.

But for how long? Would he screw up tomorrow, next week? Even now his hands trembled as he clutched the mug, longing to skip the much-anticipated reunion with his team. To jump into the Tahoe and make tracks to the liquor store outside of town, grab a bottle of bourbon to add some kick to his coffee. Replace the raw pain of reality with the comforting haze of oblivion.

Closing his eyes, he clamped down hard on the temptation and beat it into submission. If he went down that road again, he might as well be dead. No. When he finally joined his family on the other side, he’d go to them as a man they could be proud of, not the mean, drunken wretch of the past two years. The man who became so sloppy and inattentive at work, he’d cost Tommy Skyler his firefighting career and nearly his life.

That man isn’t me. Never again.

Heading inside, he rinsed out the mug and placed it in the dishwasher. Turned off the coffeepot. Wiped down the counter. Watered the ivy on the windowsill. Anything to keep him busy and his mind off another drink, not to mention his dubious reception in—he glanced at the kitchen wall clock—forty minutes.

A deep sigh escaped his lips. No sense in putting off the inevitable. Even if he’d rather get caught in a back draft with no hope of escape than face five of the people he’d let down time and again.

“Jesus, grow a pair and get going, Tanner.” End of pep talk.

Before he could change his mind and do something truly idiotic, like call in sick, Sean snatched his keys off the counter and headed out the door.

The drive into Sugarland had never seemed so long, and singing country music along with the radio didn’t provide much of a distraction. Then suddenly he was at the station, parked in his usual spot around back, sort of frozen in place by the difficulty of taking the next few steps.

If they’d strung up banners and shit, he was going straight home.

He slid out of the Tahoe, locked up and pocketed his keys. Walking around the side of the building, he steeled himself for whatever was to come. Awkwardness? Or, worse, sympathy?

Taking a deep breath, he stepped into the bay and found . . . complete normalcy.

Zack Knight, their FAO—fire apparatus operator—had his back to Sean and was busy buffing the quint to a candy-apple shine. A couple of guys just getting off C-shift were standing around bullshitting with Julian Salvatore and Howard “Six-Pack” Paxton. Clay Montana, who’d moved to A-shift and taken Tommy Skyler’s vacated spot, was fishing around in the back of the ambulance. Sean scanned the group for Eve Marshall, Station Five’s only female firefighter, but didn’t see her, and figured she was inside, maybe manning breakfast. A day just like any other.

Thank fuck.

Sean cleared his throat. “Is that all you lazy boneheads have to do, stand around and jaw like a bunch of old fishermen?”

A bead of sweat rolled down his temple, the only outward sign of the knot in his stomach. Conversation halted and all eyes swung his way, wary and uncertain—until he gave them a tentative smile.

“Hey, Cap!”

“How’s it hangin’?”

“Damn, you look good! Don’t he look good?”

The general explosion of heartfelt well-wishes wrapped around him like a blanket, eased a sore place in his gut as the guys migrated toward him. No cheesy banners, but he had to admit the backslapping and manly hugs that ensued were all right because it meant his boys still gave a fuck about him. This was their way, he realized, of making sure he knew they respected him—or at least were willing to forgive. Even after the crap he’d put them through.

And, yeah, he must have gotten some dirt in his eyes, making them sting.

Dammit.

“Let the man breathe,” Six-Pack boomed, pushing the others aside and promptly ignoring his own dictate. He scooped Sean into a bone-crunching bear hug that lifted him off his feet with no effort whatsoever, which was saying a lot since Sean wasn’t a small guy.

Sean laughed, the sound strange and rough to his own ears. “Put me down, you big ox!”

Six-Pack did, and Sean had to look up at him, standing this close. His best friend was six feet, six inches and two hundred fifty pounds of solid, intimidating muscle. Sean was no shrimp but he was much leaner in build. Hell, everyone was smaller next to the lieutenant.

Six-Pack grinned at him, brown eyes dancing. “Man, it’s great to have you back. Trying to keep these guys in line is like trying to herd baby ducklings.” This prompted a round of good-natured protests.

The lieutenant waved a hand. “Come on, slackers, get to work and let Sean get his bearings.”

The two men from C-shift said their good-byes and left. Zack went back to buffing the quint, Clay to whatever he was doing in the ambulance, probably stocking the meds. Yep, a normal day. Except for one thing.

“Where’s Eve?” he asked Six-Pack. He’d be damned if he’d admit how much it stung that she hadn’t come out to say hello.

“Inside, making your favorite breakfast, though you’re not supposed to know. Act surprised.”

“Oh.” Pancakes and bacon? Especially for him. Well, that sure went a long way toward soothing his remaining unease. In fact, it caused a weird little bubble of something in his chest that he couldn’t define. Something different from how relieved the guys’ greeting made him feel. “Damn, that’s really thoughtful of her.”

“Ain’t it? Why don’t you go inside and say hey. I’m gonna go call Wendy Burgess back about the charity thing.”

“What charity thing?”

“You know, the auction and calendar deal.”

“No, I don’t.” A sneaking suspicion crept over him that he wasn’t going to like this.

“Jeez, I didn’t tell you when you came to the barbecue? Could’ve sworn I did. The City of Sugarland is holding a fireman’s auction in about three weeks, and also choosing twelve of our guys to do a calendar shoot, all for charity. Wendy and some of the other department brass are taking care of the details.”

Sean eyed him warily. “That doesn’t sound too bad. What are we auctioning?”

His friend smiled, his expression a bit too mischievous. “Ourselves.”

He snorted. “Get outta here! No way.”

“Yep. Us in front of a bunch of squealing ladies, wearing nothing but our fire pants and red suspenders.”

“Hold on. Us? There is no us in the equation,” he said firmly. “Have fun living your Chippendales fantasy.”