The Night Belongs to Fireman (2 page)

When they stepped back into the bar, the blonde, Cindy, spotted them and came hurtling over, shrieking bloody murder.

“What happened? Are you okay, Rachel?”

“I'm fine,” she grumbled, as Fred set her on her feet. “Someone threw up in the hallway and tried to come on to me. Apparently this guy”—she jerked a thumb over her shoulder, jabbing him in the chest, making him wince—“thought it was a federal crime.”

The spiky redhead appeared at Cindy's shoulder. “The most important question is, how's the veil? It's my turn to wear it.”

Rachel whipped the veil off her head, dragging long strands of her hair along with it. “No, the important question is why this complete stranger thinks I can't take care of myself.”

Now that was just too much. Fred threw up his hands. “Really? The important thing isn't nearly walking into a game of darts? Or worse?”

Rachel, struggling to free her hair from the veil, turned to her friends. “Don't I have enough people watching every little thing I do? Why
him
?”

Exasperated, Fred reached over and untangled her veil from her hair. “You are the strangest girl I've ever met.”

“What kind of thing is that to say—”

“All right, all right.” Cindy grabbed her hand. “Let's go. Limo's waiting.” She bundled Rachel behind her and addressed Fred. “Thanks for everything, attractive stranger. She's usually such a sweet girl, believe it or not. Devotes her life to helping animals, will do anything for a friend, even drink too much champagne during her friend's last night of freedom . . . okay, we're going now.”

They all waved good-bye and flocked to the door. After they left, the entire room seemed to go dim.

Back at the table, Mulligan tossed some money down and pushed back his chair. “Nice move, bro. You scared away the only girls worth talking to in this whole joint.”

“I didn't scare anyone away. I rescued her from being slobbered on by a vomit-covered idiot.” Fred worked at a knot in his neck, trying to understand how the night had begun with a mauling in the fight ring and somehow gone downhill from there.

“Details, details,” said Mulligan. “Come on, let's ghost. I want to see what's rolling at Firefly.”

“Nah, man. I'm done. If that bout wasn't enough to do me in, that girl was. She got in more hits than Namsaknoi.” He tenderly felt his jawbone, where she'd bonked him in the hallway.

Mulligan cackled. “You should date her. I can see you with a girl like that. She'd keep things hopping.”

“
Not
going to happen. The girl I go for is going to be nothing like her.”

“I wouldn't say
nothing
like her,” mused Mulligan as they headed for the exit. “She'll probably wear a veil at the wedding.”

“Nothing like her,” said Fred firmly. “What kind of woman nearly walks into a game of darts?”

“Someone fun, someone who lets loose once in a while. Someone who's not Courtney. Someone who doesn't think she's superior to everyone else in the damn world.”

Mulligan's lip curled. The guys really didn't like Courtney. Sometimes Fred thought he would have called it off much sooner if he hadn't wanted to prove them wrong. Dumb, since they
weren't
exactly wrong. “Courtney,” he pointed out, “is proud of my fight trophies. She wouldn't rip them apart.” He gave a mournful glance at the dismantled statuette in his hand.

“Right. She'd probably polish them every day in their little glass case,” said Mulligan. “Because she's a control freak.”

“And Courtney wouldn't be caught dead alone in a dark hallway with a drunk. What was that girl thinking?” He followed Mulligan through the door into the cool of midnight. The loud music from the bar chased them, the wail of U2's “Mysterious Ways” suddenly stifled as the door slammed shut.

“Seems like you were watching every move she made.”

“Someone had to,” he grumbled, trying to remember where he'd parked.

“Holy shit,” Mulligan breathed.

Fred was still scanning the street for his truck. He remembered parking next to a construction barricade. The City Lights Grill squatted in the shadow of the old City Hall, which had partially burned a couple of years ago. They were finally starting to rebuild, and during the day this entire area was a construction zone mess. At night, it was a ghost town of earth movers, backhoes, and cranes.

“There it is,” Fred said, finally spotting his Toyota pickup and moving toward it. But Mulligan snaked out a hand and stopped him cold. The big guy's phone was at his ear.

“Look,” he said, and pointed up the street, to the end of the block.

The sight made Fred's blood run cold. Illuminated by the chill light of a streetlamp, a white stretch limousine was stopped in the middle of the street. Its roof was crushed by the arm of a crane, awkward and ungainly, like a metallic giraffe that had toppled over. Steam hissed from the engine. If the crane had hit the gas tank, it could explode at any moment.

“Calling 911?” he asked Mulligan.

“Yup.”

The door opened, spilling a blast of music and a handful of people. “Keep everyone back. I'm going in.” Fred ran toward the limo.

A
s the fire department's newest Urban Search and Rescue member, Fred would have gotten the call if he'd been on duty. Of course he would have been in Truck 1, with all his gear, not to mention the Jaws of Life, air bags, and other tools to extract people from wrecked cars. But there wasn't time to worry about that. He had to do what he could right here, right now.

As he got closer, he saw that the telescoping steel structure of the crane arm had struck toward the rear of the limo, pinning the passenger doors. The truck to which it was mounted lay on its side, its bed abandoned. Whatever idiot had been operating a crane truck at night had fled. A pallet of something, possibly shingles, had spilled across the sidewalk on the other side of the street.

The driver's side door of the limo hung open and a man in a dark suit and cap knelt on the pavement. Blood ran down the side of his face. Fred ran to meet him.

“Did you turn off the engine?”

When the driver just stared at him blankly, Fred crawled into the driver's seat and turned the key in the ignition. If there was a gas leak, the smallest spark from the engine could send the limo sky-high.

When the world didn't explode, Fred let out a breath and extracted himself from the vehicle. The driver was still staring at him with a look of confusion. Fred gave him a quick assessment. Dazed, disoriented, thready pulse. Very possible head injury.

“In the back. Party,” he told Fred. “Girls.”

“I know. I'm a firefighter, and so's my friend back there. We'll take care of it. Can you make it to the sidewalk?”

The driver shook his head. “I can help.”

Absolutely not. Fred didn't need an injured civilian getting in the way. “No need. The fire department's been called, they'll be here any minute. The paramedics will want to take a look at you.” He took off his sweater, balled it up, and pressed it against the cut on the man's head. “Keep pressure on that wound.” He lifted the man's hand to take the place of his own, and shifted to the firm, matter-of-fact tone that he always used at fire calls. “Sir, please sit down right away so we can do our job.”

The driver toddled off, slumping onto the sidewalk with a moan.

Fred did a thorough check under the vehicle, searching for signs of a fuel leak. When he found none, he turned his attention to the best way to get the girls out of the mangled limousine. He could grab a tire iron from his truck and knock out a window, or maybe pop open a door.

Oddly enough, the front of the vehicle didn't look so bad. The rear looked like a crushed eggshell, but luckily, it was an extra-long limo and the middle didn't seem too severely impacted. As he'd been trained, he did a quick assessment of the crane's stability. If it was going to shift again, he needed to be prepared. But the long, gray metal struts of the crane seemed rock-solid, as if the piece of machinery would never budge from its new resting place.

Now for the passengers.

He crouched next to the passenger side rear window. It was halfway open, which was lucky because he'd be surprised if anything worked in this car anymore. Inside, the four girls from the bachelorette party were squished together in the long, leather-covered seat, bent slightly forward, the crushed roof pressing against their heads. Rachel, crammed against the driver's side door, was the only one still conscious. Maybe her small size had kept her from getting knocked out. She was hyperventilating, her breath coming in quick, wheezing gasps. She turned her head from its awkward position and fixed him with enormous eyes, purple in the pale illumination from the streetlights outside.

“Can you . . . we have to get . . . help,” she gasped.

“I'm going to get you out,” he said, sticking with the fire scene voice that always worked magic with panicking accident victims. “But I'm going to need your help, okay? I need you to take a good long breath.”

He held her gaze until she gulped some air, and saw the most extreme edge of her panic subside.

“That's good. That's very good. The best thing you can do is keep calm. What's your name? We were never formally introduced,” he added with a smile.

She managed a whisper of a smile in response. “R . . . Rachel.”

Thankfully, she seemed to be alert and not disoriented. His guess would be that her severely dilated pupils were due to panic, not a head injury. But panic could lead to injury, so keeping her calm was all-important. A glance at the door behind her told him it was much more damaged than the one on the passenger side. He'd have to work from this side, leaving her extraction for last. He hoped she was okay with that.

“Rachel. That's a pretty name.”

A quick flash of incredulity crossed her face.
Idiot
. She wasn't a four-year-old. She didn't need her name complimented. Still, any expression besides hysteria was a plus, so he considered it a win.

He shifted his attention to the interior of the limo, assessing the conditions for extraction. The air reeked of alcohol. Nope, a four-year-old, she definitely wasn't. They must have been having quite a party.

“Don't judge. It's just champagne,” Rachel said, sounding annoyed. Good. Annoyance was a lot better than panic. “Cindy's wedding's in two days, so you have to get her out of here. She's okay, isn't she?”

“One thing at a time. Are you injured, Rachel? Does anything hurt?”

“Oh.” She examined her left arm, which looked as if the limo door had nearly squashed it. “Barely bruised. I was watching out the window and saw this truck tipping over and this huge construction thing falling. I tried to warn the driver, but . . . I'd know if anything major was broken, right?”

“Possibly.” He didn't want to explain that adrenaline masked the pain of a trauma.

She glanced at him sharply, then dragged in a long, deep breath. He noticed that her hands were clenched so tightly on her seat belt that her fingernails were white. “Really, I'm okay. I don't think I'm hurt.”

“Good. Then let's get you guys out of here. My name's Fred, by the way. I'm a firefighter with special training in situations like these.”

Of all things, she let out a burst of laughter. Slightly hysterical laughter, he noticed, as if she were clinging desperately to her control. “You're Fred the Fireman?”

“Yes.” Though he wasn't sure why that was so funny.

“Do you know Thomas the Tank?”

Oh. Now he saw what had set her off. “I'm familiar with his work, yes.”

Her pale lips curved into a smile, or probably the closest thing she could manage at the moment. “And you have special training in smushed limos?”

He gave her a rueful smile. Maybe a little entertainment would help her deal with the situation. “Among other things, sure.”

“What exactly is your training? Because from where I'm sitting, things are looking a little sketchy. How many situations like this have you been in? I mean, kind of like this?”

Fred, reaching an arm inside the half-open window to feel for the redhead's pulse, clamped down on his irritation. “I'm certified in Rescue Systems, stuff like high-angle and low-angle rescues, trench rescues, confined space rescues, swiftwater, personal water craft, structural collapse, rope rescue, GPS awareness, and Instructor 1A and 1B, all of which qualifies me for Urban Search and Rescue, which is handy in an earthquake zone. But do you think we could discuss my career later? Right now I'd really like to get you out of here.”

“Oh. Right. Obviously you're highly qualified. I'm sorry, I'm a little . . .” She took another deep breath. “I have a problem with small spaces. A big problem.”

The tension in her voice made him look at her more closely. He hoped she wasn't going to start panicking again.

“Keep looking out the window, Rachel. That might help. We're going to do this as quickly as possible.”

She turned her head, fixing her gaze on the world outside the window, and seemed to calm down. “I'm fine. I promise.”

Fred nodded, and stood up. He stepped away from the limo to consult with Mulligan, who had run up behind him.

“I'd feel better if we could shore up the crane, just in case,” he told the other firefighter.

“Good thing it's a construction zone,” Mulligan said.

“Exactly what I was thinking. I have a tire iron in my truck. I'll see if I can pop the doors. You go look for some two-by-fours or something.” He spotted a couple leaving the bar. They gaped at the scene, the woman whipping out her phone to take pictures. “Go. I'll see if I can keep the area clear.”

Mulligan ran off, hurdling over one of the construction barricades. Fred spotted some orange cones and, at a fast jog, planted one at the head of the street and one at the end. The couple backed off. On the way past his truck, he grabbed a tire iron.

When he came back to the limo, at first he thought Rachel had fallen into unconsciousness. But her head swung around as soon as she heard him. The sight of her deep purple eyes made him blink. She looked so fierce, teeth gritted, the tendons of her neck wire-tight.

Normally he'd try to get the more seriously injured victims out first, but he didn't want a panic attack on his hands. He'd better get her out first, before she lost it completely.

“I'm going to try popping your door with a tire iron,” he told her. “I think I can get it open enough to pull you out.”

“What about my friends?”

“I'll get them from the other side.”

She frowned. “But they're more badly hurt. You should get them out first. I'm fine. I got this. Maybe I can even help from here.”

He felt a sudden shot of admiration for her. Her mouth was still white around the edges, but she was holding herself together with a steely will. Maybe she wasn't the airhead he'd taken her for. Almost unconsciously, he found himself checking out the rest of her. Her wavy black hair was drenched with sweat and clung to her forehead in dramatically thick strands.

“Think hard before you offer that,” he told her. “It means you'll be stuck in here longer, and you mentioned not liking small spaces. I don't know how long the extraction will take.”

Cindy moaned, and opened her eyes. “Rach? What happened?”

“Shhh,” Rachel murmured. “There was an accident. But the firemen are here and they're going to get us out.”

“Accident? There can't be an accident. I'm about to get married!”

Rachel met Fred's eyes over Cindy's head. “I can handle it,” she told him, her face set with determination. “Get the others out. I can help.”

Fred made the decision instantly. Some accident victims made the process more complicated, but Rachel seemed strong enough to be an asset.

Sirens sounded. He'd never been so glad to hear them in his life. Lights flashing, Engine 1 pulled up at the curb a short distance away, a paramedic van close behind. Firefighters in turnouts jumped out of the rig. The C shift was on duty, which meant Captain Jeb Stone, heading up the engine company, would be the incident commander. Paramedics ran to help the limo driver.

Fred quickly briefed Captain Stone. “I suggest attempting extraction from the passenger side, after we get some air bags going under the crane. We have four females trapped, two are unconscious, injuries unknown. Tell the paramedics to set up for C-spine.”

Captain Stone nodded, then relayed the instructions on the tactical channel. “You want to stay with the victims?” he asked Fred, who nodded firmly. Technically, he wasn't on shift, but the hell with that. “Good,” Stone said. “Keep them calm and see if you can assess their condition a little better.”

Fred turned back to the window of the limo and spoke to Cindy. “Cindy, I need you to tell me where it hurts.”

She rolled her head to the side and, still clearly disoriented, peered at him. “Hey, you're the one with the trophy.”

“
Was
the one with the trophy.” Come to think of it, he had no idea where the thing had gone. He'd flung it away when he'd gone running toward the limo. “Can you move your limbs freely?”

“Limbs? Rachel, why's he asking about my limbs? Who are you, anyway?”

Trying not to laugh, he pulled out his best reassuring smile. “Just call me Fred the Fireman.”

Rachel's snort of laughter made his heart give a silly little jolt.

R
achel managed to
keep it together by the skin of her teeth. Pressed between Cindy and the limo door, her trembling body drenched with the sweat of fear, she forced herself to shift her focus from her trapped state. Every time she felt the walls of the limo close in and the panic rise, she looked at Fred the Fireman. Something about him made her feel better, as if everything would—or at least might—be okay. After all, he'd intervened on her behalf a couple times already. She'd thought he was attractive back in the City Lights, but now, using him as an anchor against the tug of terror, she gave him much closer attention.

His eyes were the kind of deep, velvety brown that always seemed to reflect some kind of light. Shining eyes, she thought vaguely. No bad guy can fake
shining
eyes. She figured he was maybe a few years older than she was. Lines crinkled at the corners of his eyes when he smiled. And he smiled so easily. It gave her a warm feeling—he wouldn't be smiling so readily if things were really bad. He'd lost the brown Henley he'd worn earlier, which left him in nothing but a white T-shirt, now streaked with grease and dirt.

And he seemed so capable. Not show-offy, just smart and skillful. The other firefighters, who were all a blur behind him, seemed to defer to him and respect what he said. One of them brought him a bulky firefighter's jacket with reflective stripes and some gloves. He pulled them on.

“All right, then,” he told her and Cindy. “The trick here is to get you out without hurting you worse. Just so you guys know, the crane is being shored up to keep it from shifting once we start the extraction. We're going to open the door now.”