Chapter 6

Darcy

“Flash! What the fuck happened to you?”

“What does the other one look like?”

“Shit, girl, six days off and you’ve rearranged your face.” Captain Slade comes nearer to get a close look at the damage and adds his comments to those of my other team mates. He tuts loudly and shakes his head. “Should you even be here?”

“Hey, we can use her to scare off the arsonists.”

At that, I raise my middle finger toward Hammer. “Shut it, you lot. It’s only bruising.” Yeah, and doesn’t it look great? Two blackened eyes now a nice shade of purple, although not so swollen, my nose is still red, and my cheek has a nice yellow and green tinge. “Would you believe me if I told you I walked into a door?”

“Oldest excuse in the book, girl.” Truck, so named as he’s as big as one, joins the captain, his eyes narrow as he takes in the damage. “Who hit you? You got mugged or something?”

I inhale sharply. We care about each other on this team, and I don’t want to lie to them. I decide to get it over and done with. “It was Pete Mercer. My housemate. Well, he’s not that any longer. And yes, before you go on about it, I made some bad decisions, alright?” They’d never understood why I’d taken pity on the man made homeless by a fire. Come to that, neither did I. Mercer had put me in the awkward position where he’d backed me into a corner. I never really understood how he’d done it.

Hammer, our paramedic, still looks concerned. “Is your nose broken?”

“No, thank God. Just bruised. Look, I’m still a little sore, but I can work, okay. And the bullet just skimmed me.”

Now three voices shout out in unison. “Bullet? You were fucking shot?”

Sighing, I explain, rubbing at the small bandage on my forearm. “Fucker pulled a gun on me, got off a shot, luckily it went wide and just grazed me.”

“Tell me the asshole’s in jail,” Slade snarls.

I nod. “He is.”

“He shouldn’t be fucking alive. Bastard should be dead.” Truck’s almost shaking with rage. “He could have killed you.”

As the seriousness of what happened sinks in, I’m surrounded by three concerned men all talking at once, coming up with rather colourful suggestions of how they’d make someone who shot at a firefighter pay. I let their musings wash over me, basking in their concern, which would have been the same on my part had our positions been reversed. Along with doing a job that I love, we’re a close-knit team. When we’re fighting what nature throws at us, we need to have each other’s back and that trust and camaraderie extends to when we’re not out on a call.

“Should have called us.” Slade’s still harping on. Just as I start to wonder how to put into words that I was ashamed and didn’t want anyone to know, I hear another voice.

“What’s happened to you, Firefighter Cavanaugh?” I sigh. The battalion chief would choose this moment to walk into the station. I give him the brief version all over again. After exchanging a look and a silent conversation with Hammer, he gives me a nod. “Well, okay. As long as you feel you’re up to working. But if you’re not pulling your weight, you’ll have to take a sick day.”

“I’m fine, Chief.” The worst pain I’ll have to go through is being the subject of jokes during the whole of my twenty-four-hour shift. I know my fellow firefighters too well.

Another sharp look, then his concern fades. Slade, being the captain and the most senior of us on the shift, informs him, “All quiet at the moment.”

Batt Chief Leadson nods. “Let’s hope it stays that way and you’ll be doing equipment checks today.”

I nod at Hammer. As well as our most qualified medic, he’s also our driver and engineer, responsible for operating the pump. I’m letting him know I’ll work with him. Truck, the youngest and newest member of our team, is nearing the end of his eighteen-month probation period, something I completed five years ago now, after a gruelling four-month para-military training program.

The physical requirements of the job and my level of fitness is one of the reasons I’m still annoyed Pete got the drop on me, and that I didn’t fight back. But being able to carry two twelve and a half pound packs while wearing a fifty-pound vest up the stairs of a high-rise building and being able to swing a ten-pound sledgehammer might mean I’m physically strong, but doesn’t translate into being mentally equipped to use that strength against a larger and bulkier flesh and blood opponent.

I’ll just have to be more selective who I open my home to. But Pete had showed no sign he’d ever be any kind of threat. Sure, he’d begun taking advantage, but to turn violent? I’m still reeling from that.

“You with us, Flash?”

I shake my head to clear it. I’m a woman able to do one of the most physically demanding jobs there is, but deep down inside, Pete’s attack has shown I can still be a victim. Why didn’t I fight back?

“Okay. If we’re not dispatched to any incidents, we’ll get the equipment checked, then hit the gym.” Slade notices my slight grimace. “Flash. Full pack, on the treadmill.”

Asshole. But I’ll show him I can do it. I raise my chin.

Dispatch calls, and all conversation stops dead. Like a well-oiled machine, we get prepared and out on the engine in under a minute. It’s only then Slade informs us it’s a two-car vehicle crash with an entrapment.

The rest of the shift goes quickly. A small fire in a house, a medical emergency which is dealt with by Hammer, and then it’s back to the station to try and get some rest. Which we don’t, of course. There’s a good reason why we have twenty-four hours off after a shift, as the work can be tiring and relentless. Even a quiet shift can seem gruelling, as we try to occupy ourselves, snatching some downtime to watch TV or read, or attempting to get a couple of hours of quality sleep in between activities such as running drills, training, and working out. Then, of course, there’s maintenance that always needs to be done.

Finally, I’m able to go home, still wondering why people fit fire alarms then don’t bother to check they’re working, as that simple action might have saved the house we’d been called out to in the early hours of the morning, and which took the rest of the shift to put out.

Home, that place which holds two opposing memories. One I’d rather forget, and one which I’d have liked to explore further. Peg. Oh, I know that an actual relationship between a firefighter and an outlaw biker wouldn’t be looked on kindly, but there was something about him that makes me want to see him again. In one night I feel I’d seen the best and worst of humanity, one man taking advantage, another giving me help and asking nothing at all.

Peg’s help hadn’t ended after he’d left my house. The morning after Pete had been arrested, a locksmith turned up, some kind of security expert who not only changed all my locks and fitted a security system, but when I asked how much it was going to cost, said he’d already received payment. Stunned, I realised it had to have been the biker. The man who I’d last seen being pushed into a police car, treated as though he’d committed the crime rather than being my saviour. Not liking being beholden to anyone, I didn’t know what to do.

While I’m happy and far easier in my mind now I have a more secure home to live in, the fact a stranger is responsible for the upgrade niggles at me. The feeling gets worse as the days go on. At first, I expected him to call me to check whether I was okay, or to see if the work he’d obviously had arranged had been done. Then I realised he didn’t have my number, and I didn’t have his.

Perhaps he’ll drop in and see me? But he never did. Clearly the connection I’d felt with him was one-sided.

The worry I’m indebted to someone continues to nag at my mind. I try to forget it, but on one of my rest days find myself driving along the I10 toward Phoenix, where I’d heard the Satan’s Devils compound was located. But as I’ve no idea of the precise location and, seeing no bikers around who I could follow, soon give it up as a fool’s errand. I feel a mix of emotions. Relief that I haven’t had to put my head into what would certainly be a den of iniquity, frustration I can’t thank Peg, and a loss I don’t quite understand, when I finally have to accept that I’ll probably never see him again.

Apart from time wasted wondering about the man with the strange name, I’ve been busy tidying up my house and removing every trace of Pete Mercer. His clothes are bagged up and in the back of my closet, and his possessions are packed and stored in my garage. I’ve thrown his shampoo, toothbrush, and other bathroom items away. It’s the best I can do. I’ve no inkling of the correct procedure when a man who abused you is languishing in a cell. One thing I know is I never want to see him again. Perhaps I should have donated everything he owned to charity? I might still do that.

I’ve got one more twenty-four-hour shift left to complete my five twenty-four hours on twenty-four hours off shift pattern, then I’ve got another six days off. People think we have it easy, but the job’s so demanding, we need time to recharge. My work days seem to fly by and drag in equal proportions. One day we’ve barely nothing to do, the next shift we have call after call.

We’ve just finished another particularly gruelling shift when Slade comes up. “Ready for some breakfast?”

I’ve been with these men for twenty-four hours, but after the shit we’ve seen during the past night, would welcome the time, and help, to unwind. The captain knows it, which is why he’s keeping us together. No one can understand the stress of the job like another firefighter can. The last call out had been chilling, a vehicle fire we couldn’t put out in time, the crash victims had died while we were watching.

Seated in the establishment we habitually frequent for this purpose, we all order a substantial breakfast, and hungry, start digging in. In between a mouthful of eggs, I raise my chin to the man across the table. “How’s the baby, Hammer?”

“Teething.” His glum face shows he and his wife are having problems with that. “Crying all the time. Seems tuned in to when I want to get some sleep.”

“Poor little mite.”

His eyes widen. “I’m not little.”

I punch him lightly on the arm.

“Hey. Looks like trouble.” Slade’s pointing to the TV up on the wall.

As one we all get up.

“Turn up the sound,” Hammer shouts at the woman behind the counter, who does as asked. She’s used to firefighters coming in here.

“Fuck.” Truck voices all our thoughts.

“Only fifty or so acres so far.” Slade’s repeating what the newscaster is saying about the wildfire burning up in the mountains above Tucson.

“Is it contained?” I’m straining to hear, but I must have missed that bit.

“Twenty percent.” Okay, sounds like they’re getting it under control, but still some ways to go.

Truck’s face looks pinched. “What’s the weather forecast?”

Getting out my phone, I take a look. “Windy later.”

“Shit, I hope they get it out before then.” Hammer’s face creases in concern.

Truck’s still watching. “They’re going to get the planes up. They’re hitting it hard to stop it from spreading.”

I don’t envy my colleagues up in the forest, from whatever station they’re based. Fighting a wildland fire is challenging work, and dangerous. It’s impossible to guess when the wind might change and blow it in your direction.

“I imagine they’ll put it out.” Slade gives us his professional view. “As long as it’s contained and doesn’t spread. And there doesn’t seem to be any property nearby.”

That’s good. No Houses, businesses, or people needing to be evacuated. Satisfied our fellow firefighters will be doing all they can to get the smallish fire under control, we return to our table and resume our conversation. Although we are an urban-based station dealing mainly with structural fires, we’re also trained wildland firefighters, and have been called on to tackle many a wildfire over the years.

You can sum up a structural fire based on experience, know roughly what you’re dealing with, and estimate how long it might take to put out and bring in the correct resources. But a wildfire? There’s so many variables that mean you don’t know what you’re up against, and conditions can change swiftly. They can also be notoriously hard to extinguish.

I cast one last glance up at the TV, but the newscaster’s moved onto something else. Hopefully the local crew will contain it. I’m not worried about myself, I’ll fight whatever fire I’m asked to. But a wildfire can be dangerous, ravenous, and take far too much.