Skin Deep (18 page)

Shae’s honey-colored ponytail swung from the back of one shoulder to the other as she checked the intersection in front of them and hung a sharp right. “Oakmont Boulevard marks the eastern edge of North Point. That neighborhood is as bad as it gets. People tend to mind their own business and not much else around there.”

Kellan pictured the layout of their call area in his mind’s eye, and damn, looked like weird was just their jumping-off point today. “Why the hell did we get called all the way out there? Isn’t that Station Twelve’s territory?”

“Dunno,” Gamble said. “Might be the hazmat though. Squad always gets dibs on those calls, and if the fire’s big enough, the guys from Twelve will be there, too. Speaking of which, this
is
a hazmat situation. Dispatch has the nine-one-one caller IDing the house as having a meth lab inside, so we’re gonna have to be on our toes. Gear up and get your shit together.”

“Copy that,” Kellan said into the mic, Shae and Slater’s identical response layering in with his over the headset. He put his senses on full alert as he shouldered into the heavy material of his coat and fastened the thing without looking. Following with the rest of his gear, he looked over at Slater to make sure the guy was all systems go with both his equipment and the nerves that had to be filling the kid to the goddamn brim right now.

Not that Kellan didn’t get it. On this job, you were either scared or you lacked a pulse. The trick was learning how to throw your fear back like a double shot of Crown Royal and not let the afterburn kick your ass for the effort.

Inhale on a three-count. Exhale to five. Thump
-thump.
Thump
-thump.
Focus
.

Kellan reached out to slide open the small window at his side. Breathing in, he took in every detail of the surroundings flying by him, from the bright blue sky to the crisp morning air that said autumn had truly arrived. The tightly knit buildings on both sides of the city streets made getting a clear visual on the fire’s smoke-line tough, but the sharp, charred-ash scent beginning to filter in through the window made the back of Kellan’s neck prickle.

Here we go
.

“
L
ooks
like we’re first on-scene,” Gamble said, pointing through the engine’s windshield at the empty street in front of them, and Kellan didn’t waste any time taking in the details. Small, squat houses lined either side of the narrow strip of pavement, each one in various states of dinginess or disrepair. A thick haze of gray smoke blanketed the block, chugging steadily from a two-story cottage midway up the street, and whoa, fighting this fire was going to be a goddamn chore. Not that he and everyone else from Seventeen wouldn’t rise to the challenge of kicking this thing’s ass, but they were going to sweat for every penny of today’s paycheck.

Kellan shouldered into the harness of his SCBA tank, his heavy-soled boots thudding to the asphalt the second Shae pulled the engine to a stop in front of the house. Bright orange flames illuminated each of the four main-level windows in angry, persistent streaks, their color a direct contrast to the dark smoke funneling up toward the roofline. The second floor looked pretty intact, but with how fast this fire seemed to be moving, he was shit-sure that wouldn’t last.

The radio on his shoulder crackled to life. “Alright, people,” came Captain Bridges’ voice over the line from the spot where he stood twenty paces away in full gear. “Dispatch has a report of a methamphetamine lab on the premises, so mask up and proceed with care. Hawk, Gates, get a vent on that roof. Dempsey, you and Faurier take Walker and McCullough for search and rescue. Gamble, you’re on the nozzle with Slater once the house is clear. Go to work.”

“Copy that,” Kellan said, his pulse flaring faster and his feet already in go-mode toward the storage compartment in the engine that held his Halligan bar. Taking one last mental snapshot of the scene, he fell into step with Shae, following Dempsey and Faurier over the scraggly excuse for a lawn. The front door easily succumbed to Dempsey’s well-placed kick, and a blast of heat and smoke rushed out to greet them like the world’s rudest hostess.

“Masks,” Faurier barked, each of them tugging their equipment into place over their faces. “McCullough, you and Walker take floor two. Dempsey and I will shake and bake down here. Let’s make it quick.”

“Copy,” Shae hollered past the hiss of her regulator. Following Faurier and Dempsey into the hazy space of the foyer, she and Kellan cut a quick path toward the set of stairs to their left. He counted his paces, making a fast mental note of how far the exit was in case visibility got any worse. Sweat formed a hot band of moisture over his forehead, and he did his best to blink it back, taking slow, even breaths to make the most of the oxygen from his SCBA. The house seemed less fire-ravaged the farther they ascended, but only just. Whatever had sparked this blaze had dug in hard and deep.

After a few more steps, he and Shae reached the top of the staircase, a dark, narrow hallway splitting off to either the right or the left. “I’ll take Bravo, you take Delta, we’ll meet back here in the middle. Good?” she asked, turning toward the left side of the hall.

“Copy that.” Kellan’s knuckles tightened over his Halligan bar even though his Teflon-reinforced gloves padded much of the contact. Six paces over the floorboards brought him to a door on his left, and he shoved his way over the threshold without pretense.

“Fire department! Call out!”

The only answer was the crackling whoosh of flames trailing up the far wall. Kellan moved farther into the space, and wait—he spun on his boot heels—the room was completely empty. No furniture, no curtains on the single window allowing a few feeble shafts of sunlight past the soot and smoke.

No nothing.

A prickle of unease slid over the back of his neck, but he shoved the feeling aside. This house was on fire, and not a little bit. He didn’t have time for weird coincidences.

Another ten seconds turned up a just-as-empty closet, and Kellan strode back toward the hallway, jamming the door behind him shut so the flames had less of a chance to spread. The radio chatter at his shoulder told him Hawk and Gates were more than halfway to getting the roof vented, and once they did, chances were high Bridges would want to hit this place with enough water to fill an Olympic-sized swimming pool.

“Fire department. Is anybody in here?” Kellan tried again, shouldering his way past the only other doorway at his end of the hall. The room on the other side was way smaller and way more darkly shadowed than the bedroom he had just checked, and despite the limited visibility, he instantly recognized the space in front of him as a bathroom.

He caught sight of the woman curled up in the bathtub a half-second later.

“Whoa!” He dropped to his knees, his Halligan bar jangling to the tile and his pulse sending a steady stream of adrenaline to every last cell in his body. “Ma’am? Can you hear me?” Kellan put a firm shake on the woman’s shoulder, but her head simply lolled, sending her dark hair over her face.
Dammit
.

Sucking in a breath, he slapped one gloved hand over his radio. “Walker to Command.”

“Command to Walker,” Bridges answered, all business. “Report.”

“I have an unconscious victim on the second floor, Delta side.” He needed to find Shae and get this woman out of here,
now
.

“McCullough to Command, the rest of floor two is clear.” Shae’s voice filtered through the two-way, calm and controlled. “Walker, fall out to the primary exit. I’ve got your back.”

Relief spilled through him. “Copy, McCullough,” Kellan said, and Bridges’ voice followed.

“Command to McCullough, copy that. Walker, you’re a go. Drake and Copeland are standing by at the primary exit to assist.”

The second the words registered, Kellan’s arms shot out. Turning the victim to her back, he took a cursory look at her, just to make sure she had no obvious injuries he’d make worse with a fireman’s carry…

And then he saw the woman’s face.

“Angel?” His heart ricocheted against his ribs. For a stop-time second, Kellan thought surely his brain was playing some adrenaline-fueled, nasty-bastard trick on his eyes—how the hell could Angel be here, in the bathtub of a burning house, when she was supposed to be with Isabella?

After a single blink, he smashed down on his confusion. This fire was getting meaner by the second. He couldn’t afford to do anything right now other than move.

Move
.

Shoving away anything that wasn’t uncut instinct, Kellan lifted Angel out of the bathtub and propped her over his shoulders. The threshold back to the hallway—two steps—the smoke-clogged stairs—twelve plus the landing to make a baker’s dozen—the handful of paces to the front door—all six. Each set of strides became a blur of shapes and sounds as he counted his way to the door. Sweat poured between his shoulder blades, his lungs constricting beneath the crush of adrenaline filling his chest, but he couldn’t stop. Couldn’t think.

Couldn’t be scared Angel might be dead instead of at the diner with Isabella, where she was supposed to be giving the statement that would put DuPree away forever.

Sunlight blasted Kellan’s field of vision, stunning his senses but not his movements as his boots pounded over the threshold and into the front yard. His muscles screamed with every step, but he refused to give in until a familiar female voice penetrated his consciousness.

“Easy, Walker. Let’s see what we’ve got.” Quinn Copeland, the second half of Station Seventeen’s paramedic crew, rushed up to meet him with a gurney. Kellan lowered Angel to the thin mattress dividing the space between him and Copeland, reaching up to remove his helmet and his mask but not budging an inch as she began her rapid trauma assessment.

“Damn it.” Quinn’s face went from zero to shit-storm serious in less than a breath. “She’s not breathing, and I can’t find a pulse.”

Kellan’s gut took a hard slide toward his knees. “We need to help her. We need—” He yanked his chin in a rough glance from side to side. “Where’s Drake?”

“He’s on the other victim,” she said quietly, her gloved hands moving fast enough over Angel’s body to turn them into a purple blur.

“What?” Oh hell, how many women had been inside that house?

Copeland flattened her palms over Angel’s chest and began CPR, and shit. Shit! This couldn’t be happening.

“Gates found someone else inside just seconds after you radioed in, and from the sound of things, the guy’s as bad off as this woman.” She completed a round of compressions, pausing for a lightning-fast vitals check before shifting to resume CPR. “The paramedics from Twelve are on their way to help us get both victims to Remington Hospital. Until then, Drake and I have to divide and conquer here on-scene.”

“You’re not taking her to the hospital?” Kellan asked, dread filling his belly, and Copeland pegged him with a light gray stare that defied her sweet, all-American looks.

“Drake’s guy is critical too, Walker, and they won’t both fit in the ambo. We have to wait for the guys from Twelve to help us with transport, so right now I’m all this woman’s got.”

“No you’re not,” Kellan said. “Let me help.” He jerked his chin toward his radio before she could protest. “Walker to Command, requesting to assist Copeland with the victim.”

“Command to Walker,” came Bridges’ voice. “Affirmative. You are a go for medical assist.”

Relief left his lungs on a hard burst. “Copy that, Command,” Kellan said, quickly shucking the soot-stained leather on his hands in favor of a pair of nitrile medical gloves and squinting through the sunlight to look at Quinn.

“I’ve got your back, Copeland. Just tell me what to do to help you help her.”

She didn’t hesitate. “Okay. Take over compressions so I can get her hooked up to the monitor.”

Copeland shifted her hands to make room for his to replace them, and Kellan leaned in from the other side of the gurney. Willing his hands not to shake and his focus not to falter, he laced his fingers together, palm over knuckles. He pressed them to the front of Angel’s once-white dress, his brain making the startled realization that it was the same one she’d worn last night.

She hadn’t even changed clothes from the party.

A fresh shot of adrenaline bloomed in his veins, but he stuffed back the heart-twisting detail. He had to focus on helping Angel, right here and right now. No emotions. Just actions.

Kellan flew into motion, starting CPR.
One and two and three and four
… Christ, she felt so small and frail, his hands spanning more than half of her chest. “Come on, Angel. Breathe. You need to breathe.”

Copeland’s white-blond brows winged up, her hands hitching over the leads to the portable monitor at the foot of the gurney. “Do you know this woman?”

A thread of warning uncurled in Kellan’s chest despite all the go-go-go flooding through his bloodstream. Even a small admission would risk outing Isabella’s off-the-books recon. “I…I’ve seen her before. She’s an informant for the RPD. Or she’s supposed to be.”

“Well, you and I are going to do everything we can to help her.”

Blocking everything from his brain that wasn’t part of the trauma response, Kellan completed a few rounds of compressions before rotating with Quinn to monitor Angel’s vitals. He registered his surroundings in clips of awareness—the radio byplay between Gamble and Slater as they moved through the house with the primary water line, the acrid scent of smoke tightening the back of his throat, the crease that deepened between Copeland’s brows with every check of Angel’s nonexistent vitals.

Jesus. How had this even happened? Angel was supposed to be with Isabella. She was supposed to be
safe
.

Instead, she was fighting for her life.

Kellan and Quinn completed a five-minute cycle of compressions, then another. His muscles burned to the point of cramping, and he whipped his coat from the frame of his shoulders to keep himself from overheating. His body processed the cool blast of air even though his brain refused to let him enjoy the relief, and come on—
come
on
—for fuck’s sake, why wasn’t Angel responding?

“Command to Copeland, Command to Drake.” Captain Bridges’ voice cut a path into Kellan’s awareness from the radio slung over the shoulder of Copeland’s uniform. “Ambulance Twelve is on-scene.”

“Thank God,” Copeland murmured, sliding a gaze toward the flat red line moving over the screen of the portable monitor. A few seconds later, a dark-haired paramedic appeared at her side, and God damn it, Kellan hated every last bit of Quinn’s expression as she greeted the guy.

“Unresponsive female pulled from the scene,” she said, giving the paramedic the bullet in low, serious tones. “No breath sounds, no pulse. Began compressions fourteen minutes ago. No response.”

“Fourteen minutes down is a long time.” The paramedic looked from Copeland to Angel, then back again before adding, “You want to take her to Remington Hospital so the docs can call it?”

“No.” Kellan heard the protest only after it had catapulted from his mouth. But they had to do something here.
He
had to do something. “Can’t you intubate her? Or shock her with the defibrillator? Maybe she just needs a jolt to get her heart going.”

Quinn’s hand curled around his forearm. “Walker, we can’t. Intubating her won’t make her breathe on her own, and we can’t shock her if she never had a heart rhythm to begin with. We’ll continue CPR on the way to the hospital, but I’m sorry. She’s gone.”

Anger cranked Kellan’s jaw hard enough to make his molars beg for forgiveness. Ripping his gloves from his hands, he grated out a harsh curse as Copeland and the paramedic from Twelve loaded the gurney into the back of the ambulance. Kellan swung his gaze over the scene, taking in the ruined, now-smoldering house and Parker’s grim expression from where he knelt over a man about forty feet away.

…Drake’s guy is critical too…Drake’s guy…

Kellan strode across the pavement, his heart locked in his windpipe. Drake’s eyes were on the monitor propped beside the crumbling curb, the other paramedic from Station Twelve doing CPR across from him. Kellan lasered in on the victim’s face, shock and fear combining to punch him right in the throat.

The second victim was Danny Marcus.