Still protecting his charge, he’s inching back as the flames in the hallway start to consume everything in its path.
He assesses the space, up-down, side-to-side. “Can you clear the floor?”
The debris is lighter there and starting to burn out. Using my hook, I knock fire-ravaged plaster out of the way, creating a narrow pocket. Roman places the kid on the floor and pushes him across, far enough that I can grab his hands and pull him to my side. The kid moans, which I take as a good sign. Moaning children are live children.
“Got him?”
“Yes!”
“Take him to the medics now.”
“But—”
“Now, Abby!”
In this moment, the kid is the prime directive. I turn and race down the stairs—also on fire, by the way—and meet Gage at the entrance.
“Gage, get him to the EMTs!”
“On it.” When I turn back, he shouts after me, “What the hell, Abby?”
“Roman’s still up there!”
His response is lost to the air because I’m already hauling ass back up, the smoke now so thick I can’t see one foot in front of the other. Climbing blind is no fun, but we’ve practiced this in the smoke box at the academy. Sure, Sam had to save me one of the three times I entered it, but two successes are better than none.
“Rossi, call out!”
Nothing but the crackle of burning paint. I fall to my knees where the smoke is thinner, and a couple feet in, I encounter an immovable object.
Roman.
Somehow he got past the bottleneck in the hallway but collapsed about six feet from the top of the stair. I yank at his shoulder.
“Roman, wake up!”
He lifts his head. Blood is oozing from a wound on his temple. He must have hit his noggin along the way.
“Abby, what the—?”
“Can you get up? Or do I have to drag your ass out of here?”
By sheer Roman Rossi will, he shakes himself awake. “I’m right behind you.” He sounds groggy but at least he’s speaking.
“Age before beauty,” I yell. “Get moving.”
He does, going ahead of me, though I imagine it kills him to do it. He’s the one who’s compromised in this situation, potentially concussed and dizzy, so I have to take the rear. We’re crawling along the landing to the top of the stair and reach a pocket of space that’s not filled with smoke and flame. He stands, dragging me upright with him.
“I told you to leave.” He coughs the words out.
“So you can claim all the glory? No chance.”
He grimaces. Blood trickles from that cut on his forehead; he blinks it away behind his mask.
In sync, we both assess the stairs. They’re practically engulfed and there’s a good chance we’ll break our ankles if we try to descend.
“I’m really pissed that you came back for me,” he says, his voice scratchy, “but then you’re such a pain in the ass that I suppose it’s to be expected. Christ, I love you, Abby Sullivan.”
Did I hear that right? Did he say he loved me? No, it has to be the head injury. He loves that I’m here saving his hot Italian ass, that’s all.
Only my heart appears to have gone with the original interpretation. It’s soaring, and it’s not just the adrenaline of being slap bang in the middle of a working fire.
Roman is still talking, like he didn’t just tell me that he loves me.
“But now you’re going to follow orders, okay? We’re going to have to make a run for it down the stairs. If we wait any longer—”
“Yeah, I hear you.”
I take a step; the next rung collapses and Roman hauls me back by my jacket with my foot in the air like a Looney Tunes cartoon.
“I’m Indiana Jones in this scenario, Abby.”
Meaning he’s going first like Indy in The Last Crusade, stepping on those stones to avoid the Grail Chamber’s death traps. It’s about twelve steps, but one of them is gone and Lord knows the condition of the rest. Roman takes the first step past the collapsed rung, treading carefully, testing his weight. If it can hold him, I should be good.
One more step … He loves me.
Another one down … And I love him.
Step number three … He fucking loves me!
He’s made it halfway down with me following in his wake when I hear it: a creaking sound. Not good. Ceiling tiles rain down on us, burning plaster bombs, and the stairway’s bannister shakes, a fiery tremor that portends an earthquake.
The stair starts to give, like it’s had enough of our pussyfooting nonsense and has lost all respect for anyone with such a careful tread.
I grab onto Roman’s arm just as the bannister falls away, my lieutenant with it.
And I fall with him …
Thirty-five
Abby
Hospital waiting rooms are the saddest places on the planet.
Hospital waiting rooms filled with smoke-stinking, dirt-streaked firefighters are even worse. All the members of B Platoon are standing around, scrolling through their phones, like it’s completely normal to have two of our own receiving medical care after being pulled from an inferno that destroyed a three-story building.
“How can you be so calm?” I say to Gage.
He looks up, his clear blue eyes troubled. “This isn’t the first time and it won’t be the last.”
Of course. He was sixteen when he lost his dad and brother, and I’ve no doubt he’s punctuated other runs with visits to the hospital.
Perhaps realizing that his last statement isn’t all that helpful, he turns his phone over. “Okay, let’s get your mind off the obvious, Candidate. Would you rather accidentally like an old photo of your ex on Instagram or accidentally send a sext to your dad or mom?”
Tyler points at Gage. “That’s evil, man!”
Gage grins. “I know. As for me, sexting all the way. If my dad was still here, he’d understand completely.”
Danny shudders theatrically. “Nope, nope, nope. Option number one, all my exes love me.”
Gage mutters, “Typical. What about you, Abs?”
“Ex, for sure.” My father would have a coronary. I reach for the soothing vibes of my mom’s pendant.
It’s gone.
No no no!
Maybe it’s stuck in my clothes but a quick pat down assures me of the worst—I’ve lost my most precious memento. This day continues on its relentless quest for premium suckage.
Tyler notices my unease. “You okay?”
“My necklace. It must have slipped off.”
I’m searching the ground in case it fell off when I arrived when Captain Ventimiglia blows in and takes a seat beside me.
“How are you holding up, Sullivan?”
“Okay. Have you heard anything?”
He shakes his head. “They’re tough guys, so let’s assume the best. You want to tell me what happened?”
I’d rather not but the captain probably wants to take my mind off our injured colleagues. “Roman—Lieutenant Rossi—and I got caught at the top of the stairs. It became involved pretty quickly, the steps no longer safe. Roman went first and as we neared the end of the second flight, the bannister collapsed. I grabbed him but he had too much momentum.”