Chapter 2 - The Three Hundred Yards
The chain hit the asphalt with a heavy, dead sound.
“Back in the rig!” Lawson roared.
I scrambled up the side of Engine Four. The driver, Miller, didn't hesitate. But as the heavy diesel engine roared to life, we faced the second problem.
The white Lexus.
It was parked at an angle, effectively creating a chicane that our massive fire engine could not simply squeeze through. Brenda had purposefully parked it there earlier that evening, a petty display of power to ensure no one bypassed her newly installed chain.
“She’s blocking the rig!” Miller shouted over the intercom.
Brenda was screaming outside, her hands plastered to the side of her face. “My baby! Get to my baby!”
Lawson didn’t even blink. He grabbed the radio mic.
“Miller. Push it.”
“Cap?”
“I said push the damn car, Miller! We are losing time!”
Miller slammed the engine into gear. The heavy steel front bumper of the fire engine made contact with the pristine white door of the Lexus. There was a sickening crunch of luxury metal, shattering glass, and snapping fiberglass. The fire engine groaned, its massive torque easily overwhelming the sedan's parking brake.
We shoved the fifty-thousand-dollar car into the ditch like a discarded toy. The tires shrieked against the pavement, but we burst through the opening and hurtled down the private lane.
Those three hundred yards felt like an eternity.
As we cleared the tree line, the full horror of the scene came into view. The Kensington house, a sprawling two-story colonial, was fully involved on the first floor. Flames licked out of the living room windows, crawling up the vinyl siding like greedy orange fingers reaching for the roof. Thick, black smoke billowed into the night sky, choking the stars.
The heat radiated through the cab windows before we even parked.
“Pull a crosslay! Let's get water on that front door!” Lawson barked, already leaping from the cab. “Mitchell, Jenkins, you’re on search and rescue. Get masked up. We need to find the kid.”
I threw on my SCBA (Self-Contained Breathing Apparatus) mask and pulled my hood tight. My heart hammered against my ribs, but the training took over. Panic was a luxury we couldn't afford.
Jenkins, a younger guy with shoulders like a linebacker, gave me a sharp nod. We grabbed our halligan bar and an axe.
Brenda came sprinting down the lane behind us, having chased the engine on foot. She was screaming Chloe’s name, her silk pajamas stained with soot, her perfect hair whipping wildly around her face.
“She’s in the front bedroom! The one above the garage!” Brenda wailed, trying to grab my heavy turnout coat.
A police cruiser screeched to a halt behind our engine. Two officers jumped out and immediately grabbed Brenda, pulling her back.
“Let me go! My daughter is in there!” she thrashed against the officers. “Chloe! Mommy’s here!”
I looked at Brenda, really looked at her, for a fraction of a second. The arrogance was entirely stripped away. There was no HOA president here. There was only a terrified mother, realizing that the precious minutes we lost cutting her chain and moving her car might be the exact minutes that cost her child's life.
“We’ll find her,” I said. My voice was muffled by the mask, but I knew she heard me.
I turned my back on her and faced the inferno.
“Ready, Mitchell?” Jenkins yelled over the roar of the fire.
“Ready,” I grunted.
We hit the front door. It was locked, of course. Everything Brenda did was about being locked up tight. Jenkins swung the halligan, wedging it into the doorframe, and I drove it in with the flat head of the axe.
With a loud crack, the door gave way.
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A wall of thick, oily black smoke rolled out, swallowing us instantly. The heat was a physical blow to the chest. We dropped to our knees, crawling beneath the thermal layer.
We were inside. And the clock was ticking.
