Page 84 of Anchor Point

My probationary period was nearing the end, but he’d been looking for a way to terminate me since day one. This might be his opportunity.

My dad would be so ashamed of me.

I swallowed my pride and squared my shoulders. I wouldn’t go down without a fight. And what better way to fight than to let the best do their job.

I caught Mac’s attention and motioned toward Rosie.

He nodded my way, attention already shifted to the job at hand, issuing orders. The first attack teams—three crews, six personnel—were already inside, relaying scene details. Knocking down the raging fire.

Two-man teams from each of the four trucks paired off, their backups waiting for the call for relief. Mac made the call to send in secondary support, and two teams from the eastern block of the court square raced across the lawn.

And I stood helplessly and watched.

Chapter Twenty-Four

Mac

Pacing the perimeter of the building to the opposite corner, I called for a headcount check and status update from my teams inside. Flames lit the interior of the second story. This side needed more attention.

The radio crackled. “1253 to command,” Nate’s voice called over the radio, a hollow, static-filled crackle. “Staircase is fully engulfed.”

“10-4, staircase is out of commission. Command to Aerial Two, see if you can get inside that second-story window.”

The fire shifted and rolled, licking out of windows, growing hotter and hotter. We were losing it. Looked like Cal would be leading a crew on his last shift. “B-team, take the south entrance.”

A loud crack sounded from across the court square, and radio traffic went nuts.

Cal, the lead firefighter, jerked and fell to the ground.

“What the fuck?” I barked.

Crack. Crack.

The other crew dropped low to the ground as screams rose above the cacophony of the scene and the chilling retort of rifle fire.

“Active shooter, take cover!”

I wrapped my arms around Olivia and slammed her against the engine, covering her body with my own, before glancing over my shoulder in the direction of where she’d left our daughter. Too much distance separated us from her, the length of a city block.

Policemen barreled in behind us, providing cover. Guns drawn, radios squawking.

“It had to come from the roof of the Alamo!”

“I’ve got visual on a subject.”

More shots rang out, pinging the side of the engine. We ducked behind the safety of the firetruck as the bullets struck true.

“He took out the pump panel,” I yelled.

“Jesus Christ, he’s cut off water supply to the crew inside the building.” Her words were barely audible in the din around us.

Out on the lawn, one of the firemen dragged Cal’s prone body to safety. Olivia gripped my hand, squeezed her eyes shut, and prayed, “Please let him be okay, and please let Rosie be hiding.”

“She’s smart. She’ll be okay,” I growled in her ear.

A staticky voice came across the radio of the officer next to me. “Lost visual.”

Olivia shuddered, hand gripping mine. “I left her by the engine on the other side of the court square.” Fear laced her words—fear that sliced into me and went straight to my bones. “I’ve got to get over there, Mac.” Wide, terror-filled eyes met mine.

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