Page 16 of Against the Wind

“You look like hammered shit.” Tank dropped a case of water bottles at my feet. “Thought you turned in early last night.”

I grunted, not bothering with an answer. The less said about my unauthorized surveillance operation, the better. Commander Hayes would have my ass if he knew I’d gone out alone withoutbackup or proper gear. But something about those fishermen’s story had nagged at me, demanded investigation.

“Last one.” Martinez handed over the last box. “Better get this stuff distributed before the wind picks up more. Chief Thompson wants everything battened down by noon.”

The mid-morning radio briefing had put the hurricane just nine hours out. Already the sky had taken on that strange, greenish cast that preceded major storms. The air felt heavy, electric. My joints ached with the pressure change—or maybe that was just from spending four hours crouched behind a jetty with nothing to show for it but a crick in my neck.

The wind gusted, rattling the fire station’s storm shutters. I’d wasted precious hours chasing shadows while the storm bore down on us. Now I had to focus on what I was actually here for—helping Hatterwick weather whatever was coming.

I paused in the doorway of the station’s office, catching fragments of conversation between Chief Thompson and Captain McNamara.

“... need the community center prepped by fourteen hundred hours.” Chief Thompson’s voice carried down the hall. “Got word from the clinic about setting up triage?—”

“Already on it.” McNamara’s response was clipped, focused. “But we’re short on manpower. Half the crew’s out securing the marina.”

I shifted my weight, joints protesting after hours of hauling supplies. The mention of the clinic caught my attention—Gabi had talked about emergency protocols yesterday while we’d been finishing up with the windows.

“What’s the timeline looking like?” Chief Thompson asked.

“Three, maybe four hours tops before conditions start to deteriorate. Need to get those beds set up, oxygen tanks secured. Gabi’s got a whole checklist?—“

I stepped into the office, clearing my throat. “Need an extra set of hands?”

Both men turned. McNamara’s expression remained neutral, but something flickered in his eyes—recognition, maybe. Or suspicion. Hard to tell.

Had Tank said something about my prior involvement with Gabi? I hadn’t given him much in the way of details, but I’d said enough to potentially put her brother-in-law on the defense.

After a beat, he acknowledged, “Could use the help.”

“Happy to pitch in wherever needed.”

The fire chief nodded. “Appreciate the assist. Hoyt, get him up to speed on the layout.”

I followed McNamara into the hall, ignoring the voice in my head pointing out that this was a thin excuse to put myself in Gabi’s path again. The community center needed the help—that was reason enough.

It took less than a quarter hour to mobilize a group to help.

The community center’s double doors banged against the wall as Tank shouldered them open, arms full of medical supplies. I followed with my own load, the smell of disinfectant already heavy in the air.

Inside, the basketball court had transformed into a makeshift hospital ward. Blue tarps covered the polished wooden floor, and rows of metal cots lined the walls. A group of volunteers wheeled in IV poles while others assembled privacy screens.

“Over here.” McNamara directed us toward a staging area where other firefighters sorted supplies into clearly labeled zones—trauma, respiratory, cardiac. The organization impressed me—whoever had planned this knew their stuff.

“Those go in bay three.” A nurse I recognized from yesterday pointed to our boxes. Her scrubs were already damp with sweat as she juggled clipboards and directed traffic. “And we need more hands setting up the isolation area in the back.”

I stacked the supplies where indicated, then joined Tank in wrestling cots into position. The work was methodical, but I kept scanning the room, searching for Gabi. Surely she was here somewhere to oversee all this?

“You expecting someone?” Tank grunted as we locked the cot’s legs in place.

“Just trying to get a head count.” The lie came easy. Too easy.

The side eye Tank shot me said he wasn’t buying what I was selling.

The clinic office manager—Nina, I remembered—directed us to move supplies from the staging area to the med station. As we worked, I caught fragments of conversation—supply counts, staff assignments, patient estimates.

“Where’s Dr. Carrera?” Another nurse called across the room. “These protocols need sign-off.”

Nina checked something else off a list. “Still at the clinic. She’s still seeing patients on an emergency basis, down to the last minute.”

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