Page 66 of The Fire We Crave

Nothing could feel better.

Except maybe the sight of Quinn Moran on her knees next to me. But I can’t focus on that right now.

When we get closer to the bakery, Grudge and Taco come from the opposite direction. An armored truck sits on the opposite side of the street, and its engine starts as soon as the lights of the motorcycles shine on it.

The reversing lights illuminate when the truck tries to move from the bikes to pull away, but I slide up right behind it, blocking them in.

That makes the driver person number five if we saw four out back of the bakery.

Grudge has his weapon out and is pointing it straight at the tire, ready to take them out if the driver tries to move.

I jump off my bike as soon as I’ve pulled up. “There are three possible exit points,” I say to Butcher. “The door at the rear, the door at the front of the store, and the separate door up to the apartment. The rear alley runs east and west behind the bakery, so they could come out at either end.”

Wraith joins Taco, and Butcher waves them off to cover one end of the alley.

Realizing the driver’s door is unlocked, Grudge attempts to pull the driver out, but not before the man leans on the horn hard, a loud blaring blast. Loud enough to wake the neighborhood, given the time of night.

“No killing,” Butcher shouts. “Not yet, anyway.”

I head for the alley down the side of the building. Somehow, saving the bakery for Quinn becomes the only thing I can think of.

While I know it’s only bricks and mortar, I don’t want her to have to go through the whole rebuilding process that Ember has had to. I don’t want her to face the sorrow of losing the only connection she has to her family. I think about all the family photo albums Melody showed me one evening, of them both as children.

I’ve seen fires destroy swaths of land, farms, buildings, barns, even livestock. But the one thing people struggle most with is precious paper that turns to tinder. Handwritten cards and letters from loved ones. Photographs of events that happened before digital photos were a thing. Marriage licenses from deceased grandparents.

Paper is the thing they miss more than anything.

Like their memories and history and family stories will evaporate as it burns.

As I make it to the back of the building, I see two of the men running left, two running right. But I jump the low wall of the bakery, where the security alarm blasts through the night sky. Even as my injuries scream at me, I scan the area.

A low window is smashed, and when I get closer, the Molotov cocktail explodes, sending fire up the walls.

The force of it has me ducking and shielding my eyes.

The snap and hiss of the flames, small as they are, cause my heart to race. Adrenaline pumps fast through my veins. Momentarily, every thought slips from my head.

I can’t remember why I’m there, or what I’m supposed to do.

Until I hear the roar of a motorcycle over the noise, and it brings me back to the present.

I reach for my phone and call Geoff. “We need that truck. Molotov fire. Down the alley to the left of the shop. Hydrant out front. Come down the alley.”

I hear Geoff give instruction; sirens go on. “We’re three minutes out.”

“Don’t smash the shop up,” I say, knowing it’s the opposite of what we normally do. Usually, it’s the fastest point to the fire, through windows, through rooms, whatever it takes.

Then, I remember.

The fucking hose that was in the way earlier when I fixed the wheel on the baking rack.

With a few fast turns of the tap, I crank the water to full power. It spills out the end. There isn’t a nozzle or spray that will make it easy to direct. But I put my thumb over the end, making the water spread out in a wide fan, and I aim it through the broken window.

My training kicks in. I switch between a direct attack, aimed at the immediate burn zone, and the rain method, pointing the hose upward and allowing it to rain down on the fire but also drench the surrounding area to prevent spread.

Thankfully, two decisions have helped save the bakery: The first was Quinn’s mom’s choice to make it an industrial-style setup. Metal work surfaces and counters mean there is less wood in the facility. The second is the tile floor with a drain hole. My guess is that Quinn uses the hose to thoroughly wash down the kitchen.

I’ve just got it under control when I hear the scream of sirens.

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