Page 2 of Burn Patterns
Michael had thrown himself into SWAT with the same intensity Dad brought to the fire service. Matthew found his calling in the back of an ambulance. Miles, the youngest, was the only one who surprised us—becoming a crisis counselor instead of running toward fire and blood like the rest of us.
And me?
I'm still counting strokes. Still chasing numbers and still trying to prove—
A siren's wail shattered the pre-dawn quiet, distant but unmistakable.
I lifted my head, treading water as I tracked the sound. Engine 17, by its pitch, followed by the deeper note of Ladder 6. The radio clipped to my safety buoy crackled to life, the dispatcher's voice cutting through the ambient noise of water against plastic.
"Structure fire reported at Cascade Industrial Complex, Building C. Heavy smoke visible from I-90. All available units respond."
My body was already moving as I calculated response times in my head. Katie appeared at the water's edge, her own workout interrupted. She held out my towel without being asked, understanding in her eyes. We'd all learned to recognize that particular mix of focus and resignation that crossed first responders' faces when duty called.
"Your gear bag's by my car," she said, jerking her chin toward the parking lot. "Want me to grab it?"
"Thanks." I was already stripping out of my wetsuit, the chill air raising goosebumps on my shoulders. "I owe you."
"Add it to my tab." She attempted a smile but didn't quite make it. Katie was Seattle PD—she knew too well how quickly routine calls could turn dangerous. "Be careful out there."
The drive to the station was an exercise in controlled urgency, my mind shifting gears from athlete to firefighter with practiced ease. I ran through mental checklists developed over years of service: weather conditions (cool, clear, minimal wind), time of day (shift change approaching, traffic still light), and location (industrial complex, potential hazmat concerns). I filed each detail away, building a tactical picture before I even arrived on the scene.
The familiar weight of my turnout gear settled something in my chest as I suited up. This, too, was a kind of meditation—each snap and buckle in its proper order, each piece of equipment in its place. Dad had drilled it into us: routine wasn't merely protection. It was survival.
"Lieutenant McCabe?"
I turned to find Barrett, one of our newest firefighters, already geared up and practically vibrating with nervous energy. It was her first big call since completing probation, if I remembered right.
"You're with me," I said, checking her gear with automatic thoroughness. "Stay close, watch your breathing, and remember—"
"Clear communication and situational awareness," she finished. A smile flickered across her face. "Your brother gave the same speech in SWAT cross-training last week."
Of course, he had. Michael might approach tactical situations differently than I did, but some lessons ran in the family. I made a mental note to tease him about it later, assuming—
No. No assuming. Focus on now, on the job at hand. Dad's voice again, as clear as if he were standing beside me:Assumptions get people killed, Marcus. Stay present.
Engine 17's siren grew louder as they pulled into the bay, Captain Walsh was already calling out assignments. I caught fragments about water supply and ventilation points as I helpedRivera into the truck, taking part in the controlled chaos of a crew in motion. Every shift was different, but the underlying rhythm remained the same—this dance of duty and discipline that had shaped my entire life.
The industrial complex loomed ahead, skeletal against the early dawn, thick smoke curling into the sky like something alive.
Even before we turned the corner, I saw the glow reflecting off the wet pavement, staining the mist an ugly shade of orange. Fire was never only light—it was hunger, stripping everything down to blackened bone.
The radio crackled in my ear."Battalion Seven on scene. Three-story commercial structure, smoke showing from floors two and three, alpha side. No confirmed occupants."
That didn't mean no one was inside.
We pulled up fast, tires screeching against concrete, and I was already moving before the engine settled. The first hit of heat rolled over me, thick and blistering, soaking into my gear like it belonged there. The smoke was wrong—not the chaos of a normal burn, but something precise. Controlled.
Too controlled.
A warehouse fire should be messy and unpredictable. This one was burningtoo evenly, too clean.My gut twisted.
Behind me, Walsh barked orders, and crews had already worked to establish a water supply. The warehouse sprawled in front of us, a long stretch of corrugated steel and reinforced concrete, smoke bleeding from shattered windows. The fire was working its way up, licking at the second and third floors, but it wasn't moving like it should.
It almost looked like it wasn't meant to spread.
Someone had forced the front doors open—recently.
The hairs on the back of my neck stood up.
