Page 36 of Controlled Burn
The radio crackled overhead.
“Engine 12, Ladder 12, respond to a rollover on Eastbound 90. Vehicle on its side, one occupant trapped.”
Dean turned. “Get your gear. Let’s move.”
When they arrived, the scene was chaos.
A red Civic lay on its side, steam hissing from the crumpled hood. Glass glittered across the asphalt like ice. The air reeked of oil and burnt rubber. Inside, a woman was conscious, shouting slurred obscenities through a cracked passenger window.
“He locked me out of my fucking apartment!” she screamed. “And you know why? ’Cause he’s gay! Gay! My fucking boyfriend is gay!”
She flailed against the seatbelt, limbs tangled. A bottle of vodka rolled between her feet.
Dean assessed the car’s stability. “We’ll need cribbing, a rescue blanket, hydraulic tools, and a backboard through the front.”
Jake stepped in, swinging the Halligan. “We can just pop the back window, reach in, and haul her out. She’s not even pinned.”
Dean’s voice was firm. “She’s combative. She could have spinal injuries. We do this clean.”
“She’s wasted,” Jake argued. “You really think she’s gonna let you backboard her like a Boy Scout, Cap?”
“I said no glass breach.”
But Jake was already moving, raising the Halligan.
Dean caught his wrist mid-swing.
For a split second, Dean saw it—the glass exploding, a jagged shard slicing through the woman’s throat. A shortcut turned trauma alert. And it would’ve been on him. Obsession with control pulsed in his temple.
“Don’t,” Dean growled.
Jake’s eyes flashed. “You want to drag this out because you’ve got a stick up your—”
“I gave an order.”
They stood chest to chest, tension crackling hotter than the sun baking the asphalt.
Jake pulled free, breathing hard.
Talia’s voice cut through the air. Calm. Steady.
“Ma’am, I need you to take a deep breath for me.”
She’d crouched at the cracked windshield, kneeling beside the woman. Her voice was soft, anchored. Reassuring.
“I get it. You’re mad. You’re drunk. You’re scared. But I need you to sit still so we can get you out without hurting you.”
The heat was suffocating. Sweat trickled down her spine, but she didn’t flinch, not even when the woman screamed inches from her face.
The woman blinked at her, disoriented. “He wore my lotion,” she sobbed. “Vanilla orchid. And I let him. Like a dumb bitch.”
“I hear you,” Talia said, voice velvet. “Let us help.”
Slowly, the woman sagged in her seat.
Dean watched as Talia slipped a gloved hand through the broken glass, resting it gently on the woman’s arm—a grounding touch. The screaming stopped. She always made chaos go quiet. It was easier to fix other people than herself—he knew that too well.
Brooks was off to the side, thumb tapping rapid-fire texts into his phone, not missing a thing but pretending not to see. Kennedy waited at the ambulance doors, eyes wide, shoulders hunched, clutching her stethoscope like a rosary. She looked as though she was praying that this wouldn’t be her call next.
