Page 36 of Burning Hearts
I shouldered the service door, and the stairwell expelled hot, chemical-laced air.
Over our heads, a ceiling tile above the landing bulged, sagged, then dropped. A pressurized blast of fire suppressant sprayed through the opening. My reflexes beat my thoughts—I planted a hand in the center of Ellis’s chest and stepped him back. The wet chemical spray hit my jacket instead of his face, burning my eyes and slicking my sleeve.
Fire suppressant in your eyes ruins a night just as fast as smoke.
“Eyes up,” I said, steady. “Out we go.”
Ellis didn’t argue. He pivoted back into the Lantern Room and put the calm voice to work.
“We’re walking outside,” he told the Lantern patrons like it was obvious. “Left aisle, phones down.”
He pointed, not dramatic—just factual—and people listened because he sounded like the person you listen to.
I took the stairs two at a time and shouldered into Portico.
Live flame.
I saw that a sauté pan had tipped, and the backsplash had flames surrounding it. Fire was already climbing the tile, touching the hood. A towel bar along the wall was starting to burn, and the hanging light over the line was charred along its rim.
The hood was dumping, but the fire had found a way around it.
I grabbed the kitchen extinguisher, checked the hose, and swept a measured, low line across the base of the fire. The thick spray coated the tile in an even layer. The flame jumped off the wall then made one last grab for the light before it finally gave up.
I pulled out my phone and called Wyatt. Luckily, he was already on Main Street for an event and could easily walk over to the hotel.
“Interior Portico,” I said. “Hood dumped, visible flame knocked. Check wall temps and kill the gas.”
“Copy,” Wyatt answered in my ear, calm as daybreak. “Deputy en route. Gas kill on me.”
A guest near the threshold lifted their phone for a hero shot.
“Outside,” I said, two fingers toward the door.
They went.
Somewhere in the service corridor, an adjacent sprinkler head decided it had endured enough and tripped. Water came through the pass in a glistening, shimmering sheet, soaking carpet, and dessert. A server cried out and dragged a loaded tray as a camera crew yelped.
The kind of clean-up that would turn housekeeping into a hazmat team.
“Breakers on dessert station,” I called out to a hotel employee nearby. “Now.”
He ran.
Behind me, the alarm tone kept penetrating the air with its harsh sound; beyond it I could still pick out Ellis’s voice counting people.
“Table six, out,” he said, making sure no one went missing. “Table seven, out.”
The thermal camera finally arrived like a gift.
Wyatt took it in stride, scanned the tile line, and gave me the numbers.
“Surface hot only,” he said. “No climb. You’ve got char, not a full chase.”
“Copy.”
I laid one final sweep along the lip of the hood and shut the can.
Gas thunked off to my right and the hissing sound relaxed a notch. Water from the popped sprinkler kept sheeting through, pushing a river toward an oven. A line cook slid on it, and I caught his elbow and set him on a dry mat.
