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Meg took the 12th Street exit on her way to the Hoover Building and switched over to the first tactical channel. And went from the single cool voice of the commander to a flurry of communication from the teams actively fighting the fire. It sounded like a nightmare scenario: Heavy smoke. High heat. The floor-to-ceiling contents making navigating each floor nearly impossible. Hoses catching on piles of junk. Firefighters having to climb over hoarded debris to proceed through the house. Air levels in SCBA tanks dropping with increasing speed due to the work required simply to move through the space.

  “Engine 2. We’ve made access to the second floor. Engine 2 will scout ahead of the hose line.” It was Webb’s voice, calmly leading a team of two other firefighters through the second floor, moving ahead of them to scout the route through mountains of books, clothing, boxes, and furniture.

  It was only as she approached East Street NW that Meg realized she was so focused on the hoarder fire that she had driven through the National Mall on autopilot without seeing it. She signaled her turn quickly and took the corner faster than she would have liked to the blast of a horn behind her and the scrape of Hawk’s nails as he slid sideways in his compartment.

  “Sorry, buddy.” She glanced back, but Hawk simply stared at her, unperturbed. “You’re a champ. And I need to pay better attention.”

  “Mayday, Mayday, Mayday!”

  Meg started, jerking the steering wheel, and then had to swiftly compensate before she hit the curb.

  Mayday. The call given only in the life-and-death crisis of a firefighter.

  But she barely had time to contemplate what might be happening before details came at her fast.

  “Engine 2 to Command. Ceiling collapse. Lieutenant Webb was underneath. Two of us on a hose line. He’s ahead of us and we can’t see him or raise him. Second floor. Bravo Charlie corner.”

  Meg’s heart rate spiked in panic and she didn’t think. She just hit the accelerator. Washington City was only blocks away from her current location. She could be there in minutes. Part of her knew there was no reason to be there and many reasons to stay away. They would already be mounting a rescue operation, one she couldn’t assist in. One she could get in the way of. She and her dog were going to turn up at an active fire with an ongoing crisis to do . . . what?

  She knew there was no reason to be there. But God help anyone who was going to try to stop her.

  Todd. When he’d given her the radio, he’d done it so she could be assured of his well-being. He never would have thought it might give her a window into experiencing his death in real time.

  She recognized the high-pitched, repetitive whooping in the background behind the voice of the Engine 2 firefighter as Webb’s personal alert safety system. It was rigged to sound the alarm after thirty seconds of inactivity. The longer the firefighter remained motionless, the louder it got. From what was coming over the radio, Webb had been down for far too long.

  He had to be unconscious under all that rubble.

  The incident commander was back on the radio, his voice calm despite the urgency of the situation. “Command copies your Mayday, Engine 2. Lieutenant Webb has had a structural collapse on the second floor and is separated from his crew. We are sending in the RIC. Command to Rescue 1.”

  “Rescue 1.” It was a different voice, the leader of the RIC—the Rapid Intervention Crew, the team that stood by the entrance of an active fire, ready to go in to perform a rescue at a moment’s notice.

  “We have Lieutenant Webb on the second floor, Bravo Charlie corner. He is separated from his crew and we have a structural collapse.”

  “Rescue 1 to Command. We have deployed.”

  Meg drove faster, weaving through heavy rush-hour traffic, running a yellow light so close she knew it had turned red a fraction of a second after she entered the intersection.

  She knew she couldn’t help, but she needed to be there.

  The radio on the seat beside her continued to tell the tale of the rescue in progress. The incident commander had all the other units in the building switch to tac 2, leaving tac 1 open for the rescue. He informed dispatch they had an incident and requested a second alarm and an additional ambulance. The RIC was making their way to Webb’s location. The men with Webb were trying to clear debris to get to him, but the amount of debris that had poured down from the third floor had essentially buried Webb and blocked their way.

  Meg tore up 2nd Street NW, knowing she could cut over into Washington City from there. While she recognized the street name, she hadn’t caught the house number, but knew that wouldn’t be important. With a man down, the incident commander had added an alarm to the fire, and additional teams were incoming. If she couldn’t spot the incident from the units already there, she’d follow the responding vehicles.

  As she drove, she fought to bring her shallow, rapid breathing under control. Now was not the time for panic; she needed to stay calm. Webb would want her to stay calm.

  “Engine 2 to Command. We’re both down to one red light. Coming out.”

  Dread pooled in Meg’s gut. One red light meant the two men in Webb’s team were nearly out of air and had to leave Webb before they ran out completely or became incapacitated.

  What did that mean for him? Was he trapped under flaming debris, burning to death? Or buried, with his air supply dwindling and slowly suffocating?

  “Command to Engine 2. Message received. Come out. Rescue 1 is on the way.”

  Meg had no trouble finding the place. It was a three-story brownstone on New York Avenue NW, just past 1st Street NW, surrounded by engines, a ladder truck, and the chief’s vehicle. Not wanting to block incoming responders, she found an open parking spot on the opposite side of the street well away from the scene and jumped out as soon as she yanked the key from the ignition. She grabbed a leash from the back, opened the door for Hawk to leap out, snapped the leash on his FBI work vest, and then they were sprinting across the street, weaving through traffic bottled up around the fire, Hawk easily keeping pace with her frantic strides.

  The incident was organized chaos, as so many crises are. The ladder truck was pulled up to the curb, the ladder extended and a man on top ready to open his hose once crews pulled out of the house. Fat lines of hose snaked into and around the house from the engine pumping water into them. A RIC stood at the front door, a second team poised to go in when the first team needed to be spelled off for heat or diminishing air reserves.

  She could only pray Webb’s air would hold while they tried to get to him. Surely if he was unmoving and unconscious, he’d use less.

  Hang on, Todd.

  Please.

  A firefighter staggered out the door and stumbled down the steps, unsnapping his chin strap to rip off his helmet and then his mask, gulping in lungfuls of fresh air. His commander pointed him toward the open rear doors of an ambulance parked across from the ladder truck, and the firefighter turned and walked toward it. Meg spotted the blond hair at the same time as he changed direction, revealing the name at the bottom of his DCFEMS turnout coat—SMAILL.

  Chuck Smaill, the firefighter who’d helped with a case during the previous fall. The urbexer who’d taken them into the sites of so many body dumps. A good firefighter and a man who’d become a friend and, for a brief while, an integral part of their team.

  Chuck would be able to tell her what was going on.

  “Hawk, come.”

  They redirected toward the ambulance. Smaill was sitting on the back bumper, a paramedic at his side, holding an oxygen mask over his nose and mouth. An empty water bottle sat on the bumper beside him and a second half-empty one was in his hand. His eyes went wide when he recognized the woman and dog running toward him.

  “Todd. I heard on the radio. The Mayday.” Meg knew she was babbling and stopped to drag in a panting breath. For someone who was used to working in a crisis situation, her calm center had completely disintegrated at the thought of the man she loved dying inside an inferno one hundred feet away.

  “Meg.” Smaill rea
ched for her hand, caught it, and squeezed tight. He started to drop the oxygen mask and the paramedic slapped it back into place. Smaill tossed the paramedic a sour look and turned to Meg. She saw the question in his gaze when he looked at her face more closely, saw him discard it in the face of the current crisis. “How did you know?”

  “Todd gave me a handheld radio so I could tune into incidents while he was on shift. I just flew in from a case in Georgia. When I didn’t get a text back from him, I turned on the radio as I drove in from Reagan. I was only a mile away when I heard the Mayday, and I headed right here. Have they found him?”

  Smaill shook his head. “They’re still making their way up. It’s a God-awful mess in there. So much crap. And it’s making an already challenging situation almost impossible.” As if realizing what he’d said, he quickly added, “The fire, I mean, not the rescue. We’re going to lose the house, but we’ll get Webb out first.” He held on tighter to her hand and met her eyes. “This RIC team is the best. They’ll find him, and they’ll get him out.”

  “But if he runs out of air first—”

  “They’ll find him.” Smaill ruthlessly cut her off, and Meg wondered who he was trying to convince. “They’ll get him out.” He dropped the mask and glared at the paramedic who moved to put it back in place. “I’m good.” He stood, keeping a tight grip of Meg’s hand. “Come with me. And keep Hawk close.”

  They quickly crossed the street, heading for the battalion chief’s SUV and incident command. The rear hatch was thrown open and a white board inside held a list of every man on-site and his current location. The chief glanced at them as they approached, his gaze flicking from Meg’s face, to the FBI logo emblazoned on her navy-blue windbreaker, to Hawk in his FBI work vest. Recognition dawned in his eyes—they’d only met briefly once, but Chief Koenig knew all about Webb’s work with the Human Scent Evidence Team.

  Koenig gave her a brief nod, barked, “Keep that dog out of the way,” and turned back to his radio. His attention was drawn to the ladder truck and an engine pulling up to the house signaling the arrival of more men. “Smaill, stay with her.”

  “Yes, Chief.” Smaill gave Meg’s hand a tug and dragged her away a few paces. “We’ll stay here. We can see and hear everything from here.”

  Meg nodded. “Hawk, sit.”

  So they waited. Waited as two firefighters careened through the open doorway, ripping off their masks and nearly falling down the stairs before being helped down by fellow firefighters. As the RIC inside on the second floor reported dangerous levels of heat, smoke, and flame; that they had low visibility; and their way was mostly blocked by debris. As they found a way over the debris. As they finally found Webb.

  “Rescue 1 to Command. We have Lieutenant Webb. Standby.”

  “Command to Rescue 1. Message received.”

  Sensing the tension, Hawk whined fretfully and Meg let go of Smaill’s hand to sink down and kneel beside her dog, throwing an arm over his back as they waited for word on Webb’s condition. Smaill’s hand came down on her shoulder to bolster her, his fear wordlessly communicated in the strength of his grip.

  A fellow firefighter would know exactly how bleak the situation was. The knowledge that Smaill feared for Webb’s life was absolutely terrifying.

  “They’ve got him, that’s good. They’ll get the debris off him and the first thing they’ll do is check his air.” As dead air continued on tac 1, Smaill explained what was happening inside, as much to give himself something to do as to make sure she understood the process, Meg suspected. “They’re carrying a spare SCBA, the RIC pack, and they’ll do a mask swap and get him onto a new tank.”

  “How will they get him out?”

  “They’ll use a McGuire sled. It’s basically a cloth rectangle with six built-in handles made out of this incredibly rugged military-grade fabric that doesn’t tear. They’ll load him on the sled and either drag or carry him out of there.” He cut off any further explanation as the radio sounded again.

  “Rescue 1 to Command. We are packaging Lieutenant Webb. He’s unconscious. RIC mask is in place. He has two thousand pounds of air. Coming out.”

  “Command to Rescue 1. Message received.”

  Meg surged to her feet. “What does that mean? He’s okay?”

  Smaill grimly shook his head. “We can’t evaluate in those conditions or even take the time to try. The best we can do is make sure he’s got air and get him the hell out of there.” He motioned to the paramedics wheeling a gurney up the front walk. “As soon as he’s out, they’ll evaluate him. Then we’ll know where we stand.”

  “But he’s been in there a long time, hasn’t he?”

  Smaill paused for too long and she had her answer before he responded. “It’s been a while, yeah.”

  She closed her eyes, fighting the rising fear, and wrapped her fingers around the glass pendant she wore.

  She’d been lucky enough to never experience the death of a family member. Her grandparents were still alive, as were her very vital parents, living in Virginia, running their animal rescue. Fellow Richmond PD officers had gone down in the line of duty while she was on the force, but none of them had been close to her personally.

  Without a doubt, her most crushing loss had been the death of her Richmond PD K-9, Deuce, who was shot and killed while they were tracking and apprehending a suspect. The German shepherd had bled out in her arms, and she thought she’d lost a part of herself forever. She had, but when she’d left the force and escaped to her parents’ rescue to grieve, she’d helped nurse an extremely sick, abandoned black Lab puppy back from the brink of death.

  That sick puppy was now the very healthy search-and-rescue dog at her side. He’d survived, and she’d survived with him. The part of herself she’d lost with Deuce’s death would never be replaced, but a new part had grown stronger as her connection to Hawk intensified. Now all she had left of Deuce were memories and the soft gray swirl of his ashes entwined with the electric blue and black glass in the memory pendant she wore when not out on active searches.

  But to lose Webb. She would never be able to hide at her parents’ rescue to lick her wounds following that loss. She wouldn’t be able to hide away anywhere from that kind of grief.

  “There they are!” Smaill’s shout ripped her from her thoughts as four firefighters in DCFEMS beige jogged down the front steps carrying a still figure on the McGuire sled. He reached around her and yanked the leash from her hand. “I’ve got Hawk. Go!”

  She didn’t think twice about it, knowing Hawk knew Smaill well and trusted him. She jumped to her feet and sprinted across the grass, winding around firefighters and leaping over hoses, reaching the gurney just as they deposited Webb on it. His slack face was sheet white, and blood ran in trails from under his helmet and down over his left cheek. She wanted to reach out and touch him, but he was completely protected by his turnout gear, gloves, boots, and mask. And she knew she’d be in the way. She had to let the medical team work if there was any hope of his survival.

  One of the paramedics unsnapped his chin strap, slipped off his helmet, and pulled off his air mask, replacing it with an oxygen mask, while the second paramedic unzipped his turnout coat and started tallying vital signs.

  “Good breath sounds on both sides. Pulse ox is eighty-five. Heart rate is sixty.”

  He’s alive.

  Meg hung back, her gaze fixed on his face, not daring to get in their way. One of the paramedics looked at her, then down at her FBI insignia, and up again in confusion. But said nothing.

  “Pupils are reactive. He’s stable. Let’s move him.”

  They strapped him down to the gurney and ran with it to the ambulance, Meg right behind them.

  “Where are you taking him?”

  They loaded the gurney into the ambulance, one of the paramedics climbing in after him. The other paramedic slammed the doors. “MedStar.”

  Meg turned and sprinted back to Smaill.

  He held out the leash for her. “How is he?�
�

  “Vitals look stable, but he’s still out. They’re taking him to MedStar.”

  “Go. We’ll come when we can. Tell him we’re with him.”

  “Tell him yourself when you come.” She reached up on tiptoe and kissed him on the cheek, giving his arm a squeeze. “Thank you.”

  “He’s ours, so you’re ours, too. Now go see to our guy.”

  They ran.

  CHAPTER 6

  Crisis Management: The process by which a group deals with a disruptive or unexpected event.

  Monday, April 8, 7:24 PM

  MedStar Washington Hospital Center

  Washington, DC

  For the second time that day, Meg was grateful she and Hawk were both wearing FBI outerwear, though when she’d come flying into the ER, she already had her FBI badge in hand, willing to use whatever leverage was needed to get in to see Webb. It had gotten Hawk through the door under the disapproving gaze of the charge nurse and the two of them into the waiting room, where she had alternatively sat fretting or paced while Hawk sat patiently beside her chair.

  That had been a full hour ago and there had been no update in the interim.

  She was going out of her mind.

  “Meg Jennings?”

  Meg sat bolt upright in her hard, plastic chair in the waiting room. “Yes?”

  The twentysomething nurse gave her a sunny smile. “Come with me, please.”

  Meg shot out of her chair and tightened up on Hawk’s leash. “Hawk, heel,” she said quietly, and then followed the nurse.

  They pushed through a set of double doors and into a long corridor of treatment and exam rooms. Webb’s room was nearly at the end of the hall.

  The nurse pulled open the glass door and then pulled aside the curtain covering the entrance. “Go ahead. The doctor will be in to check on him shortly.”

  “Thank you.” She slipped through the curtained doorway.

  Webb lay in the bed beyond, dressed in a hospital gown and covered with a blanket, an IV in his right hand and his left arm in a sling. A narrow white bandage ran along the edge of his short-cut dark hair over his left eye. His face was still pale, but his brown eyes were open, clear, and fixed on her, a sheepish smile curving one corner of his lips. “Hey.” But then his brows drew together as he stared at her, clearly confused by her appearance.