Page 2 of Ashfall

Present Day

The truck hums beneath me, tires grinding over gravel as I wind up the narrow mountain road. Pines lean in close, their tops scorched and skeletal from the last burn. Smoke clings to the air like a warning.

I’ve got maybe three miles left before I hit base camp. My stomach’s already tight.

I adjust the rearview mirror. Catch my own eyes—tired, clear, unflinching. I look more like my dad every day.

The memory hits hard. Sharp and sudden.

We were in the garage. Late. The busted carburetor sat between us like a puzzle we both hated but refused to quit. He had grease up to his elbows. That quiet rumble in his voice meant he wasn’t just talking. He was teaching.

“You walk into that camp, any camp,” he'd said, “and they’re gonna look at you sideways. Not just because you’re a woman. Not just because you’re young. But because instead ofsoot in your lungs, you went to college and got a degree. You’ve got plenty of ash and soot in your veins as our family have been firefighters for generations.”

I remember how I crossed my arms, chin up, already defensive. He saw straight through it.

“They’ll think you haven’t earned it. Like book smarts make you soft. Like fire gives a damn where you learned to fight it.”

He wiped his hands, turned to face me square.

Locked eyes like he was handing me armor.

“But listen to me, Em. You have earned it. Every damn bit. Don’t let their resentment crawl inside your head. You’re not less than them. You’re not equal, either. On your worst day, you’re better.”

I blink, hard, snapping back to the road. A trailhead sign zips past. I’m almost there.

Camp’s gonna be tense. Crews overworked, air full of ash, nerves shot to hell. And here I come—clipboard, badge, the arson investigator no one asked for. They’ll see a college girl in clean boots and decide I’m dead weight before I even say a word.

But I hear him in my head, clear as anything.

'Don’t forget who you are.'

I don’t. Not for a second.

I press harder on the gas. Let them underestimate me. I may not breathe fire—yet—but I’ve got sparks to spare.

The air here smells like scorched earth and bullshit—hot pine sap gone acidic, charred ozone, and the subtle bite of ego-sweat from the command tent. It's the scent of disaster wearing aftershave and pretending it's under control.

"Vale," the base commander barks the second my boots hit gravel. His voice is all caffeine and contempt, the kind of tone that says he thinks my presence is both an inconvenience and a threat to his chain of command.

He's shorter than I expected, built like a bulldog in a uniform that's seen better days. Bloodshot eyes, red nose, and a permanent grimace that probably predates the wildfire season. "You're late."

“I’m sorry if I kept you waiting—blame the wind.” I brush a few flakes of ash from my jacket and offer a small nod. “I’m here to investigate the cause of this fire and several others like it. I know I’m federal and not part of your chain of command, but I’d like to think we’re working toward the same goal.”

He grunts and hands over the clipboard like it weighs more than it should. “You’ll be shadowing the Blackstrike unit. They’re already mobilizing. Don’t slow them down.”

His tone makes it clear he expects me to be a problem. I keep my expression neutral, glancing at the clipboard before looking back at him.

“The smokejumpers?” I ask, more curious than combative. “You’re putting me with the team that jumps into wildfires for fun? That’s your idea of integration?”

I don’t mean it as a dig. Just trying to understand what I’m walking into—and maybe lighten the mood before it burns.

"They’re an elite unit—the best. You’ll like their team leader," he says, though there’s a flicker of something else under the words—something tight around the eyes. Respect, maybe, but the kind that’s edged with unease. "Blackstrike does things their own way. They get results, but they don’t always ask permission first. Fane especially. Damn good at his job, but not exactly a fan of protocol." He scratches at his jaw, then mutters, mostly to himself, "Whole damn unit gives off a vibe—like they know something the rest of us don’t."

Yeah, because that’s what people always say right before introducing me to someone who thinks rules from others are just polite suggestions and their rules and orders are to be obeyed without question. In my experience, men like Fanebelieve that teamwork means 'do what I say and don’t ask questions.'

Guys like that tend to bulldoze through a chain of command like it’s made of smoke and duct tape, leaving scorched policy and frazzled superiors in their wake.

I tuck the clipboard under my arm and scan the horizon, already bracing for whatever version of chaos this Fane guy brings with him.

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