Page 24 of Ashfall

"We’ve got accelerant traces with no origin points, ignition signatures that don’t match known patterns," I say. "This isn’t wildfire behavior—it’s controlled. Directed. Someone’s building something with these fires."

He barely glances at me. "My priority is the blaze. Not your conspiracy theory."

"It’s not a theory," I snap. “I’m not your problem—I’m your paperwork’s worst nightmare… and oh yeah, a trained investigator who has closed more cases than anyone else in the department.”

He lifts his coffee cup with infuriating calm. "Then prove it. Until then, I have smokejumpers in the air and a containment line on the brink. I don’t have time to babysit a Fed chasing ghosts."

Fine. I bite down on the rest of what I want to say, the sarcasm itching on my tongue like wildfire licking at dry brush. But what’s the point? His mind’s made up. So I spin on my heel before I say something that’ll get me booted from the base entirely.

I return to my tent, teeth clenched, still simmering from the dismissal. Every word the base commander said circles my thoughts like smoke, refusing to clear. I slam the flap shut harder than necessary, drop into the chair, and flip open my laptop. Might as well put my frustration to use.

I start filing the morning’s report—status notes, site updates, fire line progression. It’s mechanical. Pointless. Each keystroke feels disconnected, like I’m watching myself from a distance, going through the motions while something tighter, fiercer,coils in my chest. My fingers type, but my brain’s stuck in a loop of fury and unanswered questions. The commander’s dismissal. The silence at breakfast. The feeling that something—or someone—is actively trying to keep me in the dark. I’m not just frustrated. I’m done being handled.

Then, something strange catches my eye: a folder sitting in my downloads—Blackstrike Logs: Historical.I pause. I don’t remember downloading it. I don’t even remember seeing it.

Curious and suddenly uneasy, I open it. My pulse kicks up as the folder expands. Someone hid this; it wasn’t a standard data dump or oversight—they buried it deep, hoping it would never be found. Like it was left here… or planted. The filenames alone raise red flags: dates that don’t match deployment logs, operations tagged with strange identifiers. And deeper still? Dispatch entries I’ve never seen before. Some of them are marked as classified. Others... just blank. No timestamps. No authors. Just a date and a fire that shouldn’t have existed.

It’s a tangle of incident reports going back almost two decades. Someone filed, dated, and time-stamped some of them properly. But others—scanned copies of handwritten notes, brief summaries of unexplained hotspots—don’t match up. Fire zones logged without official fire start codes. Time gaps. The Blackstrike Unit’s deployments are documented in dispatches, but these lack corresponding events in federal fire records.

They're just missing... or erased... or hidden.

I don’t hesitate. I grab my field jacket, shove the laptop in my backpack, and head into the trees to find Dax. Every step out of camp feels like stepping off the edge of something I won’t be able to climb back from. But I need answers—and I’m done waiting for someone to hand them to me.

The sky is changing as I walk. It feels almost hushed and ancient. The scent of ash rides the breeze, mingling with the bite of pine. Dawn paints the sky in streaks of orange and smokewhen I spot him near the far edge of camp. He stands like a statue cut from shadow, facing the ridge like he's waiting for something to rise out of it. Or someone.

Something in my chest kicks hard, sharp and sudden like a flare igniting behind my ribs. Because I think—deep down—I know what he’s waiting for. Not a signal. Not a threat. Not a sunrise. Me. He’s waiting for me. Like he felt me coming before I ever stepped into view. And now that I’m here, the air feels too thick, too charged, like every second between us is one spark away from catching fire.

"What aren’t you telling me?" I call out.

He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t turn. Just walks away.

"You shouldn’t be here," he says quietly.

I step closer. "Too bad. I am. Want to tell me about these missing and inconsistent reports from your unit?"

That stops him. He turns and tilts his head, his eyes finally meeting mine, and the air between us tightens. There’s something wild and sharp in them—something that flickers like restrained fire. Hunger. Fury. A knowing that cuts deep. It looks like it hurts to hold back, like every breath is a battle not to step forward, not to touch, not to claim. And I feel it. All of it.

"It’s not safe," he murmurs.

"Not good enough, Dax. I found inconsistencies in your files. Deployments without events. Reports that were never sent to D.C. What the hell is going on?"

He opens his mouth to answer—something close, something vulnerable flickering in his eyes—but then stiffens. Hard. Every muscle in his body locks, his head jerking slightly to the side like he’s heard something I haven’t. His nostrils flare. His entire stance morphs—from intense to alert, predator-silent. Whatever he was going to say dies on his tongue, replaced by something far older: instinct, warning, danger.

A second later, his hand wraps around my arm, firm but not rough—grounding, but urgent. His grip sends a jolt through me, not just from the shock of contact but from the way his entire body radiates tension, heat, purpose. "Run. Now," he says, his voice low and sharp. Not panic. Command. The kind that doesn’t beg questions. It demands obedience.

We sprint into the trees, the underbrush tearing at my pants as he pulls me deeper into the forest, away from camp. My heart pounds like a drumbeat in my throat, and branches claw at my arms as we weave through thick growth. I barely keep up with him—he moves like he knows every twist of the terrain, every dip in the forest floor.

There’s no time for questions. Just the sound of our footfalls, ragged breathing, and the ever-present sense that something massive and deadly is hunting the sky above us. Whatever he saw—whatever he sensed—has him running like the fire line’s at our heels. And I trust that. I trust him, even when I don’t understand why.

"What the..."

"Quiet," he hisses.

We stop only when he presses me back against a rock outcropping, shielding me with his body. My back hits the stone, but I hardly feel it—because all I can register is him. His body, his heat, his strength surrounding me like a shield forged from fire. My pulse thunders in my ears, adrenaline flooding every inch of me. But it’s not just fear.

I’m confused—every survival instinct telling me to stay still, stay hidden—yet my body reacts to his closeness like it’s the only safe place left. His breath brushes my cheek. The arm braced beside my head makes me feel caged, protected, wanted. And I hate that I feel it. I hate how my skin hums beneath his, how my hands ache to touch him back.

Because even now—especially now—I want him. And I don’t know what that means.

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