Page 10 of Fated to the Lone Shifter
“Afternoon, team,” he says. “How are the rookies holding up?”
“They’re surviving,” Noah replies. “Some even thriving.”
I feel the compliment brush across my skin like heat. I know it was meant for me.
Greene’s eyes sweep over us, lingering. “Knowles. Walk with me.”
We walk toward the engine bay. His voice drops.
“We don’t usually take probies with...nontraditional resumes,” he says. “But your references were stellar. One of my old friends from L.A. Fire vouched for you.”
I nod. “Grateful for the opportunity, sir.”
“You’ve got instincts. But instincts aren’t enough when you're crawling through smoke with zero visibility.”
“I understand.” I’m surprised to sense his over-protectiveness of me. Not sure where it is coming from. Should I be worried? What does he know?
“Good.” He stops, facing me fully. “This isn’t just textbook drills. Six major fires in six months. All suspicious. All close.”
“Any casualties, Sir?” I ask, playing dumb.
“You ask a lot of questions.” He stares me down like I’m an unruly two-year-old.
“I’ve been told.”
“I like that. Shows you care.” His jaw tightens. “Three. Burned too badly for ID.”
Three. No names. That’s telling.
“What’s the theory?”
“Thrill-seeker. Cover-up. Nothing ruled out.” He narrows his eyes. “Rumors say the Feds might get involved. But right now, it’s ours. And I need everyone—probie or not—sharp.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. Stay alert. Don’t take anything for granted.”
He walks off.
Don’t take anything for granted.
He has no idea how little I am taking for granted and how involved the Feds already are.
Three deaths. No IDs. That changes the firehouse equation, although it’s not the first I've heard this evidence. The locals are beginning to understand that this isn’t just about destruction. Someone is being hunted—or silenced. Like Agent Leighton.
And if my instincts are right, the firehouse isn’t just a place to hide.
It could be the next hunting ground.
I glance across the bay where the other probies are finishing up drills and taking short walks with the Captain. I catch Noahwatching me from the edge of the rig. Arms crossed. Head tilted. That unreadable expression on his face.
I look away first.
Too much heat in one stare.
It’s nearly midnight when the firehouse finally quiets down. My first night sleeping in the firehouse. Most of the crew are in their bunks, snores rolling down the hallway like lazy thunder. I pull a mop through the main bay, pretending to focus on the grime while keeping an ear trained for movement.
Once I’m sure I’m alone, I ditch the mop and head for my gear bag tucked behind a row of lockers. From the side pocket, I pull out a small velvet pouch.
