Page 21 of Redwood Blaze
The tension coils within me, tightening its grip with every glance he sends my way.
“I gotta make a SAT call,” I announce, forcing my voice to remain steady. “Need to see if we can get an airdrop of water up here.”
My team nods, the necessity of the mission hanging thick in the air.
All except for Blake.
I can feel his eyes boring into me, a predator circling its prey, and the simmering disdain made every nerve in my body pulse with warning.
“I’ll go with you and have your—” he began, his tone deceptively casual.
“No, you’ll stay here and continue the line work.” I cut him off sharply, my heart racing as I stand toe-to-toe with him, the heat of confrontation coating our interaction. Inches apart, the animosity crackles like wildfire between us. “You’re not in Diamond Ridge, Weston. Here you’re nobody.”
He huffed in disbelief. “Fuck you, Phoenix.”
The atmosphere turns heavy, the air thick with the unsaid words and resentments bubbling just beneath the surface. The other hotshots pause, unease rippling through the ranks as Blake savors his low shot.
He chuckles darkly, “What? You guys don’t give each other shit? Oh, come on you pussies. See, like that. Fuck, what a bunch of wet blankets.”
No laughter echoes back from any team member, only tension, palpable and dark.
My heart sinks. I can’t imagine what Millie was thinking hiring this douche. I know she worked at Diamond Ridge for a while, but this guy… this guy is Class A Asshole. We have to get rid of our pride and work together if we want to survive this season, but how can we do that when one of the guys is a toxic force? My mind races with thoughts of team dynamics and the fragile web of trust we’ve built over the years. Just a few hours in with this guy, and it’s already fraying at the edges.
“Team, I’ll be right back,” I state, more firmly than I feel, casting a sidelong glance at Evan.
He nods with understanding. He’s the most senior firefighter on my team, but even he knows better than to dismiss Blake.
“Watch out for him,” I mutter under my breath, striding away from the brewing storm.
Reaching for my canteen, I yank off my helmet, allowing a desperate breath of air to kiss my face. Then, I fish around in my warbag for the SAT phone, feeling the familiar weight. The device is my lifeline in a crisis. With parched lips, I raise the canteen to my mouth and gulp down the cool water, a fleeting comfort flows through me before pulling up Millie’s cell number.
Dialing Millie's number on the SAT phone —any hotshot’s personal lifeline— steeps in urgency, knowing that my cell won’t reach her. Texting is an option, sure, but not now. Montana's text-to-9-1-1 feature has limits, and my voice is my strongest anchor in this moment. I hit ‘call’ and there’s a heartbeat of tension as it rings out.
One.
Two.
Three.
Four.
Five.
“Come on, Millie, pick up!” Irritation seeps through my desperation.
My palms sweat inside my gloves as the line continues to ring. My patience is stretched taut like the wires of a downed power line in a storm.
I pull the phone closer to my ear, whispering urgently, “Shit, Millie, pick up.”
The silence on the other end us an abyss, swallowing my hope bit by bit.
Then, abruptly, I hear footsteps behind me. An instinct screams at me to turn, to brace myself, but it’s too late.
Crack!
Pain explodes in my skull, sending an electric shockwave blurring the edges of my vision, the world fading into a dark haze. Darkness creeps in, a suffocating blanket that threatens to pull me under.
I can almost hear my own voice screaming in my head— never take off your helmet.
