Page 153 of Found by the Pack
“Captain, it’s not responding to the suppressant!” one of them yells, dragging the hose across the smoking asphalt.
I grit my teeth, forcing air into my lungs through the thick heat. “Keep the line steady—move it closer to the left wall before the embers jump.”
They follow, but I see it in their faces. Confusion. Fear. I share it.
I shift closer to the building’s edge, crouching low. My eyes sting, and the sweat runs into my mouth.
The flames aren’t behaving like they should. They’re too fast, too hungry. It’s not just timber feeding them. There’s something else here, something volatile.
Then I see it.
At first, it’s only a glint under the collapsed beam. I drag it free with a gloved hand and hold it up to the dim orange light.
A fire accelerant canister. Industrial grade. A brand I know well because it’s not sold to civilians. It’s manufactured exclusively for firefighters—for controlled burns and rare emergency measures.
My stomach turns. What the fuck is this doing here?
I stare at the label, the residue clinging to the rim, and everything in me goes cold. Someone started this fire. Not with a match. Not with gasoline.
With equipment meant only for us.
A rookie stumbles past me, coughing. “Captain—Captain, what is that?”
“Doesn’t matter,” I snap, shoving it into the pocket of my gear. “Keep the water flow high. If the wind shifts, pull back to the trucks. Understood?”
He nods, wide-eyed.
I step out of the structure, the blaze spitting sparks into the dark sky.
The air outside isn’t much better—thick with ash and the acrid stink of burning plastic. The crowd is a blur of reporters, volunteers, townspeople with buckets and towels, all pushing against the barricades.
And through it all, Driftwood is collapsing.
The beautification project. The murals. The health center. The businesses that had been barely holding on. All of it choking in black smoke.
So much for fixing this place. So much for building something lasting.
I rub the soot off my face with the back of my glove, scanning for a path. Then I hear it.
“Captain Ashford!”
I turn, blinking through the haze. A young woman barrels toward me, curls bouncing, phone clutched in her hand.
Millie. The girl from the library. Shepard’s friend.
“Move back!” I bark, raising my arm to keep her behind the barricade. “It’s not safe here.”
She doesn’t listen. She shoves her phone toward me, the screen bright in my eyes.
“Millie, this isn’t the time for selfies?—”
“It’s not a selfie,” she cuts me off, desperation in her tone. “You need to see this.”
I grit my teeth, ready to snap, until I actually look.
It’s a video. Grainy, shaky, but clear enough.
Shepard’s voice in the background. Shouts. Men’s faces flashing in and out of frame. Sadie screaming.
