Page 80 of Falling for the Firefighter
By mid-afternoon, extraction becomes viable. A small team deploys with fresh oxygen supplies and medical equipment, guided by the GPS coordinates Mac provides from the tunnel entrance.
Three hours later, they emerge—smoke-stained, exhausted, but intact. The footage captured by Sheriff Donovan's body camera shows a procession of ghost-like figures emerging from the scorched earth, faces blackened with soot, uniforms singed and filthy.
Mac is among the last to exit, ensuring every member of both teams is accounted for. Even through the grainy video feed, his commanding presence is unmistakable. His shoulders are squared despite his exhaustion. His steady gaze constantly scans for threats, steadying those who stumble on weakened legs.
"Command, this is Extraction Team."The radio brings welcome news."All personnel recovered. En route to medical staging area."
Relief crashes through me so powerfully that my knees buckle, forcing me to grip the table for support. Eleanor appears at my side, her weathered hand steady on my arm.
"Go to him." She says it like it’s the most obvious truth in the world.
I hesitate, professional obligations warring with personal need. "The command center?—"
"Can function without you for a few hours." She makes a shooing motion. "Noah's team has the southern sector well in hand. The main fire front is moving away from populated areas. Go."
Sheriff Donovan nods in agreement. "Take my truck. They're bringing them to the medical checkpoint at the community center."
Decision made, I move with renewed energy, despite having been awake for more than thirty hours. The drive to thecommunity center takes less than ten minutes, but it feels like crossing an ocean.
Angel's Peak has transformed in the past day—streets empty from evacuation, ash falling like gray snow, the smell of smoke permeating everything. The mountains that frame the town stand partially blackened, the fire's path visible against slopes that remain defiantly green.
The community center parking lot teems with emergency vehicles—ambulances, fire trucks, police cruisers arranged in organized chaos. Medical personnel move between them, triaging firefighters as they arrive from various sectors. I scan the crowd, searching for Mac's distinctive height and bearing.
I spot him seated on the tailgate of a medical transport, oxygen mask covering his face. A paramedic checks his vitals while he issues instructions to Rodriguez, apparently unwilling to pause command responsibilities even for medical attention.
His uniform is nearly unrecognizable—blackened with soot, singed in multiple places, torn at one shoulder. His face bears the distinct raccoon-eyes of someone who wore goggles in heavy smoke. Despite this, his posture remains commanding, his focus absolute as he ensures his team receives care.
I approach slowly, suddenly uncertain of my place in this scenario. Before I can decide whether to interrupt, Mac looks up—some sixth sense alerting him to my presence. Our eyes lock across the distance, and something profound passes between us, more intimate than any touch.
He dismisses Rodriguez with a brief nod, standing despite the paramedic's obvious objection. Each step toward me seems to cost him, but he refuses to show weakness, maintaining the captain's bearing that defines him.
We meet in the neutral territory between vehicles, surrounded by the organized chaos of emergency response, yet somehow isolated within it.
"Your father's tunnels." His voice is rough from smoke, but his eyes hold something like reverence. "Exactly where you said they'd be. Exactly as you described."
"Dad was thorough." The understatement feels necessary, a shield against emotions too raw to expose.
Seventeen people are alive because of him. Because of you." Mac's intensity cuts through my defenses. "If you hadn't remembered that shaft..."
"But I did." I step closer, close enough to smell smoke and sweat and the undercurrent that is uniquely him. "And you found it. That's what matters."
His hand rises, hesitates, then settles against my cheek. The contact is gentle, despite his skin being roughened by heat and exertion. "When I thought we wouldn't make it out... when the fire tornado changed direction..."
"Don't." I cover his hand with mine, keeping it pressed to my face. "You're here now."
Something in his expression shifts, professional distance giving way to something more personal, more urgent. He glances around at the busy scene, then back at me.
"I need to finish here. Debriefing, team assessment, coordination with Noah and Parker." His thumb brushes my cheekbone. "But after..."
"After." I agree, understanding all he doesn't say.
"Find me when this is contained." It's not quite a request, nor is it quite an order. "When I can think beyond the next crisis point."
I nod, reluctantly stepping back as a medical officer approaches, clearly intent on dragging Mac to proper treatment. His hand falls away from my face, but his eyes hold mine for one moment longer—a promise more binding than words.
"Captain Sullivan." The medical officer's tone brooks no argument. "You're required in triage for respiratory assessment."
Mac's expression shifts seamlessly back to professional mode. "On my way." He turns to me one last time. "Josephine. Thank you." He walks away, back straight despite exhaustion that would cripple most people.
