Page 72 of Flare Up
One word from Scotty was all it took to get them moving again. As they rolled out, Grant listened to the LT’s calm voice as he reminded them to stay focused and do their jobs. Left unsaid was the command to keep an eye on Scott. They all felt an emotional attachment to Tommy Kincaid and the pub, but Scotty was not only his son, but hotheaded as hell. There was a good chance if he got scared, he’d forget years of discipline and training and do something stupid.
The scene was chaos when they neared the bar. It looked as if the ambulance had barely beaten them there because the paramedic and EMT were hustling to where Lydia and Fitzy were bent over Tommy.
Grant allowed himself a brief moment of relief. At least they wouldn’t have to stop Scotty from running into a fire to drag his dad out. He knew that possibility had been on the mind of every member of both crews.
He saw the cook come out the door, a kitchen fire extinguisher in one hand while he coughed into the crook of his other arm.
“Jesus,” Scott said, over and over again, as they pulled to the curb.
As the siren died and they lurched to a stop, they saw Tommy lift his arm and slowly form his hand into a thumbs-up gesture and it was as though everybody in the truck exhaled as one.
It was enough reassurance so they piled out and got to work, letting EMS take care of Tommy. They charged the lines and made sure everybody was out and accounted for. There were no customers because they’d been prepping for the day, but hadn’t actually opened yet.
The fire had been more than the cook could handle with the fire extinguisher, but they were able to knock it down quickly. And as soon as they did, they were back outside to check on Tommy.
When Grant got out there, they had just loaded the stretcher into the ambulance. Scott had dumped his gear on the ground and it was obvious he was going to climb in after it.
“We’ve got him,” the paramedic said as the EMT walked around to the driver’s door. “We’re going to take care of him.”
“I’m riding with you.”
“Scotty, I’ll ride with Dad.” Lydia put her hand on her brother’s arm as he shook his head. “You know he’d want you to stay and make sure his bar’s okay. I want to be able to tell him you and Aidan are taking care of things here because as long as he knows you two are on the job, he won’t stress about it and maybe I can keep him calm.”
“Come on,” Grant said. “Let’s check on the bar. We can make sure the fire stays out and that nobody wrecks the place overhauling.”
After Lydia climbed into the ambulance, the paramedic stuck his head out before closing the door. “He said to get Bobby Orr off the wall before you break him. I’m just going to assume he’s talking about a picture. I hope.”
The door slammed shut and the ambulance pulled away from the curb. Aidan hadn’t managed more than a squeeze of his wife’s hand before she got in with her dad, but he put his arm around Scott’s shoulders.
“Everything’s under control. Let’s get Bobby Orr off the wall and we’ll bring him back to the house with us. He can hang out with Engine 59 until this mess is cleaned up.”
Since Aidan was going to keep an eye on Scott and take care of the picture, Grant and the others went back inside. The bar area itself wasn’t too bad, but the kitchen and the storeroom were wrecked.
They poked and prodded everywhere, checking walls and the ceiling to make sure the fire wasn’t hiding out, waiting to flare to life in some unexpected place. They always felt a little bad about doing additional damage to a property, but it was better than losing everything and maybe the neighbors’, too, because they’d missed something. But this one hurt more, because it was theirs.
Location aside, it was pretty mindless work, so Grant wasn’t really paying attention as he pulled bulk packages of paper products off the shelves to make sure none in the back were smoldering.
He caught the movement in the corner of his eye—is that a pipe falling?—and ducked his head, but it was too late. He felt his helmet shift and his head and shoulder exploded with pain.
Then everything went black.
“What the fuck, Cutter?” Hands grabbed his coat, rolling him to his back. “Cutter!”
He groaned, desperately wishing Rick Gullotti would stop yelling at him. Holy shit, his head hurt.
“LT, what’s going—oh shit.” That was Chris, who had a booming voice even when he wasn’t yelling.
“Shh.” He forced himself to open his eyes. If they knew he wasn’t dead, maybe they’d stop shouting. “Quiet. Be quiet.”
“What happened?”
“A pipe fell and hit me in the head.”
When Rick looked around and then frowned at him, Grant looked at the ceiling. There was no piping run through the room that he could see.
“Maybe shelving. I don’t know.” Something had hit him in the head. Hard.
“Well, whatever it was, you earned yourself a trip to the ER. You need a medic?”
