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A HOPE FOR THE HEROIC FIRE CHIEF
JENNA BRANDT
Dedicated to my husband, Dustin, Badge #5654,
who inspired me to write books about first responders.
You’re not only my heart and soul,
but my own personal bodyguard.
CHAPTER 1
Brandon Holloway sat at his new desk and tried not to think about every single thing he still needed to do to settle into his new position at the Sweet Bloom Fire Station. The corner office still smelled like the old chief, a lingering scent of Old Spice and stale coffee so deep in the walls that no amount of window-cracking or disinfectant would erase it. His own tangy cologne hardly made a dent.
The nameplate sat in the center of the battered oak desk. “Chief Brandon Holloway,” clean and shiny, perched on the corner. He straightened it for maybe the tenth time that day, though it didn’t need it, then leaned back and tried to look like someone who belonged in the head honcho’s chair.
He looked through the window and counted the photos that lined the hallway leading to his office. One, two, three, four, old chiefs. At the end was Brandon’s photo—new, awkward, smile just barely not a grimace—stuck behind a vase of limp flowers somebody had dropped off to congratulate him on his promotion.
He could see the bay through the glass. Engine 1 gleaming red under the strip lights. His crew moved around it: Ruiz, arms folded, narrating something to two probies who looked half asleep and doing their best to pay attention; Kimble, popping the truck’s side panel and re-checking every hose like it might bite him if he didn’t. Most of them had known each other since Little League. That kind of history made things easy, but at the same time, made things hard when it came to changing your role with one another.
Brandon drummed his fingers on the desk, rolled his neck, and muttered, “Don’t mess up, Holloway,” for his audience of none. The overhead radio crackled with alarm, then on his radio he heard, “Structure fire, east side of town. Caller reports heavy smoke, warehouse facility.”
Brandon was on his feet before the message finished, adrenaline already pumping through his veins. He rushed to the bay and grabbed his gear out of his locker—the new turnout coat still stiff as cardboard, helmet sticky with label residue from the title change. As he slipped his gear on, he shouted, “Let’s move, team,” and watched the ripple go through them: Kimble snapping upright, Ruiz with that you heard the man shoulder roll, the probies scrambling for boots and radios. The tones hadn’t even dropped yet, and they were half-suited, the best kind of muscle memory.
“Warehouse?” one of the probies questioned as he yanked on his gloves.
“Abandoned since the grain co-op went belly-up,” Kimble explained, already behind the wheel of the fire truck. “Unless someone’s cooking meth, it’s just going to be a whole lot of hot air and dead pigeons.”
“Best thing to happen out there on that remote strip of land since Engine 1 took out Mrs. Green’s mailbox,” Ruiz piped up. “Remember that?”
Brandon grinned, despite himself. “Yeah. Let’s try not to make the rumor mill for the wrong reason this time.” He climbed into the shotgun seat and checked the map app on his phone, not because he needed it—Sweet Bloom had eight real roads, and he’d driven every inch—but because it settled him. He called dispatch back, voice steady: “Engine 1 en route to warehouse fire. ETA three minutes.”
The siren whooped, sharp and insistent while the garage door rolled up. Brandon squared his shoulders, and as they pulled onto the main road, he started running the playbook in his head—possible entry points, risk to surrounding buildings, water sources, likely causes. He pictured the warehouse—long, low, metal—exactly as it had looked before, the co-op folded and wondered what would be waiting for them in the smoke.
“Let’s keep it tight,” he told the crew as much as to himself. “Pizza and wings are on me when we get back.”
Kimble whooped, Ruiz grinned, and even the probies smiled as the fire truck barreled down the street with lights flashing red against storefront glass.
Brandon’s gaze drifted from the map on the GPS to the window, and the contrast hit him like a cold slap.
Every lamppost along the town circle was wrapped in fat red ribbon and twinkling white lights. Wreaths hung from every shop door—Becker’s Bakery, The Local Table, Lucy’s on the Circle—each one bigger and more elaborate than the last. A kid in a puffy coat was dragging a wagon across the park toward the wishing well, which someone had draped in evergreen garland. Through the glass of Cozy Cup, Brandon caught the warm glow of Ruth Schmidt’s Christmas tree, ornaments catching the light like little fires of their own.
Peace on earth. Goodwill toward men. And here he was, strapped into a rig barreling toward a column of black smoke and burning hot flames.
When they reached their destination, the warehouse was engulfed in orange flames. They punched through the eaves and windows, black smoke rolling hard and fast to the south. Whole sections of the corrugated siding were charred like burned bacon.
Kimble braked hard, slewing the engine onto the gravel, so it shuddered to a stop in the crumbling parking lot.
Brandon’s boot hit the step before the engine finished shutting down. “Engine 1 on scene, heavy fire showing, offensive mode,” he reported over the radio. Then, turning his attention to his team, he ordered, “Kimble, set up the hose. Probies, take both sides and make a loop, checking the structure to make sure we don’t get boxed in if the roof goes. Ruiz, with me, front door to make entry.”
Ruiz fell in next to him, already zipped and masked. The man had a way of looking unimpressed by anything short of tornadoes or snow, but Brandon could see the spark of adrenaline in his eyes.
“No sign of activity,” Ruiz spoke through his mic in his mask. “You want to enter and do the hero sweep?”
Brandon nodded. “You head east, and I’ll go west once we’re inside,” he directed as he used his ax to break down the locked doors.
As they made entry, smoke clawed at their face shields—the warehouse ablaze, paint blistering, furniture heat-warped and twisted. Brandon flicked his flashlight all around as he made his way through his side of the structure. The space was huge, with dozens of shelving units stripped bare, all on fire now. A door to the office hung half-open, but the glass was too smoked over to see much.
