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The blast knocked her sideways. The heat from it sucked the air out of her lungs, then filled it with burning plastic and rubber. She hit the ground, rolled, and came up with her hands over her face.

“Kimble’s inside,” Brandon shouted, bolting for the bay door.

Desiree sprinted after him. “Wait—” But he was through the door before she reached him.

The roll-up door started to close behind him, grinding down on its track like a guillotine. She ran for the exterior keypad, punched the code, but nothing happened. The panel was dead, wires hanging out of the bottom like severed nerves.

She snapped open her phone, dialed Sheriff Hart. “It’s Desiree. Station’s burning. Brandon is inside—doors are jammed. I think it’s an ambush. Get everyone here now.”

“Copy that, on the way,” Hart answered, no hesitation, no wasted words.

Desiree didn’t wait. She ducked around the side, toward the access door near the generator shed. She kept low, hugging the wall, the smoke already pouring from the eaves.

The side door was unlocked—deliberate, she realized, meant to draw them in. She shoved it open and hit the deck, crawling through a haze of black smoke. Heat beat down in waves, the kind that suffocated if she paused too long in one spot.

Desiree kept one hand on the wall, counting doorways. Every step was measured, mapped from memory. There was shouting ahead—Brandon’s voice, loud, then another, higher, more desperate.

She reached the equipment corridor, pulled a mask from a shelf, and strapped it on. She also grabbed a couple of zip-ties and a box cutter, just in case. The smoke was lower here, the flames still chewing their way through insulation and drop ceiling. She crawled along the floor until the corridor opened onto the main bay.

That’s when she saw him—Waddell waiting for her. He stood just outside the reach of the fire, the flames throwing his shadow huge on the wall behind him. He had both hands in his pockets, shoulders loose, as if he was just watching the show.

When he heard Desiree’s boots on the concrete, he turned, baring his teeth in something like a smile. “Didn’t think you both would actually show up. But here you are. Two for the price of one.”

She ignored the speech, scanning for a weapon, for backup, for a reason not to drop him where he stood.

He cocked his head, voice oily. “You should have stayed home, sweetheart. You’re next, you know.”

She didn’t answer. She measured the space between them—twelve feet, maybe less—and closed it before he could finish the taunt.

He lunged, swinging wide, but she was already under it. She drove her elbow into his ribs, hard, then pivoted, catching his wrist and folding it behind his back. He twisted, tried to break her grip, but she was faster and more deliberate than he expected.

She slammed him to the floor, face-first, his nose cracking audibly against the concrete.

He howled, flailing, but she was ready—she pulled a zip-tie from her pocket, looped it over his wrists, and cinched it tight to the nearest water standpipe. He thrashed, but she checked the tie, made sure he wasn’t going anywhere, then stood over him, breathing hard. “Stay put.”

He spat blood, then smiled, teeth pink. “Not bad. For a girl.”

“You’re not the first man to underestimate me,” she shot back.

Desiree didn’t give him a chance to say anything else. She turned and hurried toward the shouting somewhere past the smoke in front of her. As she sprinted deeper into the haze, feeling the heat build, the roar of the fire was nearly close enough to crawl under her skin.

She moved through the smoke, low and fast, one hand on the wall, every step taking her closer to the sound of voices and the chance to save the man she loved.

The main bay was an oven—more heat than air, the ceiling pulsing with fire, paint blistering off the rafters. Desiree ducked low, her eyes burning, and made for the last clear space between her and the engines. Equipment littered the floor, hose reels toppled, metal shelving warped from the heat. The taste of smoke was everywhere, gritty and raw, choking out thought.

She moved by instinct, tracking the shouts ahead of her, filtering for the familiar. There—a struggle, a crash, the dull clang of metal on metal.

She rounded a pillar, just as Brandon locked arms with a young man she recognized from Waddell’s file—his nephew, who had been in and out of prison for years. His eyes were darting around, face smeared black, hair singed at the edges. He had a length of pipe, swinging for blood, but Brandon caught his wrist, twisted, and rammed the arm down onto the hood of Engine One. The pipe spun away, ringing off the concrete. Waddell’s nephew howled, tried to get loose, but Brandon held him, even as a fresh streak of blood ran down from his own eyebrow, hot and fast.

Desiree didn’t hesitate. She crossed the last distance in three strides, caught the arsonist by the collar, and pulled him off balance. He hit the ground hard. She pinned him, knee in his back, then swept for the pipe and shoved it far out of reach.

Brandon staggered, wiped his eyes, then gave her a look of pure relief.

For a second, all she could do was breathe, heavy and ragged, feeling the concrete shake under her boots as the fire chewed its way closer.

She got the arsonist’s wrists behind his back, used another zip-tie, and cinched it until he yelped. “Stay down,” she barked, and he did, face mashed to the floor, smoke curling around him.

Brandon’s voice was raw. “Kimble’s out. He made it. I saw him go through the west door.”