Page 38 of Better than Famous

BEN

The wind rattled the heavy aluminum bay doors of the fire station, a persistent clanking that mimicked a crowbar striking a hollow pipe. I stood at the metal workbench behind Rescue 1, running a pen down the laminated inventory checklist for the third time in an hour. My hands moved with rigid autonomy. I counted clear plastic IV bags, checked expiration dates on epinephrine syringes, and verified the seal on the airway kit. The rote mechanics soothed me. The numbers stopped my mind from drifting down a dead-end gravel road on Dove Key. The checklist prevented me from picturing Sutton sitting alone on my gray couch.

In the day room next door, Gator lounged in a battered leather recliner, his black boots resting on the scarred coffee table. A local weather broadcast blared from the corner television, the volume competing with the escalating wind outside the concrete walls.

"Listen to that wind," Gator called out. "If this system upgrades, we’re looking at serious mandatory overtime. I might finally afford that lift kit for the Jeep."

"Do not wish for storm work, Gator. Storm shifts are miserable. The wind doesn’t bring the casualties. The chainsaws and portable generators afterward cause the trauma calls."

Miller walked in carrying a stained ceramic mug of coffee. Two decades on the squad and four kids at home had thinned his graying hair and settled a permanent slump into his heavy shoulders. He stopped behind Gator’s chair and stared at the screen. "Hazard pay is hazard pay, Ben. Think it hits the island tonight?"

"Radar models track the center hitting the Lower Keys by midnight." I flipped to the next page of the inventory sheet. "The outer bands are already crossing the highway."

The television cut to a bright red emergency graphic. A meteorologist pointed to a swirling mass of green and yellow moving aggressively over the ocean.

"The system has organized significantly in the last two hours," the weatherman announced, his voice echoing off the cinderblock walls. “The NWS has officially upgraded this system to Tropical Storm Isaac. Expect landfall in the Lower Keys late tonight or early tomorrow morning. Expect sustained winds of sixty miles per hour and heavy rainfall with possible flooding in low-lying areas."

"Showtime." Gator rubbed his hands together and dropped his boots to the floor.

The red numbers on the digital clock read four-fifteen. My shift ended at five. Usually, I volunteered to stay during a tropical storm. I pulled double shifts, slept on a narrow canvas cot, and waited for the inevitable dispatch tones. Tourists tried driving rental cars through flooded intersections. Locals fell off ladders securing plywood. Staying at the station during a crisis was the job—the entire foundation of the life I had built.

Not today. I needed to go home. I needed to secure the castle and pull the drawbridge up tight.

My cell phone vibrated against my thigh. The sudden buzzing startled a curse out of my mouth. I dropped the pen and pulled the device from my pocket, expecting a county weather alert or a shift extension notice from the battalion chief.

The screen displayed a text message from Sutton.

Sutton: Nash knows. TMZ got a tip. They are looking in the Lower Keys. Please come home. We need a battle plan.

I stared at the glowing letters, my joints locking in place. The protective bubble of isolation on Dove Key had burst. One gas station attendant or loose-lipped rental car agent was all it took to shatter the illusion of safety. They had narrowed the search from an entire state to a specific string of islands. It was only a matter of hours before a hungry reporter asked the right local the right question. A matter of time before a hotel clerk remembered a rumor about an ambulance parked near a drainage ditch.

I shoved the device deep into my pocket and set the clipboard down. The creeping anxiety of the past few days vanished. The uncertainty about boundaries burned away entirely, replaced by icy focus. This wasn’t a public relations problem. This was crisis management. This was triage.

I unclipped my portable radio from my heavy leather belt. I walked into the day room and set the black radio onto the charging bank against the wall, the plastic clicking firmly into the cradle.

Gator lowered his coffee mug and frowned at the empty spot on my belt. "What are you doing?"

I stared at the radio in the charging cradle. A decade of discipline anchored my boots to the linoleum. I didn’t abandon shifts. I didn’t leave my partner hanging before our relief walked through the doors. But Sutton was trapped in that cottage with a target on her back, and every second counted.

I rubbed the back of my neck. "I need to head home. I have an emergency."

Miller turned away from the television. "Your shift ends in forty-five minutes, Ben. Vega isn’t here to relieve you yet. Traffic on the bridge is going to be an absolute parking lot with the evacuation warnings."

"I know. It’s just..." I gripped the edge of the counter and ground my teeth. I couldn’t explain the paparazzi or Nash without exposing her. "I need to secure my property before the storm makes landfall. I got a text that there’s a problem."

Gator stood up and studied my face. The easygoing kid vanished. The guy left in his place trusted his partner with his life. "Ben, you never leave before a storm hits. You practically live in this building during hurricane season." He stared at my radio in the center of the charging bank. "If you’re asking to leave early, the world must be ending. Get out of here. I’ll handle the handoff with Vega."

I shifted my weight, the guilt warring with the adrenaline. "You’re sure?"

Gator waved me toward the locker room. "Go. Miller and I have it covered. Don’t drown on the way home."

I nodded sharply. "I owe you.”

After sending a quick reply to Sutton that I’d be there soon, I pushed through the swinging doors into the locker room. I stripped off my navy uniform and dressed in my street clothes with military efficiency. Faded denim jeans. A dark gray shirt. Worn leather work boots. I bypassed the sinks completely. The transition from public servant to private protector was instantaneous.

Pushing through the back exit, I walked into the employee parking lot. The wind whipped the tall palm trees lining the chain-link fence. Green fronds thrashed wildly against the darkening sky. The air pressure dropped rapidly, pressing a heavy, metallic tang into the atmosphere. I climbed into the high cab of my truck and pulled the heavy door shut against the escalating gale. When I turned the key, the massive engine roared to life, its deep rumble vibrating through the chassis and up into the soles of my boots. I dropped the transmission into gear and steered out of the lot.

As expected, the roads were a mess. Tourists fled north toward the mainland in an unbroken stream of red brake lights. Locals crowded the southbound lanes, making frantic, last-minute runs to the hardware and grocery stores. Plywood covered the large glass windows of the bait shops and seaside restaurants, though several were still open. The sky erased the horizon line completely, blending the choppy ocean and low-hanging clouds into a massive, impenetrable wall of slate gray. I gripped the steering wheel and navigated the heavy truck around a slow-moving sedan. The wipers slapped rhythmically against the windshield, clearing the first heavy drops of tropical rain.