“What’s that cunning Norske mind of yours conjuring?”
Gunnar grinned. “Remember the guys at your thirtieth birthday bash at Boone’s house, jumping off the roof when the cops showed up?”
“How could I forget?”
“Boone’s former Navy SEAL buddies. What do you suppose is their going rate to coerce a confession?” Gunnar worked a straw in his monster-sized coke.
Ryan stared blankly at him, then broke into an understanding smile. “Would they want money or favors?” He reached across and stole a fry from Gunnar’s plate.
“If it’s money, I’ll pitch in for the cause. You may be ugly, but you have a good right hook and you don’t suck fighting fire. And I like Tara.” Gunnar helped himself to an abandoned French fry on Ryan’s plate.
“Keep talking.” Ryan tapped his phone screen off and set it on the table.
“We’ll need a helo with heli-rappelle gear, a recording device, and a laptop. And lots of duct tape.”
“Are you suggesting what I think you are?” Ryan pursed his lips and flicked his eyes at Gunnar. “Not too shabby for a pretty-boy, Olympic jock. You aren’t just another shallow sycophant after all.”
“I have my moments of genius. You’re just not always privy to them.” Gunnar tossed a fry at him.
Ryan held up his hands. “I’ve underestimated your badass self. Correct me if I’m wrong, but won’t we go to jail if we’re caught? Not to mention losing our jobs.”
“No fire people or equipment would be involved. If anyone can get a recorded confession out of Hudson, Boone’s former SEAL buddies can. What do you care how they get it? Hudson would be held accountable and not even Stepdaddy Martelle will be able to save him. And we’d be rid of him for good.”
Ryan studied the ceiling, then leveled his eyes at Gunns. “Talk to Boone. But no one else can know.”
Gunnar leaned in. “Don’t worry. They’ll stealth the shit out of this.”
“Boone used to pilot aircraft on covert ops out of Elmendorf Air Force Base.” Ryan scratched his stubble. “He lives for this Tom Clancy shit.”
“That’s why we need an A-Team. I’m no James Greer, and you’re not Jack Ryan,” chuckled Gunnar.
“Nah. Just Ryan.” He grinned, his wheels spinning.
Gunnar gave him a thumbs-up. “Leave it to me. I’ll take care of it.”
“Our ride is here,” Boone called out from the restaurant doorway.
“Speak of the devil.” Ryan spotted the green AFS bus idling outside the open door.
Reeking of smoke, greasy fried food, and unspeakable body odors, Gunnar and Ryan gathered their gear. Grinning ear-to-ear, they ambled out the door with the rest of the jumpers.
How did that song go by Justin Timberlake? What Goes Around Comes Around. Ryan hummed a few notes and smiled.
Some days ended a helluva lot better than others.
Aurora Crew traversed the smoking and blackened boreal forest on their way to the right flank. They ascended a steep, mountain slope, working their way up to a ridge through dense fuels of spindly, black spruce.
Tara noted Silva knitting his brows, whenever he glanced at his GPS. He studied it often, along with fits of coughing.
One of the eighteen firefighting rules Ryan had emphasized in training: Know what the fire is doing at all times. The rule Tara had ignored in Montana when she nearly lost her life. And here she was, breaking the rule again.
The crew lost track of the fire when they had dipped in elevation. The smoke became dense. The situation reports on the radio said storm cells had blown up the Shackelford Fire and it was running west.
If Tara wasn’t mistaken, they were west of the main fire, side-hilling a slope. She tried to quell her nervousness by focusing on other things. Like pain.
“Liz, do you have moleskin? My blisters have blisters.” Tara’s voice wobbled as her boots trampled roots and she side-stepped fallen trees.
Silva coughed and stopped in front of Tara. “Waters, I have some. I’ll get you fixed up.”
“Thanks, Jon.” If she hadn’t fallen for Ryan, she might have for Jon. He was a kind, generous person. And because he knew fire and his way around the woods, she felt reassured with him leading the crew. But the frequency of his coughing alarmed her. “Jon, are you okay?”
“Yeah, Silva, why are you coughing so much?” Rego chimed in, walking behind Tara.
“I do this sometimes. No big deal.” He shook his head, poo-pooing it.
Besides herself, Rego and Silva were the most woods savvy. Since Hudson was gone, she had come to know Rego. He wasn’t the jerk she first judged him to be. As the oldest crew member, he was old-school in his views about women working in fire. He had explained to Tara how hard it was to resist his instinct to protect the opposite gender on and off the job, because his mom had drilled it into him. Tara no longer faulted him for thinking that way. Instead, she demonstrated that she could handle any aspect of the job, and he seemed to respect her for it.
The crew stopped walking while Silva checked his GPS and topo map. His coughing sounded bad. Thick smoke saturated the air.
Tara approached him. “Jon, what does the GPS say?”
Silva squinted at the tracker screen and scrutinized his topographic map. “We hiked up and down these two finger ridges, so we must be on this third one, here. Deadman’s Ravine.” He pointed his pinky finger at a wide area between the left and right fire flanks.
Tara winced at the name ‘Deadman’s Ravine,’ and peered at the map. “Are you sure? This mountain has five finger ridges.” The terrain was tricky, even for expert map readers.
“According to the GPS, we’re on track to our target location,” said Silva. “Pick up the pace. Let’s go.” He took off and everyone followed.
Air quality worsened, as they progressed along the ravine. Tara inhaled smoke and coughed. Angela had loaned her a faded, red neckerchief that she fished from her pocket and tied around her head
