Read Online Fade the Heat by Colleen Thompson - Free Book Online

a promotional examination, his courage, work ethic, and long experience made him far more a leader among the men than many who outranked him. So Reagan had set about winning him over, buying off the man in his own coin. If he charged into a burning building, she not only hung with him, she tried to learn from him and make herself useful in the process. If he decided to clean the fire truck when it came back filthy after a 3 A . M . blaze, she was in on that, too—even when she suspected he was only doing it to try to convince her to go back to the ambulance—or at least to transfer to another station. After a few months, he’d put the word out that she would make a decent firefighter, and, as she’d expected, the other guys fell right in line.
    His big hand grasped her forearm. “He’ll make it. He’s too damned stubborn not to. But even if he doesn’t, we’ll do right by him—and his family, too.”
    Reagan clasped his arm back and felt something flow between them, a kinship and a calling she would never in a million years be able to explain to the likes of Dr. Jack Montoya.
    Not even if it were the price he set upon his signature.
    “I’m sorry,” Analinda Alvarez told Jack. A tiny woman with short dark curls and huge brown eyes, the trauma nurse looked tired, yet pumped up on the breakneck speed of her work. “I haven’t heard anything about him. We have a lot of patients—there was some kind of rush-hour pile-up on the freeway. It’s a little early still, but we’ve already got the makings of another wild Friday night.”
    Jack nodded at his former coworker. He remembered all too well the accidents and knife wounds, the shootings and the overdoses, people rushing headlong toward mortality in their eagerness to celebrate the end of the workweek.
    He thought fleetingly of Luz Maria on the back of that macho asshole’s motorcycle. Maybe he’d call her cell phone later, make sure she was all right.
    “But you might try asking them.” The nurse gestured toward a pair of men who stood talking farther down the hallway.
    Jack spotted the blue uniforms of the Houston Fire Department and thought he recognized the older of the two men, a heavyset man with a graying brown comb-over, as Robert Anderson, an official who often made statements on the television news.
    As Jack approached, the men’s conversation ceased, and he introduced himself.
    The younger of the two, a wiry, dark-haired man with a wide gap between his front teeth, jerked to attention at the mention of the name. “You said Montoya. Are you Dr. Jack Montoya?”
    “Yes. I wanted to talk to you about—”
    “Can you show us some ID? Something with your address.”
    Despite his confusion at the request, Jack pulled out his driver’s license.
    The younger man whistled through those widely spaced teeth. “Here’s our man, Chief.”
    “We’ve been searching for your body,” said the man with the comb-over. He gestured toward the other firefighter, who was already pulling a walkie-talkie from his belt. “Call dispatch and let ’em know we have him here.”
    The man stepped aside to carry out the order.
    “What the hell is going on?” Jack demanded.
    “A few minutes after the first pumper reached the fire at the Newgate Apartments, an anonymous caller tipped off Channel Four news that—this is a quote, sorry—‘that fuckin’ greaser Jack Montoya’s cookin’ in there.’ The news crew called 911 right away to report it.”
    Jack flinched, more at the hate implicit than the ethnic slur.
    “So the injured firefighter—” Jack began.
    “Captain Rozinski and his crew were conducting a search-and-rescue sweep when the structure partially collapsed,” said the man with the comb-over as the younger firefighter rejoined them.
    “I’m so sorry he was hurt,” Jack said. “Have you heard anything about his condition?”
    The firefighters’ gazes met, and he saw a nod of what looked like approval pass between them.
    “We appreciate your