She watched for any sign of survivors but saw none.

How long had it been? Twenty minutes?

Every minute counted. She knew. She’d been trained for this.

We don’t trade lives for dead bodies, Hannah.

Her father’s voice, so clear, even years later. A hard and fast rule.

Had they found evidence of a bomb last night? Had that been the cause of the “earthquake”? Her father hadn’t said—but he wouldn’t tell her, anyway.

Her breathing echoed in the empty truck. Despite the chill in the air, her bunker coat felt stifling. She couldn’t keep sitting here, wrapped in worry.

She climbed down from the cab, easing out of the truck on the side away from the rest of the crew. The chief couldn’t imprison her in the truck, but he could yell at her for disobeying orders. She’d seen her dad’s car, and all she needed was for him to hear her getting dressed down. He’d order her out of here in a heartbeat, and the only way she would leave was if she was handcuffed in a cop car.

She wouldn’t put it past him.

Her radio squawked on her shoulder, and she quickly dialed down the volume. She moved to the back of the truck and pulled her helmet onto her head, hoping it would make her less recognizable. She opened the cabinet at the back, taking down some tools, then putting them back. Trying to look like she was standing here with a purpose.

She was really watching the site of destruction.

No movement.

Across the parking lot stood the crew from company ten. She knew some of them, but not many. They wouldn’t know she’d been ordered to wait. She doubled back behind the fire trucks, walking with purpose, carrying a Halligan bar from the back of her engine as if she’d been sent to fetch something.

Yeah, right, like the guys from ten don’t have a bar on their truck.

But what else was she going to carry? The fire hose? Might draw attention.

Her radio chirped again, only loud enough for her to hear. At first she ignored the radio chatter, but then her brain latched on to the message.

Thermal imaging showed no signs of life. All rescue units were ordered to wait for the area to be cleared.

No signs of life.

Michael. Her eyes flew to his damaged truck.

Keep moving. Find a task.

What task? What could she do?

She couldn’t breathe. Had he survived last night only to die here and now?

Then she heard the clink.

At first her subconscious registered the sound and ignored it. Clink. Then she heard it again. And again. Clearly coming from beneath the wreckage. And then, a faint recognizable pattern. Clinkclinkclink. Clink. Clink. Clink. Clinkclinkclink.

Three short, three long, three short.

SOS.

Someone was alive.

She turned to run back to her crew. They had to know. She had to tell them—but then her radio crackled.

SOS observed. Pending clearance from bomb squad and collapse units. Hold all rescue.

They were right. She knew they were right. Attempting a rescue when a bomb could be sitting in there was nuts. Even without a bomb, nothing about the remaining structure looked secure. Those propane tanks could be leaking. There could be an active gas line leading to the stove. One spark could send the rest of the building sky high. One shifting board could send it all crashing down. She’d gone through the schooling and knew it as well as anyone.

But learning something in a classroom was different from handling it in practice.

Clinkclinkclink. Clink. Clink. Clink. Clinkclinkclink.

So faint, yet so clear.

“Hannah.”

Her father. She’d lost track of herself, and she was now standing between units, staring at the wreckage, a bar clutched in one hand.

She looked at her father. His features blurred, just a little, then steadied. She blinked and tears rolled down her cheeks.

She was crying. She hadn’t even noticed.

“Hannah?” he said again. His voice was quiet. Not harsh, but not gentle either.

Emotion clogged her throat and made it impossible for irritation to color her words. For an instant she wanted to be six years old again, for her father to be a hero again, for him to put on a helmet and rush into danger and walk out with a survivor in his arms.

But he wasn’t. And now she was the firefighter. He was the fire marshal. The most heroic thing he did these days was harass people.

“Michael was here,” she said.

“Was?”

She shook her head quickly. “Is. His truck . . .” She pointed. “Do you hear that?”

Clinkclinkclink. Clink. Clink. Clink. Clinkclinkclink.

The rhythm had changed. It was slower. Fainter.

Clinkclinkclink.

Clink.

Clink.

Clink.

And then it stopped.

“We all hear it,” he said.

“It stopped,” she whispered.

His own radio, tuned to the police channel, fired off a lot of codes she didn’t know. He paused to listen, then said, “Bomb squad is en route.”

His voice was so practical. Had he always been like this? She wanted to smack him. “Can’t we send a crew in? Can’t we—”

“That’s up to your chief. Aren’t you supposed to be somewhere?”

“Dad! Don’t you want to help? Don’t you think we should be rescuing them?”

“Hannah.” His voice sliced through hers, cutting her off. His eyes were ice cold and furious. “I have a job to do here. There are more people involved than your boyfriend. There are procedures here, for your safety and everyone else’s. Do you understand me?”