Chapter 7 - The Firehouse Ledger
"Give me the bag," Tommy said, taking a slow step forward into the kitchen.
The physical space between us suddenly shrank. Tommy was six-foot-two, two hundred and twenty pounds of conditioned muscle. He carried dead weight out of burning multi-families for a living. I was five-foot-four, holding onto the edge of an island counter with soapy, trembling hands.
"You poisoned my baby," I spat, my voice rising. "You're selling this to my brother! You're selling it to half the guys on your shift!"
"You don't understand how it works!" Tommy snarled, his composure cracking, spitting as he yelled. "Ryan was crying like a dog every morning after roll call! His back is ruined! He was going to lose his pension, Lauren! The union doesn't protect you when you fail the physical agility re-test! I was helping him!"
"You're an addict who turned into a dealer to pay for your own supply!" I screamed back. "You brought street poison into a house full of children!"
"Give me the fucking bag!" Tommy lunged forward, his boots skidding slightly on the wet linoleum.
I grabbed the heavy cast-iron skillet resting on the stove and swung it with both hands.
The edge of the pan caught Tommy across the forearm, deflecting his reach with a sickening *clang*. He grunted in pain, stumbling back against the refrigerator, clutching his wrist. The impact vibrated up my arms, shocking my wrists, but I raised the skillet again, holding it like a shield.
"Get out of this house!" I screamed. "Get out before I call the detective!"
"You call Miller, and Ryan goes down with me!" Tommy hissed, his face twisted in venomous fury, his teeth bared. "Who do you think signed the logbooks for the medical bags on Engine 9, huh? Who do you think diverted the pharmaceutical vials during the industrial park fire in February? It wasn't just me, Lauren! Your golden-boy brother has his signature on four separate missing-narcotics reports! You give that bag to the cops, and Ryan goes to state prison for ten years!"
The world seemed to stop spinning.
"Ryan... signed for them?"
"We were partners," Tommy whispered, seeing the hesitation in my eyes and taking another predatory half-step forward. "We kept each other alive on the fireground, and we kept each other on our feet when the shifts were twenty-four hours long and our bodies were screaming. If I go down, Engine 9 burns with me. And Ryan will never see that little girl again. You think the state lets a convicted felon keep visiting rights?"
He held out his uninjured hand, his palm open.
"Give me the bag, Lauren. Let me walk out that door. I’ll disappear. I’ll take a transfer to the western district. You protect your brother. You protect your family."
I looked down at the pocket of my cardigan, feeling the weight of the counterfeit pills.
Tommy was right about one thing: the system was brutal. It swallowed whole families. If Ryan had signed those logs, Detective Miller wouldn't care that he had saved Riley's life. They would hang the entire conspiracy around his neck to protect the department's reputation.
"You're lying," I whispered.
"Ask him," Tommy said, smiling a thin, cruel smile. "Call him right now. Ask him what happened to the lockbox on Truck 3 last month."
May you like
Before I could reach for my phone, a sudden, blinding flash of blue and red emergency lights washed across the kitchen ceiling, followed by the low wail of a siren cutting through the storm.
***
