Eyes Like Coins

Los Angeles is burning. Four thieves disguised as firefighters. What could go wrong?

CHECKPOINT

Smoke drifts through the truck's vents. Tastes like burning money.

The engine rumbles beneath us, vibration climbing my spine. 
Sodium lights ahead mark the checkpoint, 
Sandbags, razor wire, and a kid with a rifle who'll decide if we get through.

Sky's gone bruise-purple.

Embers float past the windshield. One catches in my eyelashes, stings. I don't flinch. Just let it burn.

"You look like shit, Mason." 
Caleb's voice from the back seat. 
"Straighten up."

I adjust my helmet, heat already building beneath it. Pull the turnout coat tighter, though the air's hot enough to blister.

Vic slows the truck, tires crunching over something I don't want to identify. 
His knuckles go white on the wheel as we approach. 
The refugee convoy we passed five miles back got turned around. 
We need to get through.

"Remember," Vic says, "let me do the talking."

His fingers tap the fake badge on his chest. 
The ID says 'Roaring River Fire Department.' 
No such place exists.

We idle at the checkpoint. National Guard kid rifle hanging loose, face mask pulled down despite the smoke.

Behind him, three more soldiers direct civilian vehicles away from the canyon. 
Two news vans idle nearby, reporters pacing, hungry for footage.

Justine leans forward from the back, voice low. 
"Forty percent containment loss on the slope. Two hours before it jumps the line."

She sounds like she's reading a shopping list, 
not calculating when fire will trap us in the canyon.

The Guardsman approaches our window. Vic leans out, confident.

"Engine 47, freelance crew. Bel Air support."

His voice is steady, carried by something other than courage. 
I've seen him washing down pills in the side mirror. 
We all have our accelerants.

The Guardsman studies Vic's badge, eyes flicking between it and the truck's peeling decals.

"Haven't seen you boys before." His accent is Midwest somewhere.

"Called in from Oregon." 
Vic smiles, teeth bright against smoke-darkened skin. 
"Roaring River. Chief Wallace sent us."

The Guardsman squints at the truck, my throat closing tight. 
I wonder if he sees it. 
How the paint doesn't match around the department logo, 
how our gear looks too new in some places, too worn in others.

"They're sending everyone." 
The Guardsman sighs, checking his tablet. 
"Fire broke containment at Mulholland an hour ago."

Behind me Caleb shifts, a small movement that transfers tension from him to me. 
It's always been that way, since we were kids. 
Like we're connected by invisible wire.

"Big one, huh?" Vic keeps his tone casual.

"Gonna lose half the canyon by morning." 
The Guardsman taps his tablet. 
"Your crew manifested late."

Radio chatter cuts through the silence. 
Real firefighters calling for backup at Sepulveda Pass. 
Vic's expression doesn't change, but his fingers tap the steering wheel.

I keep my eyes forward, trying to look bored. Professional. 
My construction crew cap is tucked under the helmet, 
my back aching from the hours on the road.

"Your boss's name again?" The Guardsman says.

"Wallace. Terry Wallace."

A new sound cuts through idling engines. Propellers. 
Water bomber passing overhead, belly full, heading toward Mulholland.

The Guardsman's radio crackles. Another voice, sharp with authority.

"What's the delay?"

"Engine crew, sir. Oregon."

"We need all units. Clear them through."

The Guardsman hesitates one last moment, then waves us forward.

"Stay on the main canyon road. Follow the flares. Bel Air evacuation status is Alpha. All residents should be gone."

Vic nods, already accelerating. "You got it."

And we're through. That simple. That fast.

A quarter mile past the checkpoint, Caleb releases his breath in a rush. 
His fingers tap my shoulder from behind. A signal from childhood, 'we made it.' 
My heart slows a fraction.

Vic laughs, harsh and sudden. "Told you. Amateurs."

The road narrows as we climb, smoke thickening.

Through breaks in the treeline, I glimpse Los Angeles spread below us, ringed by fire.

Glittering houses of Bel Air wait on the ridgeline, empty as tombs.

"Forty-five minutes," Justine says, studying the map spread on her knees. 
Her charcoal-smudged fingers trace routes, predicting the fire's path. 
"First house, here. Movie star. Awards on the mantle, cash in the walls."

Caleb leans forward between the seats, grinning. 
I catch his reflection in the side mirror, his pupils like pinpricks, sweat beading despite the air conditioning.

"Showtime, little brother," he says, voice low.

His hand grips my shoulder, 
the same grip he used at twelve when he told me Mom wasn't coming back, 
the same grip that promised he'd take care of everything.

The grip that's never failed.

We crest the hill and the entire canyon spreads before us, 
a wall of flame advancing from the north, devouring everything.

In the mirror, something flickers. A shape in the smoke behind us. 
Gray, almost human, but not. 
Just for a moment, then gone.

I blink, blaming the smoke, the exhaustion.

Nothing there.

Nothing but fire.

The radio crackles, real firefighters' voices breaking through. 
"Sepulveda west perimeter lost. All units pull back."

I close my eyes. We're not here to save anything.

Just to take.

THE PLAN

The warehouse stank of oil and rust.

Fluorescents buzzed, painting everything sickly green. 
Vic circled the truck like a salesman closing a deal.

"Twenty-two grand at county auction." 
He slapped the side panel. 
"Engine's solid. Pump still works."

Caleb studied the faded lettering: L.A. County Fire, Retired. "We're repainting it."

"Already planned." 
Vic tapped a stack of cans. 
"Got the official red. Justine's designing the logos now."

Justine sat at a folding table, laptop glowing. 
Meteorology degree gathering dust since the station replaced her with an algorithm. Her fingers traced fire patterns on the screen like she was reading Braille.

"Containment failure is predictable," she said, not looking up. 
"Santa Anas push everything west. Station chiefs follow standard response protocols. Evacuation zones clear oldest money first."

Caleb stood at her shoulder, his presence filling the space like it always has. Third-generation union man, watching robots replace the factory line where his father retired with a pension.

"Show me the roads again," he said.

I stayed by the wall, counting exits. 
Two doors, three windows, concrete floor. 
Old habits.

"You keep looking for a way out," 
Caleb walking over grinning. 
"There isn't one. Not anymore."

He crouched in front of my crate, joints popping. At 42, he looked older.

"Factory's gone, little brother. Construction won't keep your head above water. Not with what they pay."

I knew the math. Thirty-five hours at the site, body breaking down with each load. Rent climbing. Grandma's care facility sending payment warnings.

"There are other jobs."

"Yeah? Where? The automated Amazon warehouse? McBurger's?"

Caleb pulled a pill bottle from his pocket, shook it. I recognized Mom's prescription label, faded but "McKenzie" still visible.

"Mom didn't have options," he said, voice low. "We do."

He always carried it with him. Said it was a reminder.

We'd found her blue-lipped on the bathroom floor, her pockets empty. 
Caleb was fifteen. I was twelve. 
He'd said he'd take care of everything.

He always had.

Vic interrupted, tossing turnout coats onto the table. "These cost more than the truck."

"They real?"

"Real enough. Got 'em from a buddy at the surplus warehouse. 
Justine's adding department patches."

Justine flipped her laptop, showing the mock-up. 
"Roaring River Fire Department."

"That can't be real," I said.

She smiled, cold. "Exactly."

Vic pulled on a helmet, adjusted the strap. 
"Most checkpoints are National Guard, not actual firefighters. 
Show a badge, use the right codes, look the part."

He rattled off terms: backburn, containment perimeter, spot fire. 
Six years as a volunteer before budget cuts. 
Still carried the handbook in his truck.

I watched his eyes when he talked about fire. 
Pupils expanding like he was getting high just thinking about it.

"Big houses clear out first. Nice and orderly. Insurance covers everything."

"Rich people problems."

Caleb spread a map across the floor. Three red circles: Bel Air, Los Feliz, Brentwood.

"Forty-five minutes per house, max. In, safe, out. Jewelry, cash, watches. Nothing bulky."

"One job," I said, the warehouse suddenly too small. "Just one."

Caleb gripped my shoulder. "One job, three houses. Then we're done."

My construction crew cap sat on the crate beside me. 
Tomorrow's shift started at 6 AM.

"When?"

"Fire season's starting early." 
Justine didn't look up from her screen. 
"We'll know three days out."

"What about the people?"

Caleb's face hardened.

"What people? The ones who own five houses while we can't keep one? 
The ones who fly private jets when the evacuation order comes?"

"Not everyone in those canyons is rich."

"The ones who aren't are already gone. Math doesn't lie."

I looked at the turnout coat, the helmet, the badges. Costumes for a performance. 
Just like the construction vest I wore to pretend I was building something that would last.

"Nobody gets hurt," I said.

Caleb's grin returned. 
"That's why we're hitting empty houses, little brother."

Three days later, the call came. 
The Santa Anas had turned ugly. 
Containment was already failing. 
We had a window.

"Time to fill our pockets," Caleb over the phone.

I've always trusted that voice.

For better or worse.

THE CELEBRITY

The first house sat behind a gate tall enough to keep God out.

Vic pulled the truck halfway up the drive, killed the lights. 
Heat shimmer rolled off the pavement. 
Ash swirled through headlight beams like snow.

"Alarms disabled," 
Justine announced, checking her tablet. 
"Power's been out fifteen hours."

Caleb tossed me a crowbar, already moving. 
"Trophy room first. Basement second. Forty-five minutes."

We knew our roles.

I'd practiced mine at night, using a flashlight between my teeth to break into my own shed. Caleb made me do it fourteen times until I could pop a deadbolt in under thirty seconds.

The front door was some kind of African wood. 
Worth more than my apartment. 
My crowbar slipped against brass trim, then caught. 
The lock gave with a crack I felt through my palms.

Inside, smoke clung to the ceiling like a living thing. 
The floor was marble, veined with gold. 
Reflecting our helmets as we moved through the dark.

Vic pointed left with his flashlight. 
"Vault's in the study. Behind the Oscar wall."

Justine was already moving deeper into the house. 
"I'll check the upstairs."

Trophy room was exactly that. Glass cases lining the walls. 
Framed movie posters signed in silver ink: 
Desert Strike. Blood Meridian. Executive Action.

In the center, a display of seven Oscars, arranged in a row. 
National Medal of Freedom hanging above them. 
Below, photos with three different presidents.

Caleb was at the wall behind, running his fingers along the edge of a photo frame. "Here," he said. "Hinges."

The panel rotated. Hidden vault in the wall. I recognized the type from a job site last year. Rich developer had one installed in his guest house.

I held the flashlight while Caleb worked the dial. Eight minutes maximum, he'd promised at the warehouse. He did it in six.

Inside: stacks of cash. Gold bars. Red velvet bags that clinked when Caleb emptied them into his pack.

"Ten Rolexes. Christ."

He pocketed Vietnam service medals pinned to black velvet. Not earned. 
Just props for a movie where the star played a wounded vet.

Vic's voice echoed from the hallway. 
"Found a fucking bunker down here!"

The house was massive. Too many rooms for people who'd never be home. 
I checked the east wing, my flashlight beam catching a closet door with fresh drywall around the frame.

Wrong size for the wall. Contractor in me noticed it right away.

I pushed the edge. It opened inward. Small room. Cold. Concrete floor, no windows. Metal stairs led down, disappearing into darkness.

My flashlight caught the edge of something. 
Camera equipment on tripods. 
Professional stuff, not home video.

Further in: a bare mattress on the concrete floor. No sheets. Just a plastic cover.

I paused at the bottom of the stairs, boot slipping on something. The floor was sticky. 
I played the flashlight across the walls, found a switch. Tried it, but the power was out.

The beam caught something on the wall. A bulletin board covered in Polaroids. 
Girls, young. Sixteen maybe. Posed against backdrops. 
Same vacant expression in every shot, the actor's arm around them, his face beaming.

My stomach tightened. Just slightly. 
Didn't want to see more, but couldn't look away.

A cabinet against the far wall. 
Jars inside, labeled with names and dates going back five years. 
Each contained what looked like hair samples.

One of the Polaroids slipped from the wall. 
I caught it before it hit the ground. 
Girl named Lila. Date from January. 
Her blank smile reflecting my flashlight.

I pocketed it. Not sure why.

Didn't want to touch anything else.

Voices from above. Vic calling my name.

I climbed the stairs, found him hauling bins of supplies from a storage room.

"Dude's ready for the apocalypse," 
he said, dumping freeze-dried meals into his pack. 
"Gas masks, water filters, everything."

Caleb appeared, duffel bulging. "Time check?"

"Thirty-six minutes," 
Justine answered from the doorway. 
"Found jewelry upstairs, cash in the master. Paintings too heavy."

I followed them to the front door.

Through the windows, Century City towers reflected firelight, glass office buildings turning molten in the distance.

"We need to move." 
Justine's voice cut through the dark. 
"Wind's shifting."

Caleb glanced at me, frowning. "You get anything downstairs?"

"Nothing worth taking."

He nodded, adjusted his pack, led the way out.

I followed, still feeling the Polaroid in my pocket.

I kept my mouth shut.

We loaded the truck, Vic grinning like a kid on Christmas. 
"Five more like this, we're set for life."

Caleb didn't smile. Just checked his watch. 
"Next house. Los Feliz. Music producer’s compound. 
Vic, take Stone Canyon to Sunset."

I watched smoke rising from the east as we pulled away. 
The star's house silhouetted against fire glow.

Wondering how many more Polaroids were pinned to that wall.

Nobody's problem now. Just smoke and flame.

The Polaroid seemed heavier than it should in my pocket.

Vic gunned the engine, laughing. 
"Rich fuck probably has insurance worth twice the house."

I nodded, watching the road.

Thinking how funny it was. We'd just robbed a predator. Like stealing from a thief.

DRIVING

Stone Canyon to Sunset. Flames licking the hills on both sides.

Vic can't stop laughing, high on the score. 
Keeps slapping the wheel, looking at his Rolex-filled wrist. 
"Ten grand each, minimum. And that's just the watches."

Traffic lights dark. Power grid failing in sections. 
We're the only vehicle moving, our headlights cutting through smoke banks that roll across the road like phantom cars.

Caleb's in the back, counting stacks. 
"$142,200 cash. Plus the gold. Plus the watches." 
His voice is tight, controlled. 
He was the same way after big wrestling matches in high school. 
Never celebrated until he was alone.

Justine traces the fire line on her map, charcoal smudging her fingertips. 
"Wind's changing. Southeast now. Fire will trap the Los Feliz canyon in two hours. We'll have plenty of time."

Through a break in the buildings, 
the Hollywood sign stands dark against orange backdrop, 
half its letters disappearing into smoke.

Below it, neighborhoods flicker with firelight, 
evacuation flares marking empty streets.

"Fuck yeah!" Vic yells suddenly, hitting the brakes.

He points to a billboard for the star's latest movie, face twenty feet tall above Sunset. "Just took your shit, asshole!"

He honks the horn three times, like the sonofabitch might hear. No one around but us.

"Keep it down," Caleb warns. "Sound carries."

"Who's gonna hear? The coyotes?" 
Vic's pupils are pinpricks, jaw working overtime. He's flying.

A helicopter passes overhead, spotlight searching. 
We all duck instinctively, even though we're technically allowed here. Force of habit.

The Sunset Strip stretches empty ahead, neon signs blinking without audience. 
The Whisky. The Roxy. The Rainbow. 
Places I've only seen in movies, never been inside.

Justine breaks the silence. 
"Next target has more security. Infrared cameras. Generator backup."

"They working without the grid?" Caleb asks.

"Fifty-fifty. If they are, I can loop the feed."

"Always have a plan B.

Vic grins into the rearview. 
"Plan B is 'Burn Baby Burn.' Fire takes care of everything."

A palm tree erupts in flames just ahead, its fronds catching like paper. 
We swerve around it, the wave of heat hitting the truck's side.

I press my face against cool glass.

The Chateau Marmont looms on the hill, its windows reflecting distant fire. 
Just past it, Laurel Canyon opens, waiting.

Vic turns up the radio scanner. 
Real firefighters' voices fill the cab, tactical chatter tracking the blaze. 
He hums along like it's his favorite song.

The Polaroid shifts in my pocket.

For a moment, I think about rolling down the window, letting it fly into the night.

I don't. Some evidence should survive.

THE PRODUCER

The producer's house hung off the hillside like it was afraid of commitment. Glass walls, concrete floors, everything at sharp angles.

I followed Caleb through rooms that seemed designed for photos, not people. 
The fire outside painted everything amber, shadows stretching across minimalist furniture nobody ever sat in.

"Forty minutes," Justine called from somewhere deeper in the house.

Vic was already upstairs. I could hear drawers opening, closing. 
The rhythm of practiced hands.

Fire trucks wailed in the distance.

The main living room stretched out, sunken. 
Glass walls opened to the canyon, flames edging closer on the far ridge.

L.A. stretched below, half dark where power failed, half flickering with emergency lights.

Caleb gestured to a closed door. "Check that."

Trophy room maybe, like the last place. More statues. More sick shit.

The door opened silently. No trophy room.

Just... weird.

A circular space. 
Walls covered in astronomical charts, star maps. 
Ceiling painted black with constellations picked out in gold leaf. 
The center held some kind of table. 
Circular. Metal. Etched with symbols I didn't recognize.

Stank of incense and something else. Something animal.

No valuables visible. No safe. No reason to linger.

But my legs wouldn't move.

A shelf held books with titles in languages I couldn't read. 
The spines looked wrong. Not leather, something else.

Outside the windows, the fire pulsed.

Reflection in the glass made the room seem like it was breathing.

The wall shifted. No, not shifted. Revealed.

A door that wasn't there before, or that I hadn't seen.

I didn't open it.

It opened anyway.

Caleb's voice from somewhere far away: 
"Mason? You find anything?"

I couldn't answer.

It appeared.

No features. 
A blank where a face should be. 
Height wrong for a human. Too tall, proportions off. 
Gray, but not gray like color. 
Gray like static on old TV screens. 
Gray like something your eyes can't properly process.

No sound. Absolute silence where it stood.

My flashlight flickered. Died.

Came back different, blue-tinged, making the walls look wet.

It didn't walk. Just was suddenly closer.

You must like fires too.

The voice wasn't sound.

It was just there, inside my head, like a thought that wasn't mine.

"What? No. We're not-"

You feed on burning just like them.

The words had texture. Cold in my mind, like metal against teeth.

My phone. 
I needed to film this, prove it. 
My hand shook pulling it from my pocket.

Screen showed only static.

The figure tilted its head. No neck movement, just wrong angle suddenly.

They watch you. You know this.

Behind it, through the doorway that shouldn't exist, something moved in the darkness. Many somethings.

Fire surged outside, canyon catching.

The glass reflected it in waves, making the figure strobe in my vision.

It raised a hand. Not fingers. Not tentacles.

Something my eyes refused to process correctly.

I stepped back. Fell. The room's edges vibrated, walls breathing faster.

We knew you when your eyes were coins.

Blood in my mouth. Must have bit my tongue falling.

Fire alarms suddenly blaring through the house.

Something touched my shoulder. I swung blind.

"Jesus, Mason!" 
Vic's voice. Real voice. 
"The fuck are you doing?"

The figure was gone. Just a blank wall where the door had been. Drawing board empty.

"Did you see it?" My voice sounded wrong. Too high.

"See what? The fire's jumping the break. We gotta move."

Blood dripped from my nose. Wasn't bleeding before. Vic didn't notice or didn't care.

"Come on!" He was already moving, duffel bag full.

I stumbled after him. Room normal now. Just walls and furniture.

Caleb met us in the hall, face tight. 
"Jammed the side room safe. Couldn't get it."

Justine appeared from another room, backpack bulging. 
"Fire's accelerating. Window closing."

Nobody looked at me. Nobody saw what happened.

We moved toward the front door. I glanced back once.

The wall rippled, just slightly.

You feed on burning.

Outside, the truck waited

"Mason looks fucked up," Justine from the back seat.

"He's fine," 
Caleb answered, not looking. 
"Drive, Vic."

We pulled away.

The producer's house dwindled in the rearview, glass walls reflecting approaching flames.

The words still cold in my head:

We knew you when your eyes were coins.

I wiped blood from my nose. Didn't mention it.

Didn't mention any of it.

I just watched the fire following us down the hill.

Wondering if it was really fire at all.

DRIVING

Mulholland Drive burning on both sides now. 
Swallowing copper, wiping blood from my nose onto my sleeve.

Vic took corners too fast, punching radio buttons. Static. Emergency broadcasts. Static again.

"Fuck this." He killed the radio.

Justine traced fire lines on her map. 
"Creek fire jumped containment. Downtown's getting smoke."

"Which means?"

"We're running out of time."

"You're always saying that."

"Because it's always true."

Something passed between them in the rearview.

My hand wouldn't stop shaking. I pressed it between my knees.

Caleb noticed. He always did.

"Mason." Voice low. "You good?"

I nodded. Lie.

"What happened back there?"

"Nothing. Just smoke inhalation maybe."

His eyes held mine too long. We'd been lying to each other since we were kids. Professional-grade liars in the McKenzie family.

"One more house. Then we're done."

The 405 jammed with cars fleeing north. Taillights like a river of blood.

Coyotes sprinted across the road, eyes reflecting our headlights. 
Fire refugees just like the humans.

Vic swerved, arm instinctively blocking Justine.

"Christ," she muttered.

"Sorry."

"You're fine."

His fingers lingered on her arm.

"How much we got so far?" Vic asked.

"Half a milly, give or take.”

"Split four ways?"

"That was the deal."

Over a hundred. Grandma’s care covered. Child care payments made.

"One more house," Vic said, "we double that easy."

Justine's fingers found his. 
"You're missing the turn."

He swung the wheel hard. Justine fell against him. Their lips met.

Not an accident.

My vision blurred. Something about their kiss looked wrong. Hungry.

You feed on burning.

"Focus on the road," Caleb snapped.

They broke apart. Justine wiped her mouth, not embarrassed. 

"Last house is in Brentwood. Old-school safe in the master closet."

Caleb's hand gripped my shoulder. "Stay with me, little brother."

I nodded, pressing fingers against my nose, stopping the blood.

More coyotes watched from a ridgeline, silhouettes against the burning sky.

An abandoned police cruiser sat empty, lights still flashing.

I closed my eyes, willing the shaking to stop. Wondering if what I saw was real.

Through the trees, Brentwood waited. Mansions like cruise ships in a burning sea.

The Hollywood Hills burned behind us, a crown of fire around the city of angels.

My nose had finally stopped bleeding. But I could still hear that voice.

We knew you when your eyes were coins.

One more house. Then this would all be over.

I almost believed it.

LAST STAND

The Brentwood mansion didn't look expensive. It looked fortified.

Smoke seeped through window frames despite the seals. Outside, embers swirled like fireflies.

The canyon behind the house was fully engulfed now, flames licking the edges of the property.

Caleb moved through rooms methodically. Justine shadowed him with the tools.

"Master suite," she said, checking her map. "Northwest corner."

I took east wing, Vic the south. Divide and conquer. Forty-five minutes.

Air felt wrong in here. Too thick. Fire creating its own weather.

I checked three bedrooms, empty. Bar cabinet with decent scotch. 
Jewelry box on a vanity, small stuff. No people. No hidden rooms. No ghosts.

Something flickered in a mirror as I passed.

Polaroid girls, eyes blank.

Blinked. Gone.

Through the glass walls, the hillside was a wall of flame now. 
A line of firetrucks on the next ridge, tiny against the scale. 
No chance against what was coming.

I started a fourth bedroom. Study, maybe.

Gray figure standing in the corner.

You feed on burning.

Blinked again. Nothing there.

"Jackpot!" 
Caleb's voice echoed down the hall. 
"Safe's open, and we've got...fuck, is that platinum?"

My ears rang. Not from the alien. From the fire outside, devouring oxygen.

Movement at my feet. Small shadow darting past.

Just nerves. Smoke playing tricks.

Pain shot through my shin. Something kicked me.

Not a shadow.

A boy, maybe seven. Thin limbs, wide eyes, astronaut pajamas.

He stared up at me, frozen. 
Something in his expression. Fear, but recognition too. 
Like he knew what I was.

"Hey." My voice sounded wrong. "Hey, it's okay."

He backed away, clutching something to his chest. An inhaler. Rocket ship design.

Just like the one I had. Same shape. Same colors. The one Mom got me the last Christmas before she died.

For a second, the boy's face blurred, replaced by my own. 
Twelve years old, waiting for a mom who wouldn't come back.

A scream tore through the house. Raw, desperate.

The boy ran. I followed.

She was in what looked like a panic room, reinforced door hanging open. 
Mid-thirties, nightgown, wild eyes. 
Asthma attack maybe, gasping like she couldn't get air.

Vic was already there, head tilted, assessing.

"Ma'am, try and slow your breathing. In through your nose if you can."

Six years as a volunteer showing through the costume.

The boy ducked behind his mother, watching us with wary eyes. 
He held out the inhaler to her with small, shaking hands.

"Mom," he whispered. His voice like mine, all those years ago.

"Asthma? You have an inhaler?" Vic's focus steady on the woman.

She nodded, fingers clawing her throat.

Vic took the inhaler from the boy, shook it, checked the counter. 
"Still got doses. Good."

He helped position it, coached her through the breath.

Justine appeared in the doorway. "Holy shit it’s hot."

"Time to go," Vic said after the woman took her first proper breath.

"These people need help," I said.

"Fire's moving too fast. Can't risk it with civilians."

The woman's breathing was still labored. Face going pale. 
The boy squeezed her hand, staring at me. 
Somehow he knew. We weren't there to save them.

"We can't leave them."

Caleb appeared behind Justine, duffel bag bulging. 
Three watches on his wrist, testing their weight.

"What's the hold up?"

"Found ourselves some complications," Vic gestured. "Lady and her kid."

"Fire's at the property line," Justine checking her tablet. "Ten minutes, maybe less."

Caleb sized up the situation without wasting a second. "Take what we got and go."

The boy looked up at me, still clutching his mother's hand.

I saw myself in those eyes.

The night Mom died.

Caleb promising to take care of everything.

"We have to help them."

Caleb's eyes narrowed. "Not what we came for."

"They'll die if we leave them."

"This isn't a rescue mission."

"It is now." My voice surprised me with its force.

Vic glanced between us, then at the woman struggling to breathe. 
Professional assessment. "She needs a hospital. Won't make it otherwise."

"Don't tell me you're going soft."

"I'm telling you she's dying. Simple math."

The woman stared at me, gasping. "My...son..."

Fire reached the back patio, catching the wooden deck furniture. Smoke thickened.

Gray figure standing in the flames. Watching.

Blinked. Still there.

"We're taking the score and leaving." Caleb's voice final. "That's it."

I stepped between him and the door. "Not without them."

"The fuck has gotten into you?"

"Mason, we don't do this."

"Do what? Help people?" The anger surprised me. "They'll die, Caleb. A kid will die."

Our eyes locked. Something shifted between us.

"You protected me my whole life. Now I'm protecting them."

Silence hung between us.

The boy's eyes never left my face.

Vic grabbed his pack. "Can get her stable enough to move. Two minutes."

Caleb's jaw tightened. "This is bullshit."

"Just help me get them to the truck."

Justine checked her tablet. "Property to the east is already gone. West route only option."

"Jesus Christ. Fine. Get them to the truck."

He turned to Vic. "Better know what you're doing."

"Six years in Topanga Canyon. Seen worse than this."

Vic adjusted the woman's oxygen flow, moving with practiced efficiency. 
"Keep her head elevated. Steady breaths."

I'd never seen him so focused before. No pills, no manic energy. Just competence.

"Let’s get the fuck out of here." 

We moved through smoke-filled halls, fire now visible through every window.

The hillside full-on inferno. The driveway already obscured.

"That route's compromised." 
Vic scanned the perimeter with a firefighter's eye. 
"See the smoke's movement? Backdraft waiting at the main gate."

"So we're trapped?"

"Service road. South wall. Thinner brush. Should still be clear."

The woman mumbled against my chest. "Please... my son..."

"He's right here. We've got him."

Caleb hoisted the boy onto his shoulders. "Hold tight, kid."

The boy's eyes met mine over Caleb's head.

Something passed between us. A shared secret.

We reach the truck. Caleb dumps his duffel in the rear. 
Vic lowering the woman onto a stretcher. J
ustine emptying pockets. Watches, rings, cash. 
Boy still staring at me.

Suddenly...lights. Blinding. Not fire.

"INCREDIBLE SCENES UNFOLDING TONIGHT!"

Reporter twenty feet away. Camera crew. Microphones. Spotlights.

"TRUE HEROES SAVING LIVES! SAVING CHILDREN!"

Caleb freezes, hand still on the zipper.

Justine drops a bracelet, kicks it under the truck.

"SIR!

SIR!

What was going through your mind when you decided to risk your lives for this family?"

Vic doesn't miss a beat.

"We're just doing our jobs. And if you'll get out of our way and turn off that damn light, we'll get back to doing it."

Woman on the stretcher whispers thanks. 
Boy watching me with too-wise eyes.

Real fire trucks arriving. Chief shaking Caleb's hand.

"Oregon? Didn't know they called you in. Damn fine work."

Justine flashing credentials I didn't know we had. 
Vic barking orders to paramedics.

Thieves becoming heroes with each camera flash.

Caleb's fingers tapped my shoulder from behind. 
We made it.

In the camera lens, something gray flickered.

Watching.

I just stood there while they took pictures. 
The flash reflecting in my eyes.

Like coins.