As soon as they put the fire out, he was going to head to Joseph Kellerman's cabin to have a very difficult chat—one that would hopefully ensure there were no further unexplained wildfires in Desolation Wilderness this summer.
Cutting through thick undergrowth, Logan thought about the day he'd landed on Joseph's front porch almost twenty years ago. He'd been an angry, cocky seventeen-year-old, hell-bent on destruction. He still remembered the smile the middle-aged firefighter had given him that afternoon, almost as if he was saying This is going to be fun, you little shit. Logan hadn't known enough to back down. He'd assumed his young muscles could beat some old guy's any day of the week. One more thing he'd been wrong about.
The two of them had gone head to head, chest to chest, toe to toe, until Logan finally realized Joseph wasn't out to get him. His rules and his tough love were his way of helping. Because he actually cared.
Joseph had been—still was—the best damn hotshot Logan had ever worked with. Before he'd retired, he'd been fearless but smart, quick with decisions but not afraid to change his mind in difficult situations. Once Logan pulled his head out of his seventeen-year-old ass and came around, he'd looked up to Joseph as a mentor, a man to emulate. Nearly two decades later, he'd filled his mentor's shoes as superintendent of the Tahoe Pines Hotshot Crew.
Logan could only pray that Joseph wasn't the one who needed saving this time around.
Realizing he was swallowing more dirt than spit, Logan pulled off his goggles to take a long swig from his water bottle, but it barely passed his lips when he saw smoke rising up in his peripheral vision.
No way. No f**king way. He'd personally scanned the area by helicopter at sunrise. The blaze had been contained to the northeast of where they were clearing a fire line.
Judging by the thick, dark plume in the sky rising just south of Sam and Connor, it definitely wasn't contained anymore.
Logan wiped the sweat out of his eyes. They were working in the worst possible place. The first rule of wild fires was a no-brainer: Missionary position would kill you. Never get on top, because fires could—and would—outrace a man uphill ninety-nine percent of the time.
Somehow, they'd ended up on top.
A series of boulders had shielded them all afternoon from the dry winds whipping up the valley. Logan quickly hiked up, cresting the rocks, and a wall of heat hit him like a baking oven.
He grabbed the radio from his back pocket and spoke into it. “I've spotted a fire rolling across the canyon a quarter mile south of the ignition point.”
Even though Logan would normally trust Gary Thompson, his squad boss and second in command, with his life, Logan knew not to wait for confirmation.
It was time to get the hell out.
He scrambled down the rock and sprinted toward Sam and Connor. The tall shrubs surrounding them were a temporary cool patch, one that gave no warning to the inferno dancing up the hill. Logan wasn't afraid for himself—he'd get out of there or die trying—but his men's lives were his responsibility. He'd been proud to lead his hotshot crew for the past decade. These guys felt more like family than most blood relations had ever been. At the very least, he'd make sure the MacKenzie brothers made it out of the blowup in one piece.
Logan's radio crackled. “Logan,” Gary said from the anchor point on top of the mountain, where he could watch the fire's progress, “you need to get out. Now.”
In all of their years of working together, Logan had rarely heard Gary sound so concerned.
Logan knew Gary wanted to hear that he was already on his way. But he wasn't going to leave without his men. “I'm moving downhill to alert Sam and Connor and then we'll retreat.”
A muffled “Fuck” was followed by a tangle of voices. Logan concentrated on his mission. Speed was essential when you were trying to outwit a fire that was starving for fresh meat.
Quickly, he scanned the surrounding hillside. A retreat along the east-flank line—the nearest clean trail-head—would be suicidal. They'd have to run west, up a nearly vertical slope.
Rather than switchback down the mountain, Logan took the fastest route, jumping and sliding down steep grades, not giving a shit about bruises and scrapes if it meant getting his men out alive. The mountain below the McKenzie brothers was quickly disappearing beneath a cloud of smoke.
Sweat poured out from beneath Logan's helmet; his heart pounded; his thigh muscles bunched and burned as he worked to stay upright on an increasingly treacherous slope.
He'd done some shit-crazy things in his life, but running straight into a blowup trumped them all. And yet, he craved this kind of adrenaline, the rush of tackling a near-impossible situation. All of them did to some extent, and it was part of the strong bonds that held his group of twenty wildland firefighters together.
Like hell if they were going to be minus three when the day was through.
Nearly upon the brothers, he didn't bother yelling. They wouldn't hear him over the chainsaws. He ran across the uneven ground, hurtling over just-cut tree stumps, waving his arms in a wide arc to get their attention.
Connor looked up first and cut his engine. Sam quickly followed suit. In the sudden silence, Logan could hear the growing roar of the hungry blaze.
“We need to get out of this canyon,” Logan said, pointing to the smoke column rising up over the thick brush. “Now.”
He appreciated how calm they were as they lay their tools down and took stock of the dangerous situation.
“A blowup?” Sam asked.
Logan nodded, his lungs burning from exertion and the thick, fresh smoke sucking away all of the oxygen. Enough chitchat. It was time to get the f**k out.