Free Rush by Jonathan Friesen Page B

Mox stole her brother. But I’m not like Drew. He was great, but I’m not like him. I’m not cautious or calculated, and I’m not fighting fire because it’s noble.
    I need it to live.
    I reach Rockford. I’ve been driving since five A.M., and I’m beat. They could have rejected me on the phone, but Chief Richardson wouldn’t say anything, so I still have a glint of hope.
    I park my Beetle, step out into California heat, and rub my eyes. I sigh and walk across the brown front lawn in front of the administration building.
    I push inside and glance around. Pictures of blazes taken from inside the infernos blanket the walls. Each photo holds a hero, a firefighter midyell, racing toward a nightmare that everyone else flees. And as I stand, my jaw tightens and I straighten. I want this like I can’t remember wanting anything else. That’s me in those pictures. It needs to be me.
    I turn toward the lobby and the four reclining men who own it. They joke and laugh like we’re at a comedy club. Mox reclines on the end, quiets when he sees me. They size me up, and I hate it.
    Mox is the leader of this group, I know that much. He stares at me from within his brown jacket.
    I peer at him and watch his face change. It hardens. Laughter turns to rage in moments. It’s like Mr. Ramirez turning from Salome to me. He hates me.
    â€œRichardson’s through that door.” Mox nods. “You’re late.”
    I frown, then turn and knock firmly.
    From inside, a cheery voice. “It’s open.”
    I enter slowly. Three men seated at a round table. One empty chair.
    â€œSit down, Jake.” Richardson leans back, folds his arms across his tremendous gut.
    I nod and take a seat.
    All three men slip rubber bands off thick manila folders. “We want you, Jake,” Richardson continues, opens the first page, and sighs. “But I’ll be straight. We don’t want you now . You have no business on a hotshot helirappeling crew. With no experience, you’d be nothing but a liability.”
    I think of the photo gallery in the lobby, and my gut sinks. I don’t get it. “So that’s it.” I push back from the desk.
    â€œHold on, kid. Hank made quite a case. I thought I’d at least take a look at where you might belong. Here’s what I found. Let’s see.” He adjusts his rims. “Willful property destruction, reckless endangerment . . .” He glances at the others. “There’s an irony for you, gentlemen.” He clears his throat. “Where was I? Let’s see, reckless endangerment, theft—” Richardson flips through several more papers. “Shoot, none of this makes us blink. We have whole inmate firefighting crews.”
    â€œSo you do want me?”
    â€œWanting and accepting are different matters. Let me ask you, do you want to be a rappeller?”
    â€œYeah.” I rub my face. “Bad.”
    Chief Richardson leans back, and his chair creaks. “I won’t lie to you. I owe your father more favors than I’ve got fingers. He’s been pushing hard for me to waive your two-year fighting-experience prerequisite.” He exhales long and loud. “That’s pushing the bounds of sanity. You’ll hold men’s lives in your hands.
    â€œBut Hank’s put me in a spot. He wants you with Mox, who I think would rather jam his hand in a hornets’ nest.”
    I nod.
    â€œI’ve called you up to say I will push this through, based on your next few months of training performance and whether you can satisfy one of our concerns.”
    â€œJust one?” I crane my neck to see his folder.
    Richardson reads something, lets out a loud blast of air, taps his own head. “In here.” He slams the folder shut. “I got a list a mile long of crazy stunts you’ve pulled. Firing bottle rockets off the top of your school.” He smiles and wags his head. “In