Story code: ST-000500
Part 3: Strike Team Charlie
Leo dropped his left arm, pressing his wrist flat against his stomach to bury the scratched metal tag beneath the folds of his dark blue shirt. The white ring light tracked the movement, the woman’s smartphone hovering inches from his nose.
“Oh, you’re hiding it now?” she crowed to the camera. “Look at this, guys. He’s hiding his little wristband. He knows he’s in trouble. He is literally terrifying.”
Leo said nothing. He lowered himself slowly back onto his aching knees. The damp tile soaked instantly through his trousers. The yellow caution sign lay shattered beneath the toe of her neon-pink sneaker, the jagged edges pressing into the spilled iced matcha. He needed to clear the debris. If he finished the job and retreated to the supply closet, her adrenaline might finally run out.
He reached out to pull the broken plastic free. As he extended his arm, the stiff cuff of his sleeve caught on his thick forearm and rode up toward his elbow.
The harsh ring light instantly illuminated the inside of his forearm. Beneath the raised, melted webs of pale burn scars, a patch of faded, jagged blue ink stood out starkly. It was a heavy-handed tattoo of a Pulaski axe crossed with a flickering flame, bordered by a chain-link fence and the block letters of a state correctional conservation fire camp.
“Ew, what is that?” the woman gasped, angling her phone down. “Is that a prison tattoo? I knew it! Bryce! Bryce, you hired a literal convict to stalk women in your store!”
A burst of radio static sliced through the aisle, cutting her off.
Leo didn’t look up, but he recognized the synchronized squeak of thick rubber soles on the dry tile behind the woman. The scent of artificial lavender was suddenly overpowered by the sterile smell of medical-grade rubbing alcohol and starched cotton.
“Is there a problem here, ma’am?” a deep voice asked.
The woman spun around, her pristine tennis skirt flaring. Leo watched a pair of heavy, black, steel-toed boots step into the aisle. Navy blue trousers with reflective silver striping indicated a county paramedic.
“Yes, there is a massive problem,” the woman said, her voice dripping with desperate relief. She swung her phone to frame the newcomer. “This janitor just attacked me. He broke his own sign trying to intimidate me, and he has a prison tattoo! I am live on stream right now, and I need you to arrest him.”
“I’m a paramedic, ma’am, not a cop,” the man said. He took a step forward, a plastic bottle of electrolyte water swinging in his hand. “And nobody is attacking anyone. Step back from him.”
“You don’t understand, he’s dangerous!” she insisted, shuffling backward and giving Leo a few inches of breathing room.
Leo kept his eyes glued to the jagged plastic in his hand. He pulled his arm back, trying to tug his sleeve down over the faded axe and flame. The absolute last thing he needed was an emergency responder running his identification.
The paramedic stepped past the woman’s sneakers, stopping at the edge of the puddle. “Hey buddy, you alright?” the paramedic asked, leaning forward.
Leo gave a single, tight nod, keeping his head bowed.
The paramedic didn’t step away. Instead, his posture went completely rigid. The plastic water bottle in his grip crinkled loudly.
“Hold on,” the paramedic breathed.
The heavy boots shifted. The paramedic crouched directly into the puddle of sticky matcha, ignoring the green liquid soaking his pants. He leaned in, his eyes locked onto Leo’s wrist. He was staring dead at the metal tag on the black paracord, and the faded prison fire camp tattoo barely hidden by Leo’s trembling sleeve.
“Vance?” the paramedic whispered.
Leo’s chest tightened. He knew that voice. It sounded different without the roar of a crown fire drowning it out, without the choking black smoke, but the cadence was exactly the same.
Leo finally lifted his head. The paramedic had a thick mustache and wide, stunned brown eyes. It was Miller. The medic from Strike Team Charlie.
“I knew it,” Miller said, his voice rising in volume, echoing off the shelves. He ignored the glaring ring light. “Leo Vance. Camp 14.”
“Excuse me?” the woman interrupted, pushing the camera between them. “Do you know this convict?”
Miller stood up slowly. He turned his back on her, focusing entirely on Leo. “What are you doing with a mop, Vance?”
Leo shifted on his knees, unable to formulate a single word.
“He’s a dangerous criminal!” the woman yelled, tapping her phone screen. “Tell my chat! You just said he’s from a prison camp! He’s a thug!”
Miller snapped his head toward the woman. The paramedic’s face flushed dark red with sudden, furious indignation. He pointed a thick finger directly at her glowing phone lens.
“A thug?” Miller’s voice boomed, rattling the rows of organic vitamins. “Lady, this man is an elite wildland firefighter. Three years ago, when the wind shifted on the ridge, my strike team’s engine was trapped in a canyon. The fire overran us. We were dead.”
The woman blinked, her mouth falling slightly open. She looked from Miller’s furious face down to Leo, who was still kneeling quietly on the wet tile.
“This man,” Miller shouted, jabbing his finger toward Leo’s melted, pale knuckles, “and his inmate crew cut a line through a solid wall of brush to reach us. He pulled my captain out of a burning cab with his bare hands. That’s where he got those scars you’ve been shoving your camera at. He took third-degree burns to save my life, and you’re screaming at him over a spilled drink?”
The silence that followed was absolute. The mechanical hum of the store’s air conditioning sounded deafening.
The woman stood frozen, her sneakers squeaking slightly as her weight shifted. She stared at the screen of her phone, where the red recording indicator was still pulsing. Her chat was scrolling so fast it was a blur of text. Her jaw worked, opening and closing, but the shrill outrage had completely evaporated from her throat. She looked down at Leo, then up at the glaring paramedic, clutching her phone as if it had suddenly turned into a live grenade.