“Sir,” he said, his voice quiet but firm. “We don’t do it for the medals. We do it because when the world is on fire, the only thing more reliable than a hotshot… is a double trouble hotshot.”

“The rest of you, deploy your shelters here,” Carlos ordered. “Diego and I are going back.”

“Took you long enough,” Finn croaked, managing a weak grin.

They ran into the inferno. Not side-by-side, but single file, each reading the other’s back. Carlos navigated by logic—the slope, the wind, the fuel moisture. Diego navigated by instinct—the feel of heat through his Nomex, the subtle shift in smoke color. Together, they were a single, unstoppable unit.

Carlos knew he couldn’t argue. The O’Briens had an uncanny sense—a sixth sense—for the fire’s rhythm. They moved as one, breathing the same air, reading the same thermal cues. He gave the order.

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