The Rebel King. Melissa James
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his trained ears heard a tiny cough.
He shut down and ripped off the mask. Talking through it scared kids, and the suit was scary enough. ‘Hey, sweetie, my name’s Charlie. I’m a fireman.’ He choked on the smoke that filled his lungs and throat in seconds, and breathed in clean oxygen before turning off the mask. He couldn’t risk feeding any starters in the room. ‘Want to see your mummy?’
Another cough, weak and unformed, came from under the bed. Diving under the quilt, he saw a tiny ball of curled-up humanity. She was dark-haired and sweet-faced, about three. ‘It’s okay, sweetie, I’ve got you.’ He croaked into the two-way, ‘Ladder to the back room, far left! I’ve got a kid!’
‘Forty-five seconds!’ Leopard yelled.
Replacing his mask to breathe, he did a quick check on her. The child was alarmingly limp. He wrapped a rope around her fast, ready for the transfer when the guys got to the window, but she’d stop breathing any moment. He lifted her into his arms with excruciating slowness.
It was the cardinal rule: never take off your mask to give to a victim, because you can’t save someone if you’re dead or unconscious. Doing this would risk not only his life but the lives of his team who’d have to come in to save him, as well as the child if he passed out. But she was little more than a baby. He’d had his life—hers had barely begun.
Hoping there were no sparks in the room to feed on the oxygen, he ripped the mask off, turned the setting to ‘air’—too much oxygen right now could do her more harm than good if she had smoke inhalation— and put it over her face. Then, holding his breath, he turned to get out of the door—but the paint was blistering down the edges, and peeling off the entire centre of it.
Smoke was curling off the door handle, and seeping through. An explosion came right beneath him. The house was going. The floor sagged under his left foot.
‘I need a ladder to the extreme right of top floor! I’ve got an unconscious child. He isn’t breathing!’ Charlie heard Toby yell again, his voice harsh too. Obviously he didn’t have his air mask on either. Time was running out fast.
The floor started buckling beneath Charlie’s feet.
Slowly, inch by inch, he spread his feet further apart, feeling it give way each time he moved. His feet began to burn through his boots. ‘We’re gonna make it out, sweetie.’ Hearing a voice, even his own, gave him comfort when everything was going down. ‘Our guys are the best.’ He coughed. Crouch low for air, idiot! But he couldn’t shift down; it would cave the whole place in.
He was about to choke. He couldn’t risk the floor going with the motion. He must breathe now, or risk both their lives when he fell. He watched the baby breathe in, took the mask, breathed in and shoved it back on her face before she inhaled again.
No talking now. His world consisted of watching her breaths: in, take the mask and breathe, back to her, and count the seconds. Glass smashed in the room next door. The fire was in the back walls, and the window had burst. The monster was about to hit.
A whoosh of clean air filled the room. The door burst into glowing sparks as the fire leaped in to meet the oxygen. A voice screamed, ‘Give her to me!’
Thank you, God! Charlie leaped for the bed where the window was. ‘Take her!’
The bed sagged sideways as the floor collapsed under his weight. He passed the child over as the heat at his back seared him. The hairs on his neck withered and his skin was melting—he could actually smell his flesh cooking.
‘Jump, mate!’
He could barely move; the heat, pain and lack of air had left him in a stupor. One hand gripped the window sash; the other made it. Good. I can do this. One knee up…
The bed lurched back into the maw where the floor had been moments before. His body jerked back, but his desperate fingers held on. ‘Help,’ he whispered as his hands lost strength and smoke filled his lungs, his nose and throat, his eyes…
Hands came out of the cloudy darkness, lifting him through the window into a safety harness to lower him to the ground. ‘We’ve got you.’ It was Leopard. ‘You saved her, Charlie. The little girl’s going to make it, and so are you.’
Charlie coughed and coughed; the fresh air hurt, because the hairs lining his airways were gone or damaged. ‘Toby?’
‘He’s okay, he saved the boy. We’ve done all we can. Let’s go!’
He knew by what the captain hadn’t said that someone was dead.
Oh, dear God…those poor kids had lost their mother.
As he was winched to safety, he felt the flashes and glare of media cameras turned on him. He heard the words ‘hero’ and ‘saving the lives of a family’, but he couldn’t answer questions or accept praise for doing his duty. He fell to his knees, coughed until he choked, then threw up: the body’s instinctive way of clearing foreign objects.
The paramedics had him on a stretcher within two minutes, and he was on his way to hospital. He slipped into unconsciousness, knowing the ‘what ifs would haunt him until he died. Maybe he’d done all he could, but a woman had died today; two kids had lost their mummy before they’d been able to have memories of her—and, in his book, that meant that all he’d done hadn’t been enough.
CHAPTER ONE
Sydney, three months later
‘I’M THE grand what of where?’ Charlie grinned at the grave solicitor in the panelled oak office in the heart of Sydney. ‘Yeah, right, pull the other one, Jack. Now, why are we really here?’
His sister’s hand crept into his and held tight. ‘I think he’s serious, Charlie.’
At the fear smothered beneath the shock in Lia’s voice, Charlie’s protective instincts roared up. Lia was pale; he could feel the tremors running through her.
He couldn’t blame her. If this was on the level, this news could destroy his sister. After all these years of progress, she could slide back to anorexic behaviour to cope with the stress of what this stranger was telling them.
No way would he risk that. ‘Come on, Mr Damianakis. Tell us why we’re here. You’re scaring my sister.’
The lawyer smiled at Lia in apology, but his words didn’t give Charlie any relief. ‘I’m aware this must be a massive shock for you both. It was a surprise to us, too. The consulate contacted us after the story of your rescue of the children in the house fire.’ Now the apologetic look was aimed at Charlie. ‘They’d sent photos of your grandparents to every consulate around the world. You really are the image of your grandfather. The photo of you getting the medal for bravery led to an investigation which showed your grandfather’s entry papers into Australia weren’t on the level. The Greek records showed that the real Kyriacou Charles Konstantinos, who shared your grandfather’s birth date, died in Cyprus in the second year of the Second World War, eight months before your grandfather arrived in Sydney in 1941 using the same certificate.’
‘That doesn’t prove anything but that Papou was an illegal alien,’ Charlie argued. It was something he’d always suspected. Papou had always worked for himself, and worked for cash whenever he could.
Charlie frowned, realizing for the first time that Papou had built and paid for the house and everything in it with cash—a man who’d claimed to be the son of a humble bricklayer, and who had only ever worked as a carpenter. Where had the money come from?
‘No, in itself it proves nothing—but it was a start.’ Mr Damianakis shifted again in his seat, reacting to Charlie and Lia’s obvious discomfort with the situation. ‘Your father’s name is the Marandis family name—Athanasius, like your great-grandfather, the twelfth Grand Duke. Your grandfather’s medical records showed some family anomalies, such as the crooked little finger on the right hand, and the AB-negative blood type, which is usual in the male Hellenican