“We’re pulling every able-bodied agent to look for survivors. Some ministers are unaccounted for. Your brother’s boss Keegan, included. They need you on-site.”
I don’t ask another question. I don’t need more details. My weapons are already packed up, and I’m out the door, leaving a broken man gasping behind me who nobody cares about any longer.
The scene at Leinster House is all wailing sirens and black smoke from the structural damage curling into the Dublin sky. The sharp stench of burnt wiring and construction dust fills my nose. People are everywhere. Ministers in dusty suits, guards in torn uniforms, and civilians covered in blood and glass are scattered all around. Some are screaming, some rocking in shock, others pacing and talking on their phones. Presumably telling loved ones they’re safe, that they made it out alive.
Who would I call?
My mum, I guess.
That’s sad for a twenty-nine-year-old bloke.
Showing my badge, I shove past barricades, ignoring the shouting Gardaí. Even from several meters, I can see that the corridors are a wreck of cracked walls. Parts of the ceilings are sagging with sections buckled from the electrical fire and water damage from exploded pipes. Thebuilding’s alarms are shrieking, and there’s a lot of smoke.
My ears ring from the annoying screech, as I wait for my orders of where to search.
A man in a burned shirt barrels past me, but he’s held back by the on-site security team.
“Oliver!Ollie!” The bloke’s voice is raw with terror, shouting the name over and over. “My son!”
Blood streaks his forehead. But it’s not until I recognize the powder blue uniform shirt and thick black pants covered in gray ash that it registers. He’s one of the building porters.
I grab him from the traumatized security guard. “I got this bloke.”
The porter’s eyes are wild when they meet mine. “Sir, my boy… I brought him in for the children’s tour, but I can’t find him. I looked everywhere.”
He clutches my shirt collar as his words break apart, strangled by panic.
Christ.Were schoolchildren here today for some bloody civics program? The day terrorists decided to show up and open fire with machine guns and the desire to kill a lot of people.
I pry his hands off my collar. Not cruel, just firm enough to get his attention. “You’ll only get yourself killed charging back in there blind.”
“My boy.” His chest heaves, tears streaking through the soot that cakes his pale skin. “He’s only seven… And he’s got special needs. He’s non-verbal. He won’t cry out for help.”
Aw, bloody hell.
The look on his face guts me, and I can’t ignore it.
I imagine myself in his place, knowing a loved one is in extreme danger. I would run into a burning building, flood waters, or even a car teetering off a bridge to save someone I loved. I’ve faced this kind of danger before.Iknow how to survive it.
It’s a thought that doesn’t cross my brain very often. Love isn’t part of my world. In my line of work, there is no place for emotions that make you soft, weak, or an easy target.
I worry about my Mum enough. She and Dad sent Trace and me into the military. We both made it out, and now, the place we work has been leveled to a smoldering heap of ash while I was off-site beating the piss out of a dealer and Trace was gambling in Las Vegas.
Lucky for us.
Pay it forward. Help the dad.
“Stay here,” I snap, already moving. “I’ll find him.”
I shove past the second line of barriers. They’re telling everyone to wait for Fire and Rescue. Bollocks to that. I know every inch of this place. Worked as a guard one summer. I memorized the halls and exits the way other men commit sports team stats to memory.
I hop over the barricade, and I’m past a splintered door frame that is hanging loose before someone can try to stop me.
Christ, this wasn’t one blast and done. This was sustained and repeated gunfire by madmen who must have set fires here and there as well. The sprinklers dumped thousands of gallons of water into old ceilings that look ready to collapse.
Leinster House hasn’t been leveled. It’s been bloody gutted from the inside out.
Smoke burns my throat as I turn down the east corridor. Covering my mouth with my sleeve, I cringe, walking past portraits of former Prime Ministers, their glass frames shot out and sparkling shards on the floor.
