Rory: Hope City, Book 7 by Maryann Jordan (golden son ebook TXT) 📗

turned to the group of men, assuming the one being held back was the father. “Is there anyone else inside? Is there anyone else missing?”

The father’s eyes were wild, but he managed to nod his head.

“How old is the child?”

One of the men holding onto the father said, “About two. His son is two.”

“In the first house? Second floor? Back room?” he asked, pointing for clarification.

“Yes.”

“Anyone else missing?”

“No, no,” the father cried. “He was alone upstairs taking a nap.”

Rory radioed. “Child is male. Two years old. First unit, second floor. Back room. All other occupants are accounted for.”

Rory heard through his radio headset that Unit Three had made it to the second floor. The flames had now reached the second townhome and windows were being broken as the firefighters battled that side as well.

He continued to listen, hoping one of them would call out that they’d found the child, knowing every second counted for the toddler as well as the firefighters.

A shout rose above the pandemonium, and Rory looked up as one of his station’s firefighters ran from the side door, a bundle in his arms. His breath halted in his throat as he wondered about the status of the child.

The firefighter raced toward the ambulance, radioing, “Child found. Breathing.”

Not knowing if the child was burned, Rory quickly turned to the group of people. Shouting to the men, he said, “Stay with the mother and these two children. Keep them back away from everything.” Grabbing the father, he said, “Come with me!”

More shouts were heard over the radio as the roof fell in on the first house. Rory sucked in a quick breath as the nearness of the rescue hit him. Looking to the side, the father’s eyes bugged out as his feet stumbled once more. Recognizing the father was in shock, he hustled him toward the back of an ambulance. The father’s legs collapsed as he spied his son sitting in the lap of one of the paramedics, an oxygen mask on his face.

“He’s alive, he’s alive,” Rory said, grabbing the man’s arm and guiding him into the back of the ambulance. He battled the urge to provide medical assistance to the father. As an Army combat medic, he had rushed to many scenes, quickly evaluating what needed to be done and efficiently taking care of those needs. Now, he had to step back. His paperwork for EMT certification had not been approved yet, but the yearning was still strong.

Now, seeing that the child was safe, he turned and ran back to the still sobbing mother. Assuring her that her son was alive, he escorted her and the other two children over to the ambulance in a circuitous route to avoid the firefighters working to contain the fire.

Once the family was reunited, he hustled back to the engine, now assisting with the hydraulic pump. Another hour passed as the fire was extinguished, but not before most of the first home was destroyed as well as a large part of the second townhouse. Water damage affected the third, but at least it hadn’t caught fire.

“Engine fourteen, all clear?”

“All clear.”

“Engine twenty-one, all clear?”

“All clear.”

Rory joined the other firefighters as they tramped through the remains looking for hotspots, while the EMTs and paramedics treated a few of the firefighters for minor injuries. Water bottles were passed around, keeping the crews hydrated. The captain made his way through, taking notes, but the cause of the fire had been easy to determine. A pan on the stove had been unattended and caught on fire.

Terry walked over. “They can use you with the equipment.” Rory jogged outside and walked over to drain and roll the hoses before securing all the equipment back onto the trucks. Once the equipment and tools were stowed and the police taped off the area declaring it unsafe, the firefighters climbed back into the multitude of trucks.

The return drive was slower and quieter than their arrival at the scene. Once they’d backed into their bay at the station, all the equipment was taken out, cleaned, and inspected. Rory’s hair was slicked with sweat and as he shucked his heavy uniform, the weight dropped from his shoulders. Cleaning his personal equipment before hanging it on the rack, he pulled off his thick boots. With his helmet perched on the shelf above and his boots on the bottom, he was ready for the next call out. Glancing at the clock, he smiled. My shift is almost over.

“Heading to the Cock as soon as the next shift comes on. You coming?” Terry asked.

“Right now, nothing sounds better than a cold beer.”

2

Rory cast his gaze upward at the sign hanging over the doorway. A rooster, carved in wood, nestled inside a Celtic circle, proclaimed The Celtic Cock Pub. As heavy as the sign was, he was surprised to see it swinging slightly as a wind blew down the street. “Looks like a storm might be coming,” he commented as he followed his friends inside.

“Then all the better to be off that fuckin’ shift and into a warm pub,” Terry said. He turned toward Rory and grinned smugly. “Bet you hated the twenty-four shift.”

“Considering I just got out of the Army where every day was a twenty-four-hour shift, seven days a week, can’t say it was the worst thing I ever did.”

Terry offered a chin lift in response, but Rory detected a slight smirk. Terry was a good guy from all accounts, and as a firefighter trainer, he was excellent. But Rory got the feeling that Terry liked one-upping everyone. Being the newest kid on the block, he kept his mouth shut, fought the desire to roll his eyes, and made his way inside the warm interior.

The Celtic Cock wasn’t fancy, but what it did, it did well. Large space on the inside. Plenty of room for friends to gather, standing around or sitting at high-topped tables. Exposed brick on one side, heavy paneling on the back, and a huge, mirrored bar gave off the