Rory: Hope City, Book 7

by Maryann Jordan

  Rory

  A Hope City Novel

  MaryAnn Jordan

  Contents

  Untitled

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Also by MaryAnn Jordan

  Rory

  A Hope City Novel

  By

  Maryann Jordan

  Rory (Hope City) Copyright 2021

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the author, except where permitted by law.

  If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, then you are reading an illegal pirated copy. If you would be concerned about working for no pay, then please respect the author’s work! Make sure that you are only reading a copy that has been officially released by the author.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Cover design by: Cosmic Letterz

  ISBN ebook: 978-1-947 214-72-9

  ISBN: print: 978-1-947214-73-6

  Created with Vellum

  1

  “Fuckin’ traffic! Get out of the way.”

  The wail of sirens screamed continuously, and Rory McBride shook his head as the driver cursed and honked at the line of cars in their way, obstructing their progress. As a volunteer with the Hope City Fire Department Second Battalion, Baker Street Station, he sat in the back seat of a twenty-five-ton ladder fire truck with two other fire engines ahead and two ambulances traveling behind. He couldn’t imagine how anyone wouldn’t want to get the hell out of the way of the progression of sirens and flashing lights.

  Leaning forward, he caught a glimpse of the impeding traffic, most now moving to the side. Finally, the cacophony of combined lights and sounds must have convinced the last obstinate driver to pull over, allowing the fire truck to surge through the intersection, making a sharp right-hand turn onto Bridgewater Street. Like many streets in Hope City, it was lined with row houses.

  The truck finally came to a halt just down from where smoke was billowing from one house on the end. His radio filled with orders.

  “Command post to the south.”

  “Hand jack engine fourteen.”

  “Pull in to two-ten.”

  “Occupant report?”

  “On it.”

  “Command post on opposite side of road, to the south.”

  “Get on the hand jack.”

  “Got it.”

  Moving quickly, Rory climbed down from the truck, his helmet already fastened over his Nomex hood. In full PPE turnout gear along with the extra tools, the seventy pounds he was carrying would soon have him sweating once he hauled everything and made it to the fire.

  Captain Purnell ordered the first fire engine to stop closest to the hydrant. The second engine would lay a supply line toward the attack pumper. Used to the strategy, the firefighters immediately raced to their positions. Rory hated the fires in the rowhouses, knowing how quickly they spread from one to the other, threatening all the families within. When they were built over a hundred years ago, there were no regulations requiring firewalls between the residential units.

  He grabbed the supply line and wrapped it around the hydrant as the ladder truck moved closer into position to get to anyone that was on the second or third floors. Flames were bursting from the second floor of the end unit, quickly spread by the winds sweeping down the street.

  “Hook it up!” The captain radioed his order. Rory and another firefighter secured the continuous water supply to the hydrant.

  His firefighting mentor, Terry, jogged over. “There’s an entrance on the side of the first house. Unit Three is going in. Line stretch.”

  Flames sent their tentacles upward as several windows were broken, allowing more boiling black smoke to roll out. He left the hydrant firefighter at the hose bed of the engine and ran to roll out and stretch the line with several others as the captain called for the mounted master stream.

  “Assume and knock down fire until we get the deck gun in position.”

  With the water now blasting through the fire hose at over fifty miles per hour, it took two of them to hold it steady.

  “Wet it down then start hitting that.”

  “Who’s on utility security?”

  “Got it. Gas is secure. Working on electricity now. Will confirm.”

  “Copy that.”

  The captain’s voice cut through the others on the radio. “Who’s on the occupancy report?”

  The last question coming across the radio sent chills down Rory’s back. Their jobs would be easier if they knew all the occupants were out of the residences.

  “Exposure has been wet down.”

  “On direct attack of second structure. PAR with three personnel.”

  “Possible small child inside. First unit. Second floor. Back room.”

  Shit. Words that no firefighter ever wanted to hear was that someone, especially a child, was trapped inside a burning building. Looking back at Terry, he asked, “Where do you need me?”

  “Unit Three will look for the child. Get to those people standing over there. Check to see if anyone else is unaccounted for.”

  With a nod to the others holding the line, he jogged to the first group of people standing on the sidewalk and yelled, “Who lives in these houses?”

  An elderly woman pointed to another huddle of people. “They do.”

  “Then move back, please, all of you. We need to have room to work and don’t want anyone else to get harmed.” Twisting his head around, he motioned for one of the police officers nearby. With his arms spread wide, Rory walked forward, herding the bystanders until the officers jogged close and took over moving them toward the other side of the street. Turning, he hustled to the group she had indicated. A young woman was sobbing, clutching two children to her while several men restrained another man. “Are you the residents?”

  “My baby! My baby!” the woman screamed, pointing toward the townhouse actively burning.

  She was inconsolable, so he 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 vibe that everyone was welcome and strangers would soon find new friends. Run by Torin and Maeve Flanigan, the siblings had inherited the pub from their grandfather, improving it while staying true to its history. Far enough off the beaten tourist path near the Inner Harbor, it was one of the favorite haunts of the local police and firefighters.

  There were plenty of familiar faces considering not only were his two older brothers detectives for the Hope City Police Department but most of his friends worked for the force or fire and rescue. He remembered hearing his father talk about stopping off at the Celtic Cock after work, and it felt good to continue the tradition.

  “Rory!”

  Hearing his name, he turned toward the voice and spied a familiar grin. “Blay,” he greeted the firefighter and one of his best friends. He still had trouble remembering to call him Blay. His name was Blayze, but since he’d become a firefighter, he went by Blay, figuring the last thing he needed was to have to deal with constant jokes about his name.

  Blay was standing with Bill Norton, another firefighter in their battalion. Walking over, they shook hands, making small talk as he grabbed a beer, offering a chin lift to Maeve.

  “Heard you were at the fire on Bridgewater,” Bill said.

  Nodding, Rory replied, “Fuckin’ disaster. Took out two townhomes and damaged the third.”

  “Families get out?” Blay asked, his brow lowered.

  Rory nodded before taking a long swig of beer. “Yeah. One of the moms couldn’t find her youngest. Two-year-old. Unit Three was in, and Mackowski came out holding him. Don’t mind telling you that’s the worst feeling, knowing a kid was inside.”

  “Fire, families, confusion—worst combination,” Bill commented, taking a large swig from his beer before sweeping his gaze over the room.

  The bar was crowded with first responders, many from his battalion. Having only been back in town for a month since leaving the Army, there were still many he hadn’t met. But the camaraderie was much like what he’d felt in the military. His shift had ended in the early evening, and the bar was beginning to fill with others coming in as their day’s work was completed.

  Bill lifted his hand and waved toward the other end of the bar. Turning, Rory glanced toward the door, seeing two women enter, one waving back toward Bill. Both women were attractive, but only one snagged his complete attention. Her hair was pale blonde and thick as it waved over her shoulders. She was petite, on the verge of being tiny, and as the two women pushed their way through the crowd toward them, he lost sight of her.

  Craning around, he finally caught sight of her blonde hair as she popped between two people, leading her friend to the bar. Up close, he realized just how petite she was. He and his siblings gained their height from their dad. The boys were all over six feet tall, and his three sisters were tall as well. Their mom was known as the short one in the family even though she was five and a half feet tall. But looking at this woman, even in her he
els, she’d be much shorter than his mom.

  The blonde moved directly to the bar, and he could see her hair was even longer and thicker than he imagined, pulled back away from her face and held with a clip with waves cascading far down her back. Big blue eyes, heart-shaped face, and pink-slicked lips. A fitted blue, silky blouse set off her eyes as well as showcased her breasts. It tucked into a tight black skirt that clutched her narrow waist, perfect ass, and thighs. It came to just above her knees, and while he had little knowledge of women’s clothing, he had no doubt hers was expensive. Small diamond stud earrings graced her ears, and the only other jewelry she wore was a thin gold-and-diamond bracelet around her small wrist.

  He and Blay immediately slid from their stools, offering them to the women. She placed one hand on the top of the bar and a heeled shoe on the rung of the bar stool. He threw out his hand to assist. She was still looking down as she reached out, placed her hand in his, and he gave her a little boost into the seat. She crossed her shapely legs at her ankles then looked toward Torin and ordered a Lemon Drop Martini. As soon as her friend ordered a non-alcoholic drink, the blonde turned toward him. She wore makeup, but instead of looking like warpaint or attention-grabbing, it seemed to make her eyes pop and give her whole face a glow.

  Her gaze held his and her eyes widened as a smile spread across her face. Not a little, polite smile, but a wide grin that beamed toward him. If ever there was a cheerleader smile, he was faced with it right now. And yet it was slightly crooked. And he loved that… a tiny imperfection in an absolutely perfect face made her all the more interesting.