I’ve killed the boy.
Shay ground his teeth at the realisation.
The side of his head throbbed from the impact of the explosion and, with his nose split and swollen, he struggled to breathe as he ran.
Orange flames danced against a canvas of black. On the other side of the perimeter wall, he heard the canal waters hiss as crackling debris hailed down.
If the gang was inside the building they were blown to pieces, Jig with them.
A sheet of corrugated roofing slammed down in front of him, searing his shin. He winced, but forced himself on.
So, this is how it fucking ends: risking my life searching through rubble for bits of the boy. After everything I’ve sacrificed.
Somewhere behind, the detective shouted at him to come back. But, ahead, Shay thought he could make out screams. Distant sirens echoed along the warren of Dublin’s streets.
The remainder of the warehouse heaved and groaned. He was out of time.
Fuck it, I’ve nothing to lose.
He stumbled forward, his face bubbling with the heat. His ankle twisted over something loose on the ground, tipping him off balance. Spitting blood from his lips, he looked down and followed the forks of yellow light.
Something small was smouldering.
It looked like a runner.
A child’s runner.