Chapter 22 #2
“What about students?” Dervla asks. “I fired all the staff, so none of them should be lurking, but the students?”
“They were issued a closure notice after Padraig Nestor was shot. It was reinforced after Whitmore. Many of them will have returned home over the weekend at the very least.”
“And if they haven’t?” she presses.
“Then they will find out fucking quickly that they should’ve,” I say.
She gives me a filthy look.
“This is St. Aug’s, sweetheart. No one here is a shrieking wallflower. They will act accordingly.”
“Right,” she grits out. “Who’s on barricading duty?”
“Me. I’ll do the foyer,” I say, standing up.
Aidan stands as well. “I’ll go with you.”
“Good,” Gallagher says. “Declan, service corridor with Darragh. Winston can move between both positions.”
Dervla’s expression goes flat. “And me?”
I know that tone. It means she already hates the answer before it comes.
“The office,” Gallagher says.
Her chair scrapes back hard. “Absolutely not. I am not a sit-on-my-arse General.”
“That’s my girl,” I say with a smile. “You can help fortify the reception desk with Gallagher.”
She shoots me a grateful smile that lasts about half a second before she nods and gets into fight mode. “Let’s do this.”
We move fast.
Nobody wants to be standing still when the first shot comes.
I dump my plate, grab a keycard from Roisin, as she hands them to each of us, and head back out with Aidan, Gallagher and Dervla while Declan splits off with Darragh.
The building feels different now that we have named it for what it is.
Not Admin. Not offices. Not some stale institutional maze full of forms and smug little men in ties.
A stronghold.
Or a coffin if we get this wrong.
We get to the foyer, and I take a moment to look around.
The walls are solid, just the glass doors, made to look nice rather than defend.
There are two broad seating areas with low tables and chairs too light to mean much unless we stack them. Decorative planters that might finally earn their keep. A pair of filing cabinets. Noticeboards. A metal brochure stand. All of it is civilian. None of it was built for bullets, but needs must.
“It’s workable.”
Gallagher heads straight for the reception desk with Dervla at his side. “Desk first. If they get through the doors, this becomes the fallback.”
I point at the seating area. “I’ll take the furniture. Aidan, cabinets.”
He is already moving.
That’s why this works with him. No wasted debate. No bruised ego because I gave an order. He just grabs the first filing cabinet and starts dragging it over the polished floor with a violent metallic scrape that sets my teeth on edge.
I go for the heavier tables first. Lift. Carry. Drop. The first one lands in front of the doors, creating a second obstruction once the glass breaks. I flip it onto its side and wedge two chairs through the frame to make it harder to shift fast.
Casting a glance at Dervla, she is busy with Gallagher at the reception desk, flipping it over. The thing crashes onto its side with a bang that echoes up the stairwell.
I drag another table over and slam it against the first. Aidan gets the second filing cabinet into place and then strips the brochure stand for parts, bending the metal frame with brute force under his foot until it can wedge under the door handles and against the cabinet corners. Not elegant. Effective enough.
Gallagher is already thinking ahead. “Planters.”
I go for the first one. It is heavier than it looks, with a stone base filled with compacted soil.
Grabbing the stem, I tilt it and drag the heavy plant over to the door.
We jam both of them against the growing barricade and start filling the gaps with chairs, side tables, and anything else that will slow a push.
The foyer changes shape in front of us. Less welcoming. More defensive.
Dervla straightens and shoves her hair out of her face with the back of her hand. “Looks uglier already.”
“Good,” I reply, dragging the last chair into a gap near the left-hand door. “Ugly survives longer.”
Aidan gives a short grunt of agreement and tests the filing cabinet with both hands, shoving it hard.
It barely shifts now that the planter is braced against it.
Gallagher moves behind the upturned reception desk and looks over the top, checking sightlines to the entrance, the stairwell, and the corridor to the offices.
Dervla looks at me, eyes sharper now. The tears from the bathroom are gone from her face, but I know where they are.
I know they’re still sitting under her skin with all the rest of it.
Her dad is alive. Her inheritance. This place.
Us. The incoming wave of Roman bastards. It is a lot to carry in one body.
Gallagher points towards the side corridor. “Storage room there. Maintenance kept old fire blankets and supplies. If there are extinguishers left, bring them. Foam can blind and buy seconds.”
“On it,” I say and head for the storage room at a jog. It’s unlocked.
Inside, the room is narrow and overcrowded. Shelves line both walls. Boxes of printer paper. Cleaning supplies. Spare bulbs. A stack of broken signs. I sweep my eyes over it fast and spot two red fire extinguishers by the front wall.
They’re heavy, awkward, and useful. Exactly my kind of thing.
When I get back to the foyer, Aidan has dragged another cabinet over from somewhere. Gallagher is behind the overturned desk. Dervla stands in the middle of the wrecked reception area, Henrietta in one hand, a look on her face that says she is very close to enjoying this.
I place the extinguishers behind the reinforced desk, and Gallagher hauls them into position.
“And we’re done. Back upstairs,” he says.
We follow. The idea is to shoot them all before they make it this far. If we don’t, then we move downwards. There aren’t enough of us to spread so thin.
“Now we wait,” I mutter, pulling Dervla closer as we head up the stairs.
“Now we wait,” she echoes and puts her arm around me, resting her head on my shoulder.