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Mary… I must get to Mary…
I walk closer, trying to look nonchalant. One of the men is watching out the doorway.
Is the door locked? If there were any way for them to lock it, it most likely would be.
But I can’t tell.
I pull out my phone, call 911.
Thank you for calling 911.
Seriously? Voicemail for 911? Nine fucking one fucking one?
Jesus Christ. I dart my gaze around, looking for a beat cop or anyone else. A constable. Fucking Scotland Yard. I don’t care.
Anyone. Anyone who can help.
No one.
People walk by. Minding their own business. I haven’t been in New York long, but this seems typical.
I walk slowly now, take a look inside the door.
Out of the blue, the man standing guard turns around, and I take my chance. At the door, a small boy comes running across the floor, and then, one of the gunmen notices me.
In slow motion his arm rises, his gun pointed at me.
A shot. The sound rings in my ears, vibrates through my body. A sharp rock—maybe a shard of glass—hits me.
Shrieks. Screams.
And time. Slow motion.
Down. Blood. Searing pain in my shoulder. Then my stomach.
Searing fucking pain.
Is the little boy okay? Mary?
“Ronan!”
Mary’s voice. Except it’s garbled. Coming through water.
Blood. The scent of blood. Iron. Red. Smells fucking red. Smells like veins, guts.
And then…
I love you, Mary…
Everything goes dark.
Chapter Forty-Two
Mary
“Ronan!” I shout. My heart is beating rapidly, and my skin is on fire.
The little boy runs back to his mother.
