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Unless…
Fuck. Fuck!
“Colm, you and I will pick up the chase,” I ordered. “They’ve ambushed us before. We can’t be certain they haven’t planted anything in the warehouse, and right now, Finn is in there.” Because we didn’t have people here all the time.
Colm was in, and he turned to Eric. “Text Connor, black alert.” He spoke of Finn’s driver, and I assumed he was inside. “He knows to get Finn to a safe place instantly. Ye should go with them, mate.” He addressed me next. “Let’s see if we can box ’em in.”
I nodded.
Adrenaline started pumping through my veins as I headed back to my car, where I hurriedly turned on the engine and called Colm from my dashboard. Noticing that Eric wanted to say something, I rolled down the window. Colm accepted the call at the same time with a short, “Standing by.”
“They started the engine,” Eric said. “Connor received the text. We’re good to go.”
Then there was no use in acting like we didn’t know they were there. I revved the engine, backed out quickly, and spun the car around.
Motherfucking cunts, I wasn’t gonna stop until they talked this time. The last bastards we’d tracked down, we’d disposed of way too fast.
I flashed the Chevy with my headlights and offered a two-finger salute, and that covered it. They peeled their rusty bag of shit away from the curb, and I tore out of the parking lot to follow.
“Let’s see if they have backup somewhere,” I told Colm.
“Aye, good idea,” he replied. “I’ll keep my distance.”
The idiots actually made it onto the expressway and headed north on I-95, as if they could shake me there. Christ on a fuckstick, I was insulted. Their entire presence in my city was a blow to my ego. We should be better than this.
“I can’t believe they slipped in unnoticed again.” Anger festered within me, and I drove up alongside the Chevy just to get a look at them.
The greaseball behind the wheel shouted and gestured to me while the other was on his phone, and I gestured back that I couldn’t hear them. I put on my best smile, too, and unstrapped my nine from around my calf in case I’d need it soon.
“What’re the odds they’ll try to make it over to Jersey?” I asked Colm.
“They’d be feckin’ morons to even try,” he replied. “The only chance they have at losing us is in heavy traffic.”
That was what I was thinking, and it didn’t take long to discover we were right. The Italians took the exit toward downtown Philly.
I wasn’t going to let these two sons’a bitches ruin my night. Only Shan could get away with that.
I switched lanes in order to stay on the Chevy, and I let my brain sink into my work before I could think about Shan some more. I did that enough as it was. But not now. Right now, it was just me, that perfect new-car smell lingering, comfy seat—I was one with my baby—the lights of my city, my streets, yellows and reds and greens flashing in the night, and I was working with one of the best guys in the syndicate.
“Luna tells me you’re CJ’s favorite uncle,” I mentioned.
Colm laughed. “Can’t say it was a tough feat. You won’t even hold him.”
Fuck no. “I’ve done other things,” I defended. “I started a college fund for him the day he was born.” Or the day after, whatever. “I pay his momma’s bills.” My sister hadn’t exactly planned for this life. She’d been in college when the war started, and then she’d ended up pregnant by Colm’s brother, who was now dead. So she had to start all over at some point.
“All I gotta do is hold him and stick me fingers in his face, and he starts gigglin’,” Colm noted. “Sounds to me like ye’re a sucker, Ford.”
I scowled. “I hope Finn sends you back to Dublin.”
He let out a booming laugh at that, the asshole.
But the humor ran out eventually. The Italians made another attempt to get rid of us by taking smaller streets and running red lights. I stayed on them like glue, and I told Colm to be prepared. Either they had friends waiting for us and were leading us straight into an ambush, or they were getting ready to split up.
I got ready too. I moved my gun to the base of my spine, I grabbed a folding knife from the glovebox—you never knew when you needed to slash a tire or a foe, as my gramps used to say—and lastly, I needed a pick-me-up. Just enough to give me razor-sharp focus for a couple hours. I dug out the small baggie and poured a haphazard line of coke on my hand that I snorted.
“Christ.” I sniffed and wiped my nose, and I had to swallow repeatedly.
