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I back away as a thousand different terrible thoughts flash through my mind.
What if it’s Cillian with a dozen men, come to follow through with his promise?
Could I really let Cillian ruin me, over and over again, without betraying Fynn?
But the man in the doorway isn’t Cillian, and it isn’t a soldier, and it isn’t Fynn come to save me.
Chapter 26
Fynn
The sun’s sinking in the sky as I check my gun, pull back the slide to chamber a round, and lean back in the passenger side seat. Gavino does the same behind the wheel, and Nico’s quiet in the rear. It’s around four, a dead zone for bars and pubs and restaurants, but this place has a decent number of clients, all of them young men, coming and going.
“How sure are you this is the place?” I ask Gavino.
“We’ve been watching it for weeks. Big names come through here, some guys far up in Cillian’s organization. Roddy O’Toole, Seamus Sherry, Shaun Sturrock. Lots of other guys, low-level soldiers, that sort of thing.”
“But no Cillian?”
“No Cillian, but that doesn’t mean anything. Cillian never shows up anywhere.”
I grunt and grip my gun tighter. I want Cillian to be in that bar, right now, sitting with a group of his soldiers. I want to kill them all, murder them in cold blood, and force Cillian to tell me where Mirella’s at with his last, dying breath. It’s a fantasy, a stupid fantasy, but I hold to it.
I can’t lose her. I can’t lose her.
If I lose her, I’ll lose myself.
“They’ll know how to contact him,” Nico rumbles from the back. “If anyone does, it’ll be these wise guys.”
I suck in some air and slowly let it out. “Let’s move in then.”
Gavino glances back at Nico. “Shouldn’t we wait? You know, for a better time?”
“We saw at least three groups of young Irish-looking pricks head in there over the last half hour. If now’s a bad time, I don’t know when would be better.”
Nico shoves his door open. “Fynn’s right. Let’s move.” The big man gets out and the car shakes like a giant’s rocking on its rear.
I push my door open, but Gavino grabs my arm. “Brother.”
“If you’re about to tell me to stay behind, you’d better shut your fucking mouth. I’m holding a loaded weapon.”
Gavino grins at me, releases my arm, and gestures. “By all means then.”
I give him a look and follow after Nico. Gavino comes up behind, keeping an eye on our rear as Nico takes point and I struggle to keep up.
The bar’s called Red Bluff. It’s a hole in the wall in the literal sense—the door’s barely hanging on by the hinges and there are no visible windows. The building’s square, squat, covered in graying and dirty stucco, with a flat roof and a big yellow sign that looks like it used to light up, but definitely doesn’t anymore. There are cars in the parking lot, but only a few.
Nico shoves in first and I come after. Inside, it’s cool, the AC pumping from exposed ductwork near the ceiling. There are tables scattered around the center of the room, with booths on the left, some occupied, and a long bar on the right. Beyond that, a hall leads to bathrooms.
Nobody pays us any mind at first. A young couple’s sitting at a table, eating chips and drinking, looking at their phones. I doubt they’re a part of the O’Shea clan. Several guys are at the bar, some of them older, a couple with copper-red hair. Those are potential targets. But the real problem is the booth full of young men in jeans and black shirts and drenched in tattoos, looking at each other angrily as they throw back beer and grunt in low tones. A soccer match plays on an old TV hanging in the corner.
The bartender’s a middle-aged man. Pale skin, sallow around his dark, small eyes. His head’s square, his hair snow-white. He’s not tall, maybe five-foot-eight at most, a stocky bastard. He frowns as I approach the bar and lay the gun down, barrel facing his chest. I smile my best smile. He looks at the gun and looks at me, not moving. “This a robbery?” he asks.
“Of a sort.”
Nico moves to cover the booth. The girl at the table screams. Gavino kicks her chair. “Get the fuck outta here,” he says, and she doesn’t need to be told twice. She leaps up and runs for the door. Her date, or boyfriend, or friend, staggers after her. Gavino’s gun trains on the hard-looking men sitting at the bar, none of them moving.
The room goes dead quiet. I think all the civilians are gone, but I don’t know for sure. I keep my eyes on the barman. He keeps glancing at something nearby, hidden behind the glasses beneath the taps. I’m guessing a weapon. Shotgun maybe.
