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The smaller man breaks away and goes into Milaya’s room. A moment later, he emerges with my sleeping child on his shoulder, and a rage like nothing I’ve ever felt before rushes through me.
I slam my fists on the table and roar.
How was all of this happening while I was only feet away downstairs?
Knowing that I’m out of frame, standing on the porch, makes me feel sick. That I was so close, yet completely unaware. I’ve never felt more useless in all my life.
The small man carries Milaya down the hallway and out of shot, and the larger man carries Eve.
Now that he is walking towards the camera, I recognize him immediately. I should have known who he was as soon as I saw his large stature, but that doesn’t matter. I know who he is now.
Sean O’Hearn.
He’s known as “the Lumberjack” around the city. He’s the main enforcer for the Irish mafia before they disbanded. Or, supposedly disbanded, anyway.
And his presence in my house means that Eve really is with the Irish.
Which means I know exactly where I need to go next.
* * *
It takes me an hour to get dressed and guzzle enough coffee to feel confident the drugs are out of my system and I am safe to drive, so by the time I get to the Irish pub it is just after three in the morning.
I haven’t slept in well over twenty-four hours, and exhaustion burns the backs of my eyes, but in every other way that matters, I am wide awake. Adrenaline pumps through me as I approach the bar and pull the door open.
The pub was a favorite hangout of the Irish mafia when they were still in business, and I suspect it is still popular among a lot of them. I can only hope someone will be willing to talk.
Not including the bartender, there are only three people in the small space when I walk inside, and they all turn and stare at me. None of them are Sean O’Hearn. I tip my head and stroll inside, grabbing a seat at the bar.
Two of the men are at the bar chatting loudly with the bartender, laughing about some fight they saw at another bar earlier in the night. The other man is sitting at a table off to my left, drinking alone.
I don’t want to draw much attention to myself, so I avoid looking at him directly, but I feel a tension radiating from him.
The bartender slides closer to me and raises an eyebrow in question. I order a beer and shift on the stool, glancing back over my shoulder.
When my eyes land on the thin man behind me, his grip tightens on his glass, and he sits up taller. He is clearly nervous.
The bartender slides my beer down to me, and I can feel him assessing me, trying to figure out where he may know me from.
I want to be out of here by the time he figures it out.
Whether the Irish mafia is really disbanded or not, there is a lot of animosity towards me, and I’m not in any mood to get in a four-versus-one fight tonight.
I sip the beer, not wanting to dull my senses any more than they already are, and look back at the table again. The man has turned away from me. He is hunched forward and hiding his face behind his glass.
But then, he peeks around the glass to see if I’m still looking at him. When he sees that I am, he darts back into hiding like a scared animal.
Whoever he is, he knows something.
I drop ten dollars on the bar and stand up, but as soon as I make a move towards the man’s table, he runs—a full-out sprint towards the back door of the bar with no regard for being obvious or looking suspicious. The man is running for his life, which means he must have a good reason to be afraid of me.
The bartender yells after the man, “Hey! That back door is staff only!” But the runner doesn’t care and neither do I.
I chase after him, jumping over an overturned chair and pushing aside a table that gets in my way.
The bar is narrow and the hallway in the back is a straight shot to the back door. I see it swing shut and lower my head, pushing as hard as I can to catch up.
The man might not know exactly what happened at my house tonight, but at the very least, he is an Irish mafia member and might be able to help me figure out where my wife and child are.
