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I didn’t.
I’m better.
That’s what I tell myself. My father enjoyed putting the fear of God in people. He told me once I’d die if I didn’t force respect, but it’s not something you can force. It’s earned. And I vowed to live by my own rules. I may not have a whole lot of morals when it comes to violence, but I do have my limits. I have my conscience, which ensures I don’t live with guilt.
“Address,” I say as I tug on the wire, which drops the blade once more, and his middle finger plops onto the concrete. A wet spatter of crimson. Blood no longer scares me. Having it on my hands, being drenched in it, I bask in the evidence of what I’ve done. “If you don’t give it to me, I’ll gladly cut you to pieces, and then, while you’re still alive and breathing, I’ll take acid to yer flesh,” I tell him without a hint of humour. What I enjoy is making bad men pay. I may not be a feckin’ angel, but by God, I’m a man with integrity.
“M-M-M-McCarthy S-S-Street,” he chokes out, pain creasing his features. “The house is big enough you wouldn’t miss it.” His words are more confident now. He looks up at me as if I’m a saviour. I’m not. I’m the fuckin’ reaper. “Please, Cathal,” Moore begs. He’s worked for Bragan for a number of years. One of our informants brought his name to us. He was easy enough to find. Perhaps he was confident his connection to the Irish mob would keep him safe. It won’t.
I pull on all the remaining strings, and the rest of his fingers fall free from his hand. The blood-curdling scream echoes in the empty warehouse as I step back and survey my work. He’s lost all his fingers on his left hand. His right hand is broken.
He looks over at me, and I note that the pain is takin’ it’s toll on him. But I can’t allow him to live. It’s not part of the plan. None of Bragan’s men will live. The whole feckin’ mob will go down, and it’ll be by my hand.
“When you get to hell,” I tell him then, “make sure you keep space for Bragan, because he’ll be joinin’ you soon.”
I pull out my Glock and aim it at his head. The shock that’s painted on his face tells me he wasn’t expectin’ me to kill him. But he can’t live. I pull the trigger to put the bastard out of his misery.
The sound of the gunshot echoes through the air. Lowering the weapon, I turn to find Sully enter. He’s been the Cleaner for a few years, and he’s good at what he does. I wouldn’t want anyone else doin’ this for me. He drops his cigarette on the ground, before glancin’ around. It’s a mess.
“Monster,” he says with a smile as he grabs the gloves from his rucksack. Ready to work, he has a bag of tricks which will cleanse this place of the violence.
“Clean this mess up,” I tell him as he dons his gloves. The thick black plastic will ensure he doesn’t get his hands dirty. The man is a feckin’ professional when it comes to messes.
I step out of the warehouse into the weak autumn sunshine. It’s only goin’ ta get colder from here on out. Rebel saunters up to me. My VP has been with me for as long as I can remember. We grew up as youngens in the streets of Belfast. When bombs were easily bought and sold, where violence was as normal as the feckin’ sun rising. Most didn’t witness what we did. They went about their daily lives, but we knew what it was like to have death on our doorstep.
“The fecker give the address up?” he asks me when he stops in front of me. He offers me a smoke, which I accept with a nod.
“Aye.” I pull in a lungful of air once I’ve lit the cigarette, and I blow out a cloud before saying, “I think we’re goin’ ta need to pay Bragan a visit today.”
“I’ve asked Racer to get on the weapons run,” he tells me.
The club runs some guns for the Italian mafia in London. They contacted us a couple of years ago to help keep tabs on shipments that come into Ireland. I wouldn’t want to start shite with an outfit like theirs, so I agreed. The money is good, and we need the income.
“I think we need to tell them to slow down the stock comin’ in,” I tell Rebel. “That’s two feckin’ shipments in a month. If we’ve got eyes on us from the Irish mob, I don’t want them to see connections with the Italians.”
“Bragan will be dead soon.”
“Aye, but he’s still got men in Dublin, and Belfast. We may not have all their names yet, but those feckers will be watching. I can’t guarantee we’ll be safe.” The one thing I always make sure of is that my men aren’t in harm’s way, at least for the most part. Our lives are a constant stream of danger, but if we can stop it, then we do.
“Understood,” Rebel says. He kills his smoke and looks up at me. “It’s coming on to the anniversary.”
I didn’t want to think about it today. My focus was on finding the man who has been the bane of my existence for most of my adult life. The one who took my family from me.
“Which is why I need to find the fecker,” I tell my VP.
He knows that the anniversary of my mother’s death is tough for me. It’s coming up next week, and I have to go through the feckin’ heartache again. If I can tell her I’ve avenged her death, it would be a weight off my shoulders. I don’t want her lookin’ down on me, watchin’ me kill when it’s not for the benefit of innocents. She needs to know her son was brought up right, that I remember the values she taught me.
Even though I chose my da’s way of life, it’s Ma who made me the man I am today.
“We will,” Rebel assures me.
Now that we have an address, it’s goin’ ta make life a lot easier. I know the house Moore was talkin’ about. It’s one I’ve looked at so many times before, unknowingly. An estate that was housing a killer. Most of the mob homes have deeds with names that don’t belong to the members. It’s their way of keeping the bastards safe. I’ve hated the mob for as long as I can remember. I’ve heard the stories about them, how they’ll hurt innocent women and children. The wee ones payin’ for the sins of their fathers without knowing what’s happenin’.
“We need to get to that house,” I tell Rebel.
Confusion is clear on his face as he looks at me before Rebel warns, “We need a plan before we go in guns blazin’.”
“If we waste time, he’ll have the opportunity to get away.”
