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“Why? Been expecting a visit from them?” I added more pressure. “Wonder why.”
Letting go for a fraction of a second, wanting her to experience hope, I robbed it from her by jerking her arm behind her back, not stopping until it snapped at the shoulder.
As she screamed, I peered around the hall and nodded at the doorman who’d rushed out from behind his desk.
Though he’d known to expect me, he gulped before staggering back a couple steps, his eyes drifting behind me.
Not needing to know who’d be there waiting, I jerked Priestley up by her dislocated arm so she’d pass out from the pain.
Thankfully, the cries of agony swiftly drew to a halt.
As soon as they did, the outer door opened and Brennan’s man, Forrest, strode in.
“Yo, Harry, how ya doing?”
“I-I’m okay, Forrest,” Harry stuttered. “Everything all right?”
“Sure, sure. Just business.”
Harry flicked a look between me and Priestley. “She’s a mom.”
“She’s a traitor. Should have thought of her kid before she betrayed the Points,” I informed him coolly.
“That right, Forrest?”
“That’s right, Harry. You know what to do when the cops come calling?”
“Tell them nothing then phone you,” he rasped anxiously.
“You got that right.” He raised two fingers to his temple in a salute. “Speak later, buddy.” When Harry hovered, Forrest chided, “Go on, Harry. You go back to your desk.”
Hunching his shoulders, Harry disappeared, and Forrest helped me prop up Priestley.
Together, we walked to the waiting SUV as if she hadn’t been beaten into unconsciousness but was sick and in need of urgent care.
Ha. She’d get that. At the end of my fist.
“Where’s Brennan?” I asked as I shoved her into the back seat and climbed in behind her.
“Waiting at the Hole,” Bagpipes answered from behind the steering wheel.
I jerked my chin up in understanding, aware that was Brennan’s center of operations on the border between Brooklyn and Queens.
When Forrest climbed into the passenger seat, Bagpipes took off, and we made our way to the peculiar dead zone that had always fascinated me.
“Is it true there’s an unofficial graveyard in the Hole?” I asked once we crossed the East River and made it into Flushing, cutting into their argument about whether the Bruins could beat the Maple Leafs.
“It’s not exactly a graveyard,” Forrest answered. “Ain’t no headstones.”
I snorted. “I’d never have guessed.”
He beamed a grin at me. “Aidan Sr. and his da used to dump bodies there. That’s half the reason it’s a dead zone, I think. Brennan never said but I’m pretty sure that the O’Donnellys own this area, or part of it, and they kept it off-grid. It’s the only reason why the city wouldn’t have developed this neighborhood.”
That made sense, especially when I caught sight of the dump that Brennan called ‘the office.’
When we drove over a series of massive potholes that were flooded with groundwater, they jostled the SUV, rocking Priestley from side to side.
As her dislocated arm collided with the floor of the vehicle, she groaned and began to stir.
