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In my office, I turn to Dorsey. It’s good to have friends in high places, I’ll say that.
“Thank you.”
He nods. “Don’t mention it.”
That was my “nice” card. Now comes the harder one.
“Who thefuckis coming after my family, Jack.”
He exhales slowly. “I don’t know. But I’ve got a team—”
“Is ithim.”
He holds my cold look. “Cillian, I’m telling you. Seamus is fuckingdea—”
The door to the office opens abruptly, and Hades stomps in.
I glare at him. “Can I help you?” I hiss icily through clenched teeth.
“Yeah,” he snaps. “That was my fuckingsisterwho almost just got turned into a fucking pancake. So yeah, Cillian, you canhelp mefind the motherfucker who’s responsible for it, so I can rip his fucking head off.”
I smile darkly and nod at a vacant spot on one of the couches. “Have a seat, God of Hell.”
When he does, I turn back to Dorsey. “You were saying?”
He sighs. “Cillian, Seamus isdead.”
“Thenwho the FUCKis trying to kill my fucking family!!!” I roar, slamming my fist down on the edge of the desk so hard that the bottles on the bar cart across the room jangle. “That was Neve’s car.Shewas the target. Just like she was the target at the reception, when that fucking O’Conor-themed cake with the blood red frosting, and—in case you’ve forgotten—a replica of his goddamntattooblew up in her face. And today, this violence almost got Callie killed, possibly Castle too.”
“Look,” Dorsey grunts. “We’re aware that Seamus had followers and groupies—both before and while he was incarcerated. Fans. Women who wanted to fuck him. I mean, we’re talking some serious Charles fucking Manson shit. But, guys,” he growls, giving each of us a hard look in turn. “Facts are facts. The guy’s as dead as dead gets.”
Hades drums his fingers on the side of the couch, grinding his teeth. “Then who thefuckdid Una hear on the phone?”
Dorsey shakes his head. It’s aghost, kid. He’s fucking dead and buried—”
“Then let’s dig the fucker up and make sure.”
Both Dorsey and I turn to Hades. Dorsey looks confused and maybe a little worried. I’m just smiling, because, well, I’m a psychopath, aren’t I?
“You’re not serious.”
Dorsey turns to look at me, expecting me to be on his side with this. Instead, I just shrug.
“You heard the God of Hell. Where’s this fucking grave?”
* * *
On the outskirtsof ritzy Montclair, in New Jersey, Dorsey is shaking his head as we all stand in the pristine white medical examination office of the FBI facility. We’re staring at the metallic box on the autopsy table in front of us containing the remains of Seamus O’Conor.
Or at least it fuckingbetterbe containing his remains.
All we saw inside were mottled remains that were mostly bones—which was curious, considering Seamus has only been in the ground a few months. Bodies don’t decomposethatfast.
But then Dorsey explained that although a burial is FBI policy, it’s not exactly aniceburial. The metal coffins have slits in the sides, and the bodies are wrapped in cloth soaked in a chemical acid—both of which are meant to speed up the rate of decomposition.
“How much longer?”
Dorsey turns to me and then checks his watch. “Not long.” He nods through a glass wall to where two technicians, in all white lab gear, are running some DNA tests on samples they just took from this box.
