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Cillian was understandably paranoid when it came to his business.
He was in organized crime, after all. We weren’t in the Golden Age of crime anymore. RICO charges had done in bosses much bigger than he was. Me as well. And it wasn’t rare for outlaw bike clubs to be brought in on racketeering charges these days either.
It was smart to be careful around crowds. And to avoid specifics on the phone.
“Yep,” I agreed, following him out of the bar.
I hated to admit this shit, but my ass looked back at Nyx. Some pathetic-ass part of me hoping she would be looking in my direction, watching me leave.
But she was busying herself with restocking the speed rail. Or, rather, she looked like she was just concentrating on restocking the speed rail. If you looked closely, though, she was glancing all around the bar. Like she was looking for something.
What the fuck was going on?
But then I was moving through the door and out into the somewhat crisp January air.
I mean, after spending winter over in Navesink Bank at the mother chapter on the East Coast, I’d learned to reevaluate how “cold” Shady Valley got in the winter.
January in Jersey was typically in the mid thirties.
In Shady Valley, we were in the low sixties.
Can’t say I missed the thirties, but I did appreciate that their summers didn’t get as deadly hot as ours did.
“What’s on your mind, Cillian?” I asked, glancing over at him.
We weren’t exactly close, but we’d known each other for a long time. Long enough that I noticed how tight his jaw was, how tense his posture was.
“I’m actually surprised you haven’t reached out to me, what with how you keep an eye on the prison and all.”
“I keep an eye. Not a close one. And only really on the people who would be a good fit for my organization. Why? What’s going on with the prison?”
“Not with the prison necessarily,” Cillian said, his gaze moving automatically in that direction.
Even in the middle of the night, the place was lit up like the middle of the day.
Behind it, Death Valley was a tall, Stygian presence. But the prison floodlights were positioned damn near every three or four yards, making each square inch of the grounds visible. There were lights on the roof and around the guard tower as well.
Hell, even all this way away, I swear I could almost see the shine of the razor wire on top of the fences.
“Cill, you being dramatic on purpose?” I asked.
To that, he let out a deep sigh, taking a glance around, then stopping to turn to look at me.
“He’s out.”
“Who’s out?” I asked, confused by the clear worry on his face.
This was Cillian Murphy.
He was second or maybe even third-generation Irish mafia. He was raised in crime. Had ice flowing through his veins when it came to crazy shit.
If something scared him—or, rather, someonescared him—then it was probably serious.
“Erion.”
I didn’t need more than that.
No one in a five-state radius needed more than that.
