The brick row home is nothing special.
We sit in silence and watch. Alexan occasionally takes photos with a long, powerful lens, but otherwise he says nothing. There’s only the clicking of the shutter and the sound of cars and human noises nearby. The city continues to churn around us, but all I can do is stare.
A long trail brought us here. Vito’s whisper network. Arsen and the Brotherhood’s underground connections. A dozen or more informants all pointed the finger at this simple, rundown house on a bad block far from McGrath power.
It’s past one in the morning. Baltimore’s struggling to get to sleep. And all I can think about is revenge.
“I want you to stay here.” I check my gun and slip it into the holster at my belt.
“You don’t know what’s in there.” Alexan’s frown is deep as he leans forward and peers at the windows. He lifts the camera and snaps a photo. “You might need help.”
“I need you ready to drive us back home.”
“Your brother told me to watch your back.” Alexan glances at me, head tilted to the side. “I’m not sure who to obey right now.”
“Obey the guy with the gun.” I glare at him and push the door open. “Stay in the car.”
He doesn’t argue as I stride across the street toward the shadows. I head around the block and find the narrow alley between the two houses, mostly blocked by fences. There’s a claustrophobic path, mostly just dirt and weeds strewn with beer cans, bottles, and needles, and I shimmy my way along it.
My heart’s a steady thump.
There’s no fear in me right now.
My cause is righteous. I look forward to murder.
But I pause when I reach the right backyard. I can still hear Dasha retching into the toilet after seeing my place. She apologized a dozen times, but it didn’t bother me at all.
Only I felt sorry for her. I could tell going into my room was an enormous step, and I was so proud that she took it all on her own. There’s clearly some block, some ugly stain on her past. Something to do with that scar on her face. And it’s the reason she’s afraid of the world.
But she’s changing. A little bit, step by step, and each time she goes a little bit further, my chest warms brighter.
I just don’t know why she got sick, and she doesn’t either. It worries me like a splinter in my eye. If there’s something going on with her, I need to figure out what, and I have to fix it.
I grab the edge of the fence. It rocks and creaks as I drag myself over and tumble down into an overgrown yard. I pause at the edge, staring at the black house in front of me, wondering again if this is the right place.
Ciaran McGrath’s safe house. Allegedly, at least. From what the whispers say, the twins have separate places just in case something goes wrong. Oisin is apparently better hidden.
Which makes sense. Ciaran’s the loud and brash twin. If either of them is going to give this address away, it’ll be that idiot.
And all I need is one.
I hurry to the back door, listening and watching for movement, but there’s nothing. I pick the lock, and the door creaks open to a messy kitchen. Vinyl floors, appliances that look like they’ve never been used. The place reeks of cigarettes. It’s almost overpowering. An ashtray on the table is overflowing with butts, and there are stacks of boxes in the corner filled with big tubs of protein powder.
The next room is a living area. Cheap couch, crates for tables. The rug is stained and burned in a dozen places. There’s nothing on the walls, only a big flatscreen TV, in decent shape considering the rest of the house.
Everything’s quiet. Nothing moves.
I head to the stairs. They make no noise as I go to the second floor. I keep myself calm and steady and ease the gun from its holster as I carefully peer up at the landing. I wait, listening carefully, before taking the last few steps quickly.
Gunshots crack the silent night, loud like planes taking off. Two bullets rip into the wall behind me, and a third thuds into my ribs. I throw myself forward, rolling awkwardly into a bathroom as more bullets smash all around me, sending bits of plaster dust into the air. I jerk sideways, hiding behind the wall as the shooter unloads his clip.
Pain lances down my side. My breathing is shallow. Blood stains my clothes, leaking down my shirt. The bastard got me good. Too fucking good.
He was waiting for me.
I roar with rage when the shooting pauses and teeter out into the open, unloading my clip. There’s a door to my right, but the shooting came from straight ahead, another bedroom at the end of the hall. I charge toward it, firing steadily as I go, keeping count of the bullets.
But I feel weak and dizzy as I keep bleeding. I bang against the door, shouldering it sideways, and drop low seconds before he returns fire, lighting up where my head should’ve been.
I spot him, crouched in the darkness on the far side of the bed. I shoot back, making him curse and drop down. I stagger forward, unsteady and weak, and when he comes up to take another shot, I manage to kick him in the hands and send the gun clattering from his grip.
Wide, pale green eyes stare up at me. His mouth is gripped in a rage-fueled rictus. Little freckles, bright red hair, a narrow nose.
That’s Ciaran, all right.
I pull the trigger.
The gun clicks, out of bullets.
Fuck.
I lost track, distracted by the blood and the pain.
Ciaran grins at me, then charges.
“Motherfucker,” he growls, tackling me off the bed. I fall back and hit the floor with him on top of me. I elbow him in the back of the skull and the neck, and he grunts as I keep raining blows down on him, struggling to get a better angle, but I’m running out of strength.
“You shouldn’t have come after my wife,” I snarl, launching myself forward, bashing my shoulder into his chest. We sprawl awkwardly onto the floor, wrestling for leverage. I manage to wrap my hands around his throat and start to squeeze.
He gags, eyes bulging. I dig my thumbs in tight, snarling like an animal, the only thought in my head kill kill kill, the beast in me taking control despite my agony.
I want to end him so badly. I’ve never needed a death more than this one.
Until he punches me right in the gunshot wound.
I feel the rib crack. I gasp in shock and release his throat as agony lances into me.
He rolls to the side, coughing violently, and spits blood onto the floor.
My brain’s not working. My body won’t respond. I know I need to move, attack, attack, keep pressing, keep going, but I have no breath in my lungs.
I’m losing too much blood.
Ciaran shoves himself to his knees with a grunt and draws a knife from his belt. Blood stains his teeth as he grins at me.
“Fucking Armenian dog,” he snaps and shuffles closer, his eyes bloodshot and ugly, his neck swollen and bruised. “I’m going to gut you.”
I try to scamper back, but I can barely move. He thrusts awkwardly, trying to drive the knife down into my chest, and I barely manage to get my arms up in time. The blade stabs into my forearm, agony jarring down into my elbows as the blade scrapes bone. I scream, despite myself, and knee him as hard as I can in the crotch twice. He grunts and I twist, bashing my elbow into his mouth.
The blade rips from my arm. I bite down to keep from screaming. He twists, raising it up, and there’s nothing I can do. No speed, no strength, nothing left in me. It’s all leaking out onto the floor.
Dasha. Fuck. Dasha. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.
A gunshot cracks. Ciaran’s head snaps back as his brains forcibly exit the back of his skull. “Fuuuggghhh,” he grunts and topples sideways.
Alexan rushes into the room, kicks the knife again, and puts two more bullets into Ciaran before turning to me.
“Ah, shit,” he says, kneeling down. “How bad?”
“I’m fine,” I say weakly. His face is wreathed in darkness. Or maybe that’s my vision tunneling. “Tell my wife I said I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be dramatic. Tell her yourself.” Alexan rips his shirt off and tears it into strips. “Hold on. I’ve got you.” He binds my wounds and growls with effort as he lifts me up onto his shoulder.
Agony flares through my body, and I see Dasha’s face shining, angelic and perfect. I finally lose consciousness as he jostles me down the steps.
