Chapter 32
32
PATRICK
S he said she trusts me.
But that can’t prepare her for what I’ve planned.
I wait until she takes her first step toward the Caddy. I’m hoping those dry shites can’t resist gawking at her tits. God knows, Kevin Joyce never met a woman he didn’t want to fuck, no matter the cost. We all learned to cover for him the mornings after big payouts, when he spent every last cent in his pocket on whores.
Eejits like that don’t change over time.
I reach up and turn off the dome light inside the Land Rover. I take a deep breath. I double-check my grip on the Magnum. The Desert Eagle lives in the glove box because it’s too big to strap on under a jacket. I’ve got twelve rounds to make my point.
Fiona takes another step.
I barrel out of the Land Rover. I don’t bother crouching, don’t try to hide. My goal is to move fast and get where they can’t hit me.
Which means I’m pressed against Fiona’s back before they have a chance to fire. I catch my arm around her chest, pulling her close to my body. I steady her head against my left shoulder as I raise my right arm. I fire past her—two quick shots through the car door on Joyce’s side, then a pair at whatever jackass thought it would be a good idea to drag out Joyce’s Cujo jibe.
The Magnum’s big enough to take down a deer or a charging wild boar. It shreds the Escalade doors like it’s tearing through paper, first on Joyce’s side, then the other.
I march forward, driving Fiona in front of me, clamping her even closer as panic makes her fight. I must have scored direct hits on both of Dowd’s trained monkeys; they aren’t offering a hint of resistance.
But I’m not taking any chances. I wait until we’re just three strides from the Cadillac, and then I push Fiona behind me, shoving her toward the ground.
“Stay down,” I order, as I advance on the enemy.
I don’t know what his name was. His own mother won’t recognize him now. The thing that used to be his face is a mass of red-splashed bone. The stink of blood and shite rises from shiny bits that have spilled onto the cool green grass.
My first shot must have gutted him. My second caught his head as he collapsed.
That leaves Joyce.
I stalk to the other side of the car, arms stiff, Magnum ready. It’s a dark night, only a sliver of moon. The Caddy’s headlights are useless. Its interior light casts a wavering yellow circle, like someone’s pissed on the shadows.
Swinging around the car door, I automatically adjust my aim.
Joyce has managed to pull himself halfway into the car. One of my shots pulverized his right arm; nothing but meat and gristle hangs from his shoulder. His legs sprawl on the ground. It looks like he tried to shift his revolver to his left hand, but he dropped the gun on the transfer.
I kick it away and point my Magnum at his face.
“Dowd’ll eat yer bollocks fer breakfast,” Joyce says.
“He’ll have to catch me first. And if you’re the type he’s sending round, I’m feeling fairly safe.”
Joyce shakes his head, his teeth gleaming red in the weak light. “He’ll make ya watch him fuck that cunt.”
I’m close enough that I barely need to twitch my wrist. The Magnum explodes, and a black pool spreads where Joyce’s cock used to twitch.
The motherfucker howls, his eyes going wild. I think he’s watching the demons who’ll drag him down to hell until I hear Fiona’s trembling voice. “Let me finish the job.”
One quick glance shows she’s picked up Joyce’s revolver. The dim light makes her bare arms look like they’re carved out of marble. Her ribs are heaving, her breath coming sharp and fast. Her hand shakes as she aims at Kevin Joyce, and her lower lip quivers like she’s about to burst into tears.
Joyce starts to beg. He says he didn’t mean it. He says he had no choice. He tries English, tries Irish, and then he stops arguing and just cries for his mam.
Fiona’s killed before—the four she’s proud of and the three that give her nightmares. She’s followed orders, and she’s made her own choices. She knows how this game works.
But the Bell rings inside my skull, crystal clear in the summer night. Fiona shouldn’t have to bear the weight for this one. She doesn’t need to remember this sack of shite, sobbing, desperate, snot running down his face as he pleads.
One more twitch of my wrist. One more pull on the trigger. One more blast from the Magnum, and the thing that used to be the head of Kevin Joyce explodes all over the interior of Aran Dowd’s Cadillac.
I take a deep breath before I lower my weapon.
But before I can turn around and take my little girl in my arms, tell her it’s over, tell her she’s safe, she throws herself at my back.
She pounds me with her fist. She does her best to bite me as she screams beside my ear. She throws her head back and howls louder than Joyce ever managed—no words, nothing human, just a flood of feral rage.