Chapter 39
39
brAIDEN
S peeding along Highway 30, I discover how easy it is to break ninety with the McLaren’s massive engine. I also learn that Madden kept a sawed-off shotgun under the passenger seat.
I glance at my phone as I cross into East Falls. The red drawing pin that marks Samantha is still now. She’s arrived at Russo’s place.
Four months of my brother’s nagging chews at my brain. His ghost haunts this feckin’ car.
Madden pulls at the cuffs that tied him to the table in Thornfield’s infirmary. He whispers: Samantha started life as Giovanna Canna. She’s been Russo’s tool all along. That’s why she refused to wear my collar to the freeport. That’s why she took Russo’s brand. That’s why she’s driven to the shitehawk’s lair.
Madden fights the forceps I used to destroy the shattered bones of his face. He argues: No sane woman would face Russo in the middle of the night. She wouldn’t enter his home. Wouldn’t lock herself behind his gate, behind his security. Not unless she knew Russo wouldn’t hurt her.
Madden writhes beneath the scalpel I used to dissect him. He howls: That’s why she got the fucking tattoo. That’s why she wouldn’t drop her mad plan to get Russo’s tax papers. She’s been a Mafia plant all along, playing her Dom for a fool.
I don’t want to believe him. I don’t want him to be right. I want to find another reason Samantha’s come to Russo’s home in the middle of the night.
Madden screams: She’s blowing him! She’s fucking him! She’s bending over and letting him take her up the ass!
I drive the scalpel into him again, severing his limp prick. He bleeds out in my brain when I’m a block from Russo’s compound.
Pausing at a stop sign, I take a deep breath, using my exhale to saw off the spikes of adrenaline in my blood. I’m through with thinking. Through with feeling. It’s time for cold, hard instinct to take control.
I offer up a prayer to whatever saint is responsible for wreaking bloody vengeance. If whoever’s on guard tonight is new… If he doesn’t recognize Madden’s McLaren… If my brother didn’t come here often enough for the guards to wave him through…
Maybe I do have a patron saint. Or maybe Samantha does, and everything Madden said is a lie, and she needs me more than she’s ever needed anyone before. But the gate cranks open as I approach at a steady pace. My hands are at ten and two on the steering wheel. The Walther points to midnight.
The guardhouse door opens quickly, without any caution. “You’ve been a stranger, Kel?—”
The rest of the guard’s greeting is blown away with his face. That’s why I like the Walther; it does a hell of a lot of damage at close quarters.
The guard slumps to the ground as the McLaren drills through the gate. I hope Russo’s neighbors have been bulldozed into accepting the sound of gunshots in the night.
Russo’s house is in the city. He doesn’t have a winding drive, the way I did at Thornfield. He doesn’t have gardens and a greenhouse and cottages for staff.
Instead, a circular driveway curves in front of his pile of brick. My Bentley sits in the middle, blocking an easy path to the door.
A straight leg of asphalt runs up the side of the house. Declan has flown drones over here plenty of times. He’s reported there’s a garage in back, big enough for four or five cars. And there’s a door into the back of the house—maybe an old servant’s entrance, maybe straight into the kitchen.
I’m happy to play the role of hired help.
Parking the McLaren close to the back door, I use the car’s body as a shield while I snug the Walther into my waistband. I’m racking the shotgun when the back door opens, framing a hefty shadow in a brick of yellow light.
“What the fuck, Kelly?”
The blast of the shotgun is even louder than I expect, echoing off the brick wall of the house. The recoil knocks me back a step, even though I’m braced for it.
A second guy appears in the doorway, gripping a pistol in both hands. He straddles the mangled meat that used to be his buddy, slipping in the mess. He can’t see much out here with the light at his back. His eyes dart left to right as he tries to pick me up. I raise the shotgun like it’s an extension of my own arm, ready for the recoil this time, and the second guy collapses in a rain of blood and bone.
I step over both corpses. The gears in my brain tick quietly, like an engine cooling in the night. Two hands of cards spread over the kitchen table. Two espresso cups sit in matching saucers. The dead men behind me were the only guards in the kitchen.
I rack the shotgun again and head into the house.
It’s an old home in the heart of the city. It’s built like all those colonials, with a central hall, rooms off either side. I clear each doorway like the trained killer I am, making sure no bogger will jump me from behind.
I know from the start where I’m headed. It’s the closed door at the front of the house. A study or a parlor or a den. Dim light glows beneath the door, an open invitation to anyone paying close enough attention.
I raise the shotgun to my shoulder. I test the brass of the doorknob with two fingers and a thumb. I take a deep breath, shoving back all my thoughts about Madden, about Samantha, about my craving for revenge. I’m a machine again, a carefully balanced pile of gears and wires.
When I throw the door open, I duck a little, putting my head where a sure shot will least expect it. I come up with the shotgun ready, sweeping the room for my first target. I take in the leather couch, the matching chairs, the desk as big as a destroyer.
But none of that matters. None of that means a thing.
Because Russo is standing against the far wall. And Samantha is standing in front of him. Naked. He’s got his arm around her throat and a pistol pointed at her head.
And she’s staring at me, her eyes full of terror.