Chapter 36
Cormac
November
I’m midway through my lesson on renal pharmacokinetics and rub the chalk from my dusty fingers. This ancient school drips with tradition and still loves chalkboards.
Seventy faces stare back at me, quiet and oh, so obedient. After a couple of months, I realize I’m pretty good at teaching.
My wife sits three rows up, fingers moving fast over the keyboard, a dark glossy braid falls over her shoulder.
I don’t think she’s washed her hair or showered in days because she’s hit an all-in stride in the semester, and when she’s not in class, she’s doing labs, study groups, and spending all her leftover hours in the library.
“When clearance drops below thirty, you adjust dosage accordingly. Here is how you figure it out,” I say, turning back to the board.
Movement from the side doorway that leads to the academic offices catches my attention. I pivot to see Harrow’s face fill the narrow window.
Fuck.
Something happened if he came to my job.
Even though there’s a hand up from the top row, I say to the class, “I apologize, I have something that needs my attention. Finish this chapter and bring any questions to the next class.” I end the lecture. “You’re dismissed.”
The room rustles with excitement over the twenty extra minutes they’ll have free. Scarlett looks up at me, brows knitting, and mouths: What was that?
I shake my head once. But she keeps her eyes on me.
I mouth: Let it go.
She doesn’t like that answer, but she gathers her things, rolling her eyes.
I’m out the side door before the room fully clears out. In the hallway, I grab Harrow by the sleeve and drag him into my office.
After slamming the door and locking it, I grit out, “You don’t come here.”
He straightens his shirt cuffs, a nervous tick I’ve noticed. “You didn’t answer my last text.”
“And that should have told you that I’m done.” My pulse hammers in my throat. “You can’t just show up on campus like this. The fucking Feds were here.”
Harrow’s gaze goes wide, but he shakes that away. “This guy is different. This one is selling to kids.”
I lower my head. Where does my revenge end? I’ve done some bad things, but I never sold to a kid. Not even close. That makes me sick.
“This is the last one,” I say. “And you will not contact me again for this.”
Harrow nods, seeing I’ve reached my limit. From his coat, he gives me the package. Photos, details, and two vials.
“You did a good thing all these months.” He pats my arm and leaves without another word.
In the hallway, Scarlett is there. Her eyes follow Harrow, trying to place him as he leaves.
“Are you okay?” she asks.
“Yeah.”
She doesn’t believe me. “Who was that?”
“No one.”
The lie lands wrong, and I see it in her eyes.
“Whatever,” she says and looks down. “You’re getting farther away from me. And I’m too exhausted to fight for this marriage to be something we can both enjoy.”
We got married right before the swing into the midterm crunch that sails into finals. This is fucking medical school. I’ve kept a physical and an emotional distance between us. This is what’s best for her. Even if she doesn’t realize it.
Still, regret hits me hard as I watch her walk down the hall.
Mercer steps into her path, saying something that makes her laugh and grab her classmate’s arm. They look young and carefree with a positive outlook. I’ve been through hell and can barely smile except when I hold J.P., or I glance over in my bed to see my wife there. Safe.
Anger sparks in my chest. Hot. Possessive. Reckless.
I had no idea my distance was making her sad. Am I sending a message that if it’s not real, she can find relief somewhere else?
Sex is a way to release pent-up energy and reduce stress. That’s a medical fact.
Maybe my marriage shouldn’t be no contact if it will help her deal with the stress.
But first, I have to kill someone.
The following night, I track down the last dealer I’ll kill for Harrow. The scum is in a park on the Lower East Side wearing a stupid backwards baseball cap, leather jacket, and ripped jeans, handing off poison to a jittery high schooler.
Doesn’t matter that it’s Adderall or Xanax and they’re legal. The lowest cut of scum dealers are the ones who aim at children and their insecurities. According to Harrow, this guy got caught with phone records linked to kids who died from a fentanyl-laced batch of pills.
And still made bail!
I watch as the kid takes the pills and jogs away.
The remorseless dick sits on top of a park bench and lights up a smoke.
Perfect. I turn down an adjoining path to do this from behind.
Hand in pocket, the syringe feels cool between my fingers.
Perfectly measured with drugs that will shut down his heart before he can gasp one more breath or take in one last view of the city lights.
That’s the justice I deliver to grieving families. And I want no credit.
A small crunch under my foot stops me in my tracks. Goddamn dry fall leaves on the ground. My mark twists around, and I freeze.
He wears an appropriate look of horror staring at a man all in black, his face half covered, black gloves, and holding a glass syringe.
Fuck.
“You,” he says, scrambling off the bench. “I… I heard about you. The fucking Feds are looking for you.”
“They are. And who will look for you?”
“Shut up.” He takes out a gun and points it at me.
Oh crap…
I haven’t had to use my gun on these jobs. Too many unknowns. Blood splatter. Shell casings.
I lunge and jab my elbow into his throat, knocking his legs out from under him.
He falls, drops the gun, and I kick it aside. Did I touch it? Fuck, my brain is processing too many things at once. Then a glass bottle hits me on the head. He had it in his other hand, and I didn’t see it. Sparks of green glass explode above my eye, and I ignore the sharp bite of pain.
The blow to my head allows dealer boy to sprint off like a terrified deer.
I chase him and can’t believe my luck when he finds the gate at the other side of this park is locked. He tries to climb the wrought iron fence, but I get there just in time to pull him down by the ankles. His face breaks the fall, and his mouth is full of blood.
“Don’t worry. The pain will go away in ten seconds.” I keep him on the ground with my boot on his neck while I ready the syringe again, but a baseball bat slams into my back from the left.
“Get off him!” a shaky male voice cries out.
Figures this guy would have a junkie buddy look out for him.
Looking that way to assess who and what I’m dealing with now gives the injured dealer a chance to throw a punch. I duck and return one that connects with his jaw. It’s a satisfying crunch, but the second guy grabs me from behind. He’s bigger with a lot of rage that’s doing most of the work.
He tackles me hard enough that the back of my skull bounces off concrete.
Fuck.
With the impact, I drop the syringe, and it rolls into a patch of leaves. I’m acutely aware there’s a deadly weapon nearby that I don’t have control of. It can be stuck in my neck next. I might die.
My vision whites out. Behind my eyes, I see all the faces dealing with my death.
When hands close around my throat, I lift a knee to find his balls, but he’s ready for that. He lifts his knee, too, blocking me. I jam my thumb into his windpipe, roll us, and hit him again, and again, and again until blood sprays my mask and he collapses.
Out of instinct, I lift the leather off my face. My DNA and his are on this thing.
I stagger to my feet, but it’s too late. The dealer, my original target, is over the fence, braced for me to follow him. Waiting, he’s wide-eyed with his jaw tipped open.
Seeing my uncovered face, he says, “Dr. O’Rourke?”
Everything chokes in that moment. He knows who I am. I have a name, but I’ve never seen this guy before in my life. Yet he grins a rotted smile and disappears in the opposite direction.
Was he a fucking student? Does he think I’m Darragh? Jesus, did I just put a target on my brother’s head?
I stand there, chest heaving, my pulse detonating in my ears. What the fuck just happened?
Everything spins again, but I get my shit together. I have a dead guy at my feet, and blood is on me.
I brush the leaves aside and find the syringe.
The hairline crack I see in the glass fills me with dread.
They’re hermetically sealed inside. I can’t leave it here.
A drop of what’s inside is deadly. I snap off the needle and ditch it, then shove the barrel filled with the poison into a plastic bag for Harrow to handle.
The bloody mask and my gloves go into another bag.
Both will get tossed in the incinerator in my building’s basement.
Back on the street, I think about the dead body lying in the park and the guy who has my name on his lips running in the other direction. I have to find Harrow. I need that guy’s last known address. I stop, and all thoughts fall out of my head when a shiny, black Mercedes pulls up in front of me.
I can actually read my obituary.
The front passenger door opens, and I brace, but then nearly crap myself in relief when the wide shoulders and curly mahogany hair come into the light.
“Rough night, Doc?” Trace’s thick Irish brogue is like a hit of fucking morphine.
“It’s nothing.” I wipe the blood from my jaw with the back of my hand. “Go home,” I mutter.
To my sister…
“Doesn’t look like nothing.”
I glance around, realizing I’m in Quinlan Empire territory. Trace patrols the streets. He was probably driving by and saw my sad ass limping along.
I grind my molars. “I have it under control.”
He steps closer, invading my space. “You told me you whack these guys, they die, and that’s it. You’re beat to shit,” he says quietly.
How the hell did he locate me?
A Denali idles across the street, and I recognize Blade’s shaved head and beard. Next to him is Jett, his tall, lean partner with inky-black hair.
Trace’s fucking trackers. That’s how.
“This one went bad, Trace. Now please, just…”