Chapter 13 #2
And fucking Fergus, sitting to the right, a pint nestled in his hands. Hands that touched my woman. I want to break Every. Damn. Finger.
He doesn’t look up as we approach him. Discreetly, I roll up my tee, and the bartender’s brows shoot up a fraction of a centimeter. He eyes me, gives a wee nod, then jerks his head to the exit. He wants us to take this outside if we need to. I nod back.
I take the seat beside Fergus and tug Fran onto my lap.
I’m not here to play games.
“Jesus fuckin’ Christ,” the arsehole mutters. “Knew she’d end up spreading her legs for you.”
“Nice to see you too, Fergus,” I say, as Fran seethes beside me.
“Least he has something to bloody spread for,” she mutters. I give her a quick pinch to the thigh to warn her to be quiet.
He reaches his hand to her, but I stop him mid-stretch, my fingers on his wrist. Is he serious? “Touch her and I fuckin’ slit your throat. Right here. Right now.”
I mentally reach for the blade and imagine exactly how I’d do it.
We’d lose an informant, and it’d be bloody messy to clean up before our flight, but it’d be worth it.
A beat of silence.
“What do you want, Cowen?”
“What did you take from her?”
“Didn’t take bloody anything.”
“Who did you contact?”
“No one.”
“So we’re gonna do this the hard way.”
“You come in here showing off my ex-whore, and you think I’ll just give you what you want that easily?” He laughs, picking up his pint again.
I’ll break his jaw, just for the whore comment. I’m taking a mental tally of which body parts I’ll enjoy breaking first, breathing in through my nose to steady my temper.
So gently it’s almost casual, I pick Fran off my lap and place her to the left. In one swift movement, my Glock’s to his belly, my mouth at his ear.
“Exit. Right. Now.”
“Jesus—”
The bartender plunks two meaty fists on the bar in front of us. “You’d do well to do what he bloody says.”
Good bloke. We’ll pay him well for this.
“You too?”
“Now.”
Scowling, he gets up, real fear in his eyes as he steps away from the bar. Good. He bloody well deserves it.
I watch the whole time. I don’t trust him not to pull something stupid, but we make it to the exit without an issue. He turns to me just as he steps over the threshold, and in one swift move I grab the back of his neck and shove him forward.
Fran follows behind.
Dusk’s fallen as we step outside, chill night air cloaking us in darkness, one streetlamp fitfully swinging ahead of us.
I shove him and he stumbles, but he quickly rights himself. I slam the door behind us.
“Fran, go left.” I point to a stack of empty crates. I want her in my vision the entire time. She begins to follow my instruction, catches her toe on thin air, and nearly trips. Instinctively, I turn to her, and it’s all he needs to make his move.
The arsehole’s smarter than I give him credit for.
He doesn’t go for me. He goes for her. In seconds he’s got her in his grip, holding her by the hair.
Just as quickly, I kick my leg out and knock his hand off her.
He screams, grabbing at his arm, but before he can even gather another breath, I kick him again.
Kickboxing’s my strong suit, and I’ve never wanted to incapacitate someone so much in my life.
She falls to the ground but keeps her head about her, quickly rolling to the side and out of our way. And Fergus, the fucking bastard, takes one look at me and tries to turn to run.
Too late.
I’ve got him on the ground, his nose broken and mouth bloodied before I even know what I’m doing. “Fucking Fran, it’s always her fault,” he says, bloodied spittle forming on his lips. “She’s a fucking liar.”
I hit him again, just to punish him for speaking her name, and again, so he doesn’t speak it again.
“Tell me what you know.”
“Fuck off!”
In one clean twist, I break his arm without regret, ignoring Fran’s screams and his. It hangs uselessly on the ground when I reach for his second arm.
“You’ll never fucking use these again. You’ll never fucking breathe again. Tell me what I want to know.”
He shakes his head from side to side. I know exactly how to snap bone, exactly how to do it to cause the most amount of damage but not hurt him so much he passes out.
“Tate, no!” Fran screams, covering her mouth. “Don’t!”
“Tell me.”
Even through his blood-stained mouth, he smiles, sick and twisted and perverted. “Never.”
I break his second arm.
Both hang uselessly by his sides, and his agony is palpable.
I move to his leg. Fran sobs openly.
He’s blinded by agony and doesn’t know I’m there until I grab him fully, prepared to break his kneecap.
“Okay, okay! Interpol! Fucking Interpol. I sent everything I knew to them. They fucking paid me, paid my father.” I grab him by the shirt front, but he slumps to the side, passed out.
Ice pulses through my veins.
Interpol.
Jesus.
I have to talk to Leith and the Irish head Keenan, and now.
William picks up immediately.
“Behind the tavern.”
“Body or injured?”
He’s ready to pick up whatever I’ve left him, dead or alive.
“Wish it was his fucking body.” I blow out a breath. “Injured.”
“We’re on it.”
My Glock’s in my hand, pointed at Fergus’s temple. It would be too easy to pull the trigger, to punish him for what he’s done. For touching her. Betraying her. Putting her in danger.
“No, Tate,” Fran says, her hand on my arm. I don’t miss the tremble in her voice. “He isn’t bloody worth it.”
She’s right, I fucking know she’s right, but I still give him a hard kick for good measure.
She winces, and it’s the first time I wonder if I’ve gone too far.
A cold, bitter wind kicks up, and she shivers.
I reach for her, but she steps away, wrapping her arms around herself to warm her, when someone comes around the corner.
A tall bloke, arms raised. The light’s crap here and I can’t see who it is. I click my Glock.
“Put yer fuckin’ gun away, you wanker,” Mac says, stepping into a pool of yellow light. “William warned me, I came straight away.” He looks down at Fergus’s mangled body. “Jaysus, you fucked him up good, didn’t you?” He scowls but there’s pride in his voice. “Bloody deserved it.”
Fran shivers again.
“Go, Tate,” Mac says, already bending to deal with Fergus. “I’ll bring him back. Leith and I’ll question him tonight. Fill you in later. Get to Dublin, that’s where you’re needed now.”
I take Fran’s arm, and she pulls away slightly. I don’t have time to see what the bloody hell’s going on with her, so I tug her more firmly. “Got to bloody go, lassie.”
Her feet seem to unglue from the pavement, and she steps alongside me, but there’s none of the familiarity of before. She keeps herself at a distance.
She may be hurt, she may be in shock. I’ll have to see to her on the way to Ireland.
A car waits at the exit, Clyde in the driver’s seat, sent by William. Our bags are in the back. My brothers have sorted damn near everything.
Everything but Fran.
“Y’alright, lassie?” I ask, resting my hand on her knee as we pull quickly away from the pub and head to where our private jet awaits us.