29. Callahan
TWENTY-NINE
callahan
Lucie is gone.
Fucking gone.
I can’t breathe.
Every time I try to get air, pain flares, like I got kicked in the chest and my ribs have punctured my lungs.
We’d been gone twenty minutes when I got her text, and by the time we returned home…
it was too late.
Arnold’s going crazy, and there’s a dead man sprawled in the seat of one of our cars across the street.
A good man, a good guard, shot in the head twice, a signature of fucking O’Sullivan.
“Everyone, and I mean everyone, is on this. Every fucking haunt he might be at. Every fucking lowlife needs to be dragged out, every fucking place he’s been seen at turned inside out.”
I load up on rounds and make sure I’m armed to the fucking teeth.
And then I snatch the keys from Clive’s hand.
“Get another car.”
“Where the fuck are you going?” Torin asks.
“To find my wife.”
I stalk out of the house, footsteps thumping on the ground behind me.
Just as I get in the car, Seamus jumps into the passenger seat.
“Get the fuck out.”
“It’s me or Declan, and you’re not letting Declan get killed.”
I glare at my brother as he sets a clinking bag down at his feet.
I shove a cigarette in my mouth and light it.
Then I click the ignition button, put the car in drive, and peel away from the curb.
“I don’t want you killed, either, you gobshite .”
“What did her father say?”
“I haven’t called him.”
“Didn’t her text say something about the Diamond District?” Seamus pulls out his phone and starts going through it.
I’m heading to the Williamsburg Bridge.
If I was fucking Paddy, I’d take her to Brooklyn or Queens.
Her father’s in Queens.
If I was going to make an educated guess, I’d say she’s in Brooklyn somewhere.
Or she’s?—
No. Not fucking going there.
She’s alive. She has to be.
And I’ll rip this city apart, burn it to the ground to get her back.
But first, I’ll start with a place we found out about in Greenpoint where Polish, Russian, and some Italian lowlifes hang out.
It’s also owned by an Osinov.
Not bratva, but still a thug, and one who does business with his family’s affiliates stateside.
Someone might know him there.
It’s a place to fucking start, at the least.
I give orders for Seamus to hand out, and one of those is to retrace the steps of de Rosa.
When I come up on Dive Bar—real fucking name—I stomp on the brake and the tires screech to a halt.
I flick the cigarette butt out the window.
“Before you get out, Cal, remember that small town outside of Dublin where we had to take care of business? ”
My hand’s on the door handle and I look down at the bag as he picks it up.
“Yes.”
“Well, then. How many cocktails do you want? And do you want the special?”
“Let’s take two, full-powered ones. One special for our entrance.”
I run to the door, light the special Molotov cocktail, open the door of the bar, and hurl it inside.
It’s a special mix that goes bang and the flames burn high and fast, fizzling out quickly.
Behind me, Seamus holds the real Molotovs in hand and a lighter in the other.
I walk in with my gun in hand.
“Not here to cause you trouble. I just wanted your fucking attention.”
A few people scream and run out.
We let them go. They’re not the ones we’re interested in.
“I’m Callahan Murphy. I’m looking for Piotyr Osinov, aka Paddy O’Sullivan. He just kidnapped my wife. If anyone has any information on him and his whereabouts, I won’t forget the favor.”
No one says a word for a long minute.
Then the bartender steps out from behind the wood bar.
“That fuck? Came in lookin’ for bratva connections. Here.” He hands me a card with an address on the back.
“That’s where he’s been staying.”
We leave.
“Torin came through with some leads. You think this is good?” Seamus waves the card as I pull out and slam my foot on the gas.
“Fuck no. He won’t be there long, but we’ll check it out.”
The warehouse is empty when we reach the address in Bushwick.
But we bust in anyway, Seamus holding the bag of Molotov cocktails.
There have definitely been some squatters here, but the cigarette butts are cold and the beer still in the bottles is room temperature and flat when I pour it out.
I tear the place apart, the cots, the ratty sofa, the makeshift fucking kitchen.
I then kick the shit out of the wall when Seamus grabs me.
“The wall’s innocent. But look…” He shows me the crumpled business cards.
One of them belongs to a dry cleaner in Fresh Pond.
“Call Tor. Ask if any of his contacts know of any activity in Fresh Pond.”
Before we can move, the sound of footsteps approach.
I hold out my gun right as the door splinters and a hail of bullets tear up the room.
I throw my brother to the ground and we crawl behind the shitty sofa.
“Now would be a good time for one of your cocktails, the real ones, Seamus.”
“We can take a man or two.”
I just glare.
“There might be more than that.”
“So he’s not at?—”
A bullet hits the sofa, then another.
I crawl to the other side.
This isn’t O’Sullivan, but it could be some men he’s amassed.
Which would mean they were watching us.
Or following us.
Neither is that pleasant of a thought.
I’m normally better than that, much more observant.
But fuck.
Lucie’s been taken.
She could be hurt.
The fucker could have his hands on her.
A sickening thought comes to me, making bile rise to my mouth.
If he even thinks of touching her, assaulting her, I’ll fucking piss down his throat, right after I rip his head off.
Then I’ll tear off his dick at the root .
Or maybe I’ll start with that.
I count four or five.
Maybe six men. I have more magazines, but I don’t want to waste them, not when I don’t know what the rest of the night will entail.
They reload and I peer around the side of the ragged fabric.
Shit, they’re not even in the room.
And they’re taking their time.
A rush of bullets explodes into the air again, shredding the sides of the couch.
“Cocktail. Now.”
He hands me one.
With a Hail Mary, I light it and hurl the cocktail toward the direction of the bullets.
Then Seamus hands me another.
Soon there’s a wall of flame as the wooden crates on either side of the door start to burn.
I shoot a few shots to the right, and then, after we both throw two more cocktails, we race for the back of the building.
We pry open the back door and dart through a lot overgrown with weeds and tall grasses.
Heart pounding, I leap over a low fence, Seamus right behind me as we approach another warehouse.
I kick the door open and run inside.
Four faces stare at us.
Men who are unpacking crates of dried fish.
With a wave at them, we run through the disgusting-smelling place and out onto the street where trucks are waiting, some being loaded and unloaded.
I point to one up the street when I see a driver with his feet on the dash.
Seamus climbs up, rips open the truck door, points a gun in his face, and orders him out.
I jump into the passenger side, and we take off, screeching tires burning rubber as the truck speeds down the street.
We’ll need to ditch the truck and steal something else, and when we’re about five blocks away from the warehouse, we do just that.
“Any word from Tor?”
“Haven’t checked,” he says, “I’ve been busy, y’know, not dying, Cal.”
We’re almost at Fresh Pond when Torin finally calls.
“You’re not going to like what I’m about to tell you,” he says when I put him on speaker, his voice grave.