CHAPTER FOUR #2
The third one's already running. Smart lad. He knows when he's outmatched.
Sean's still whimpering over his arm, blood seeping between his fingers. It’s nothing serious. Dad taught me where to cut to disable, not kill. Though right now, I'm tempted to finish the job.
"Next time you want an apology," I say, "try asking nicely."
I bend over to retrieve my shopping, when I hear footsteps. A fourth man, moving fast, is coming from the mouth of the alley. He must have been waiting as backup.
I spin, knife ready, but he's already on me. He’s bigger than the others, and faster, too. His fist catches me in the ribs and drives the air from my lungs. I stumble and go down hard on the wet concrete.
He's got a crowbar. Where the fuck did he get a crowbar?
"Stupid bitch," he snarls, raising it above his head.
The metal whistles down toward my skull.
And then Freddie's there.
He’s moving like liquid violence, faster than should be possible, his hand catches the crowbar mid-swing and twists it from the man's grip like he's disarming a child. The follow-up is brutal: knee to the ribs, elbow to the temple; a combination that drops the attacker like a sack of cement.
But Freddie's not done.
He straddles the fallen man and pulls a gun from inside his jacket. It’s an expensive piece, professional grade. The kind of weapon that doesn't miss.
"Wait," I gasp. "Don't—"
Too late. The shot echoes off the alley walls like thunder. The man's head snaps back, and suddenly there's brain matter decorating the brick wall behind him.
Freddie turns to Sean, who's trying to crawl away despite his injured arm. The gun tracks his movement with mechanical precision.
"Please," Sean whimpers. "Please, I'm sorry. I didn't mean—"
Freddie shoots him in the kneecap. Sean's scream cuts through the night like a siren. The second shot takes out his other knee, leaving him writhing on the ground like a broken insect.
"You'll live," Freddie says conversationally. "Probably never walk properly again, but you'll live. Consider it a lesson in manners."
The third attacker, the one I dropped with my elbow, is stirring. Freddie puts a bullet through his shoulder, then plants a boot on his chest to hold him down.
"Same lesson applies to you."
He turns to me, gun disappearing back inside his jacket like it was never there. "You hurt?"
I'm sitting up now, checking for damage. Bruised ribs and scraped hands, but nothing serious. "I'm fine."
"Good."
He helps me to my feet, his touch gentle despite what I just watched him do. The contrast is jarring; his tender hands that seconds ago were dealing death with casual efficiency.
"We should go," he says. "Before someone calls the police."
"What about them?" I gesture to the groaning men.
"What about them? They attacked you. They got what they deserved."
"You killed that man."
"He was about to split your skull open with a crowbar."
"But—"
"But nothing." His voice is harder now, edged with something dangerous. "You want to stay in Belfast? Fine. But understand what that means. Understand what kind of world you're choosing."
I look around the alley, at the blood pooling under streetlights. Men who are broken and bleeding because they thought they could take what wasn't theirs. This is my world now. This is what staying means.
"How did you know?" I ask. "How did you know to come?"
"I’ve been watching. Saw them follow you from the shop."
"You've been watching me all night?"
"Since I left Murphy's."
"Why?"
"Because men like Sean Jennings don't forget humiliation. Because Belfast's not as safe as you think it is."
He's right. I know he's right. But accepting help means accepting everything that comes with it. It means acknowledging that I can't do this alone anymore.
"This doesn't mean I trust you," I say.
"I know."
"It doesn't mean I'm going with you to Dublin."
"I know that too."
But we both know I'm lying. We both know that everything changed the moment he pulled that trigger. The moment he chose my life over some stranger's, no questions asked, and no hesitation.
"Get your things," he says quietly. "Grab whatever you can't live without. We leave in an hour."
"And if I say no?"
"Then I disappear and you deal with Sean's father when he comes looking for answers. Deal with whoever else thinks you're easy prey now once word gets out about tonight."
"You're blackmailing me."
"I'm offering you a choice. Stay and fight this war alone or come with me and let your family help."
Family. The word tastes strange in my mouth. For eighteen years, it's just been me and Dad. My mam was around, but it was always obvious she never wanted children. Now he's gone and there's this whole other world waiting, full of people who might actually give a damn whether I live or die.
It’s a scary thought. Scarier than staying in Belfast and fighting my own battles.
But maybe scary is what I need right now. Maybe safe is just another word for slow death.
"One hour," I say.
Freddie nods. "One hour."
I head for the stairs to my flat, stepping carefully around the blood and broken men. Behind me, Sean's still whimpering about his knees. Freddie's already on his phone, probably calling for cleanup.
Behind me, my old life bleeds out. It’s time to see what the new one looks like.