Chapter Seven
Finn
“Hey, Professor, how’s it going?” I asked as Andrew walked into the kitchen of Rose Cottage the next morning.
“Not bad, you?” He poured coffee and glanced at the bank of security screens that were connected to cameras around the house. There was no movement.
“Got something for you,” Cillian said, his fingers hovering over his laptop.
“Oh yeah?” Andrew raised his eyebrows. “From where?”
“We had a date last night,” I said. “She’s a lawyer, defense, got some asshole off the hook a while ago, and it’s not sitting well with her, bastard was guilty as sin.”
“She knows it for sure?”
“Yeah, there were technicalities, the court couldn’t get a conviction.”
“You got a name?” Andrew sipped his coffee.
Cillian spun his laptop to face Andrew. “Better than that, got his address.”
Andrew peered at the screen. “Archie McDougal.” He quietly read the newspaper article.
When he’d finished, I spoke. “The break-in that ended in a double murder wasn’t his first offence, he’d killed before, careless driving, so we can give him three strikes for murder.”
“I agree.” Andrew sat. “What a piece of work.”
“And he’s dealing now,” Cillian went on. “Uses kids to deliver drugs on their e-scooters. One was knocked down and killed late at night last month. No comeback on McDougal, of course.”
“We’ve got to stop this guy,” I said, my jaw tensing. “Before he gets more people killed.”
“I agree.” Andrew nodded. “Anyone else around?”
“Mitch is catching some sleep. Phil will be here soon.”
I studied the professor. His eyes had taken on a rich darkness I’d seen before. His frustration in the justice system was rising to the surface. His need to take out a bastard lowlife was becoming his main focus. All he could think about.
“Where’s he living?” Andrew asked gruffly.
“Blackbird Leys.”
“Makes sense.” Andrew paused. “And he’s likely to be sleeping now, it’s the middle of the night for a drug dealer.”
“So we should just get straight to it?”
“Seems to me he’s been walking and talking on this earth for too long as it is.” Andrew stood. “You in?”
“Of course.” I got to my feet too.
“Yeah.” Cillian cracked his knuckles.
“I’ll go get the weapons then.”
My heart rate picked up. Not that I enjoyed killing, or the risk that taking out losers posed to my life and my freedom. But we were good at it, and it was necessary.
Very necessary.
“Archie McDougal has a date with the devil.” Cillian’s eyes narrowed.
“Yeah, our woman gave us good information.”
“ Our woman.” Cillian smiled. “That’s true enough. She’s ours now.”
“Except she has us dangling, we don’t know when we’re going to see her again.”
“Ah, we know where she lives.” Cillian chuckled. “We can go knock on her door if she keeps us hanging too long.”
“I was really fucking hard for her last night.” I groaned at the memory and shifted on my seat.
“Me, too. I thought she’d be up for hot sex.”
“She’s a classy woman, out of our league.” I huffed. “Gotta respect that she has rules. Higher standards than us.”
“’Course I respect that.” His attention on me intensified. “What have you had with her before, Finn?”
“What do you mean?”
“That wasn’t the first time you’d touched her, was it?”
I chuckled. “No, we’d had fun in a dark cupboard.”
“What fun?”
I stood and slapped on a black baseball cap, reached for my Union Jack bandana. “Let’s just say she’s responsive as fuck, and when she does let us play with her delectable body, we’ll have her coming in great gushes like Niagara fucking Falls.”
“I like the sound of that.” Cillian chuckled.
Andrew came back in. Silently, he dished out our handguns.
“How we gonna do this, boss?” I asked, shoving thoughts of a naked and panting-for-it Rebecca from my mind.
“We have absolutely zero connection to him so we’ll do the job, in and out, no complications. And no vehicles, we can walk there in less than an hour avoiding cameras.” He looked at Cillian. “Did you get any information about who he lives with?”
“Yeah, his social media says single and proud, not letting no bitch tie him down, apparently.”
“Charming.” The professor huffed. “Well, let’s hope he’s tucked up in bed alone. Like I said, I can’t be doing with complications.”
We headed out into the warm morning. Our pace was fast, and we used backstreets, alleys, and the shade of a park to reach the sprawling estate where McDougal lived.
Once there, our vibe changed. This wasn’t familiar territory to us, and we got a few eyeballs off locals who clearly didn’t like three big guys in dark clothing walking with purpose through the estate.
The houses were unloved, the cars and vans old, and a couple of dogs roamed on their own.
I kept my head down, hood up, the weight of my gun tucked into the small of my back reassuring.
“It’s this one,” Finn said, stopping at the entrance to a street almost blocked by three rubbish skips. “Other end, I reckon.”
“And backing onto the river.” Andrew nodded. “We’ll leave that way, less of these damn doorbells with cameras.”
I pulled my cap even lower and resisted the urge to slide up my bandana. It was too soon, folks around here would know trouble was afoot if we covered our faces, and we didn’t need the extra attention.
We paused briefly outside number fifty-nine. It was a flat-roofed terraced house with a large fence around the front and back garden and a photo of a Rottweiler on a side gate that read: Can you run faster than me?
“You reckon he’s really got a dog?” Cillian said.
Andrew picked up a stick and threw it over the fence. He then pulled up his bandana and peered through a gap in the wooden slats. “If he has, it’s not in the garden.”
“And that’s why you’re the one with letters after your name.” I squeezed his shoulder. “Come on, we can handle a dog.”
“If there even is one,” Cillian said from behind his bandana. “Sign likely just a deterrent.”
The gate was locked, so I gave Andrew a leg up, and he dropped quietly to the other side of the fence. I did the same for Cillian and then climbed over, landing beside them. A cat sat in the long grass to my right, and I hoped that was an additional sign that we wouldn’t have a dog to deal with.
There were two upstairs windows, and downstairs a door beside a boarded-up window. All curtains were drawn, and the paint on the door was marked, as though someone had bashed it with a hammer or baseball bat at some point.
A horn beeped in the distance, and a woman shouted at a kid a few doors down.
“You think he’s home?” I asked, also lifting my bandana so it hid most of my face.
“Yeah, I do, and likely sleeping,” Andrew said. He withdrew a small tool and started picking the lock. I glanced over my shoulder and then up to the house on the right. It appeared derelict with a broken window and broken gutter. Likely they’d moved on when they’d realized who they lived next to.
The door clicked. Andrew opened it a fraction.
I held my breath, waiting for a dog’s bark or an angry voice to emerge from the dark crack.
Neither came.
Andrew opened the door.
We all stepped into the musty hallway.
My heart was steady, my senses on high alert.
Cillian stuck his head into what appeared to be a living area. “Clear,” he whispered.
Andrew gestured up the stairs with his gun.
I went first, testing each one for creaking boards. The carpet was threadbare and stained. The handrail was a mass of peeling paint. At the top was a pile of grubby clothes along with a pristine pair of white trainers. The door to my left was closed.
Cillian checked the other rooms. He nodded and pointed at the closed door.
We had him.
If he was home.
My guts told me he was. And I always trusted my guts.
I put my hand on the door and looked at first Cillian and then Andrew.
Both held their guns at the ready.
Andrew nodded, once.
I pushed into the dimly lit room and instantly took in the space. A window with thin red curtains, a wardrobe, door off its hinge and angled to the floor, and a bed, no headboard with a mound in it.
The mound moved as Cillian came up behind me.
“Wakey-wakey,” Andrew said gruffly and dragged the duvet back.
A tall figure shot upward, his hand reaching under his pillow.
“Don’t even think about it.” Cillian set the business end of his gun against Archie McDougal’s temple.
He froze, eyes wide.
He hadn’t changed from the image we’d seen of him on the internet. Scruffy brown hair, sunken cheeks, dark rings under his eyes, and what appeared to be a shark’s tooth hanging on a bit of leather around his neck.
“Who the fuck are you?” He glared at us each in turn.
“That’s not important,” I said. “But you are Archie McDougal, right?”
“Who the fuck want’s to know?”
“The three guys with guns on you, you fucking eejit.” Cillian grunted.
“My crew will be here any second, they’ll take you out, you morons.” He made a strange snarling sound.
Cillian pushed the gun harder against his head.
Archie’s neck tendon’s strained, and he fisted the sheet. “You don’t know who you’re fucking dealing with.”
“You’re Archie McDougal, right?” Andrew asked again.
I spotted a wallet on the bedside table. Picked it up. Sure enough, his identity was confirmed by a gym membership card. “It’s him.”
“Thought so,” Cillian said.
“What the fuck do you want?” Archie darted his gaze around the room as though searching for a weapon.
“Justice,” Andrew said, “heard you haven’t balanced the scales after your bad fucking behavior.”
“I’m a law-abiding citizen, fuck you.”
“Four people would still be alive if you hadn’t been born,” I said and wiped the wallet before tossing it aside. It landed beside several rolls of fifty-pound notes. “First the guy you killed with careless driving, then the farmer and his wife, and now the kid who was delivering gear for you.”
“Ain’t none of them my fault, just circumstantial. Bad fucking luck.”