34 #2
He tilted the rifle, peering down into the internal magazine. Brass winked back at him. One, two, three, four. He wished it were ten. He’d have to make every shot count.
He slid the bolt forward, felt the click as a round slipped into the chamber, then locked it down.
“Faster,” Rafferty urged as he unstrapped and twisted in the seat.
He dropped to his knees onto the bench, found the latch on the rear cab window, and slid it open with a grunt.
Dust and wind came in fast. He braced the rifle on the sill, eyes narrowing behind the scope.
The crosshairs wavered over the Escalade’s grille.
He locked his gaze on the target, knowing the canyon switchback was just up ahead.
This was his last clear shot before the curve swallowed them whole. It had to be now.
He exhaled slow. Steady.
The Chevy lurched; his finger squeezed the trigger.
The shot glanced off the bumper of his target instead of puncturing the grille.
And it spurred his pursuers on instead of warning them off.
He rode the recoil, shoulder tight, already moving. He snapped the bolt up, yanked it back — spent brass flew. He jammed the bolt forward, chambering the next round with a sharp shove, then locked it down.
A quick glance behind him showed the blacktop stretching ahead, shimmering with heat. His father’s knuckles were white on the steering. They were almost at the hairpin.
Rafferty turned back to take aim.
They never reached the turn. The Escalade had gained distance in those few seconds and clipped the side of the Chevy’s rear bumper, sending the truck into a spin. Pa had enough skill to correct this, to safely come out of it, but unfortunately the front wheel hit the edge of the paved road.
The truck flipped.
When Rafferty came to, he was sprawled in the bed of the truck.
The bright Texas sky burned above him. He blinked, once, twice, then winced as pain flared behind his eyes — a hot, pounding throb like the worst hangover of his life.
His hand found the source. When he pulled it back, his fingers were wet with blood.
He reached for the side of the truck and hauled himself to his knees. “Pa!”
And found himself staring down the barrel of a semi-automatic pistol.
The man holding the gun stepped closer, a silhouette against the sun, his shadow falling across Rafferty’s bloodied face. His voice cut through the dust, sharp and cold, laced with a heavy Irish accent.
“Off the truck. Now. Into the Escalade.”
Rafferty’s breath caught. He looked past the gun, toward the crumpled cab of the Chevy.
“My father—” he croaked.
“Not your problem,” the man said, tone flat as a shovel blade. “Move.”
“He’s got nothing to do with our business,” Rafferty protested, voice raw with panic.
The gun didn’t waver. The Irishman just smiled — tight and joyless. “He does now.”
A second man appeared, circling the truck like a wolf joining the pack.
“We know where your family is,” he said.
His voice was another heavy Irish drawl, darker.
Utterly lethal. “Just think how they’d feel if our backup team paid them a visit.
Today. While the house is full of mourners.
Siobhan — barely widowed — clinging to her fatherless children.
Your ma. Brother. Hmm. Your pretty little nieces would fetch a fair—”
“Stop,” Rafferty cried. That they knew names hit like a punch. “You’ve made your point.”
“Aye. Did you really think the O’Malley family wouldn’t come after yours?
” the man sneered. “Sean might be rotting in prison, but his blood’s still walking free.
” The man leaned in closer, breath hot against Rafferty’s ear.
“And we won’t hesitate. We’ll dump your father’s body right on the front porch.
He’s barely alive now — but he’ll be dead by the time we reach Lawson’s Landing. ”
The last thread of resistance drained from Rafferty.
His shoulders sagged.
He didn’t fight as they took him by the arms and led him toward the Escalade.
“It broke me to leave Pa, Aidan,” Rafferty said hoarsely. “But the O’Malleys were ruthless. They would’ve slaughtered all of you — done far worse to Gracie and Caitlin. Traffickers. Weapons. Drugs. Women. Children. They weren’t picky. They were Irish Mafia.” He gave a hollow shrug. “Monsters.”
A heavy silence descended.
“And you lived with them. Worked with them. Became like them,” Aidan said, voice flat with disbelief.
“For fourteen hellish months.” Rafferty’s voice dropped, distant. “Even all the years I spent with the Taisechs didn’t compare to that nightmare.”
A beat. Then Aidan asked, quietly, almost unwillingly, “What did they want with you?”
Rafferty blinked. He hadn’t expected the question — hadn’t expected his brother to care enough to ask.
“They had a job for me,” Rafferty said quietly.
“A job?” Aidan’s brow furrowed.
“A hit.”
Silence pulsed between them.
“A … hit ?” Aidan repeated. He dragged a hand down his face, his expression stricken. “Fuck, brother. What did you do?”
“You really want to know?” Rafferty asked, voice low.
Aidan let out a heavy, painful sigh. “No. No, I guess I don’t.”
“I know you’ll never understand the choices I made,” Rafferty said. “But because of those choices, some very bad people are behind bars. And some…” His gaze dropped. “Some aren’t breathing anymore.”
“You’re right. I won’t understand.” Aidan’s spine straightened, his tone turning cold. “I can’t reconcile the boy who played Star Wars with that kind of warmth and passion” — he gestured toward the piano — “with the man who so easily admits to takin’ a life.”
Rafferty didn’t flinch. “To quote Nietzsche,” he said quietly, “ Man is the cruelest animal .”
Silence settled between them. Not the charged, furious kind — but something heavier. Aidan stared at the floor, pulse ticking in his cheek. Finally, he looked up. His voice was rough. “I don’t know what to do with this. With you.”
Rafferty nodded once, accepting the blow.
Aidan’s lips pressed into a thin line. “I need space. Time. Whatever.” He stepped back, arms folding across his chest like armor. “You should go.”