46. Finn
Finn
The End, My Friend
These men are my clan, my family. They waited for me, never stopped believing.
I call everyone inside. They need to know we’re at war.
I stand alone in the octagon again, no microphone, just the power of my voice.
“It’s my captains you are, lads. The men who sit at my right hand when we make our decisions and stand by our judgments.”
A murmur of agreement, no dissent.
“I’ll not hide it from you. My woman’s gone,” time for me to lighten the mood. “And I don’t have a fecking clue where!”
Low laughter. They’ve all been there.
“But she holds every one of you close to her heart… okay, maybe not you, Joe. She hasn’t forgiven you for not passing that message onto your wife!”
More laughter. Good. Keep it light.
“So, there’s no reason to hold Saoirse to account the way we would do if it were a bloke.”
Extreme violence to traitors is our code. I need to lock down any overreaction.
“That said, I have it on good authority that Declan is wise to our plan and is thinking about how to block it.”
Our plan. To wrench back control of our docks and gather our union leaders. To infiltrate high end property markets and wreck their value.
And to begin the great takedown of his soldiers and captains.
“The rats are already fleeing his sinking ship. Politicians are choosing to distance themselves after I gave them a choice—Maguire’s kickbacks or our blackmail!”
Roars of laughter. This is what happens when the majority’s needs are put below what the minority’s wants.
“Don’t stray from the plan, because bullets are going to start flying…”
They need to know it’s not all glory. Guts will spill.
Time for me to sign off. “I choose Johnny Wilde as skipper after me. He’s Brooklyn born and we trust our own.”
That gets their attention. I’ve chosen a skipper to take my place in case I go out for tea early.
“You’re a clan of brothers, so I trust you to take orders from the man you respect the most.”
I step outside the octagon and into dead silence.
“Feck me, lads. Cheer up. ‘Tis not like I’m forcing you to drink dilutables for the rest of your lives.”
They gather round to shake my hand, clap me on the back, and kiss the crucifixes around their necks. I have a message for some of them.
“Keep training, Whippy, yeah? You’ve got promise.”
Whippy smiles bleakly. “It’s Tadhg, Boss, bless you.”
“Keep the blaas coming, Damien. Keep an eye on that Gayle of yours.”
I reach the door and shout over their heads. “Kenty! Crack a keg or two of Guinness on the house.”
I touch my forehead against Mickey’s as we clasp one another around the back of the neck.
“Through to the bitter end, my friend.”
Mickey growls. “To the end, son. To the end.”
I step outside and head for the little hatchback. It still smells of Saoirse’s perfume inside. I want that to be my last memory if this is the end.
The tarmac in front of me shatters. I see it before I hear the bullet.
The warehouse parking lot is full of soldiers’ vehicles, so I dive behind the closest one. A voice shouts from the roof.
“Stay down!”
What is this? Amateur week?
The noise of carousing inside must have drowned out the shot. I wanted to give the men something to take their mind off the looming war, but I’m starting to regret my impatience.
The war’s already here.
Pulling the gun from the back of my jeans, I click the safety off.
I don’t have to wait long before I hear approaching footsteps crunching on the tarmac. Hunkering down behind a tire so he can’t get me by lying down, I concentrate on the sound.
The footsteps come close, then stop.
“It’s me, Feargal, Boss. Please don’t shoot.”
Double agent? Clever.
“Don’t be daft. It’s fecking shooting you I am, Feargal. Truth. Was that you on the roof?”
“Sure. I was standing guard up there. Declan’s given the orders for everyone to die. Everyone.”
“What equipment are you using?” Feargal’s no sharpshooter, but you don’t need to be with the high tech rifles they have now.
“The six-five Creedmoor. But I wasn’t aiming at you, Boss. You have to believe me.”
“Then who the feck were you aiming at?” Forgive me for being suspicious. Or sticking to my convictions, as I like to think of it.
“I couldn’t have you get close to the hatchback, Boss. They stuck a bomb underneath it.”
I’m screwed. If I crawl over to the hatchback to check if there’s a bomb, it gives Feargal the chance to shoot me—that’s if he doesn’t detonate the bomb first. And if I crawl over to his side to escape the bomb blast, he’ll shoot me anyway.
“I’m your man, body and soul, Finn. For Liam’s sake.”
“You swear on your Mam’s bones?”
“I swear on my Mam’s bones were she dead.”
When I try saying a quick Lord’s prayer or Hail Mary, I find that I’ve forgotten the words.
Ah, fuck it.
I creep over to Feargal’s side of the car. He’s hiding behind the other tire with the Creedmoor barrel pointing to the sky.
We bump fists.
I give the order. “Take it away.”
Feargal lies on his belly on the gritty parking lot floor and aims at the hatchback.
“Ready?” He checks to see that I’m hunkered down safely behind the back tire.
I give him the nod.
He pulls the trigger.
And the world turns red.
***
My ears are still ringing as the convoy escorts me to Woodside. There is a convoy, but it’s not made up of black SUVs with tinted windows.
Working class men surround my vehicle driving normal working class budget cars. We’re a pack, but we rove under the radar.
Feargal’s driving, but keeps giving me cautious glances.
“Sure this is the right move, Boss?” He talks overloud, the way people do after sitting a few yards away from an explosion.
I’m not going to hop over the brick wall of Patrick’s Woodside estate. This time, I’m going in the front entrance.
This is where I hope to find Saoirse. Where she’s concerned I have a bit of a sixth sense.
The Maguire loyalists are over in Sunnyside. Patrick was a great fool not to keep a few nearest and dearest close to him.
The Dugans came over to my side for a couple of fat stacks and the promise that I wouldn’t kill them. That was a fair exchange.
When you can still breathe, then there’s still hope.
And I hope against all odds that Saoirse is waiting for me inside.
Feargal hangs a hard left into the driveway, but our path is blocked by a cadre of soldiers carrying firearms.
I have Feargal’s fucking tinted windows to blame for that. I buzz it down and stick my head out.
“What’s the craic, lads?”
A few men cheer. They step forward to bump fists and salute.
“Is she inside?” That’s all I want to know.
“She didn’t come in this way.”
They’re too scared to say her name.
Saoirse.
Her name, her body, her existence, all belong to me.
I run all the different scenarios through my mind, crunch the data, and pull out solutions.
Saoirse might have teamed up with her Da. They could be waiting inside for me.
I check that a bullet is chambered in my Glock 19 and click off the safety. Standard search and destroy guerilla tactics from here on out.
Weapon held in two hands, pointing up, not down, pressing the barrel against the right side of my jaw.
Sidling sideways with my right shoulder leading.
Long, steady breaths to control my heart rate and heel-toe steps with no shuffling to prevent sneaker squeak.
The door is locked, so I use my left hand and the Dugans’ set of keys and passcodes to get inside. The entrance hall and the sweeping staircase beyond it stand empty.
When a person lies in wait, they give off an energy that shifts the feeling of the room. I’m not getting any of that.
I go in.
Next scenario. Patrick has taken Saoirse hostage.
Nah. He’s more likely to have killed her. Feargal made it clear that Declan had given the order.
I inhale and close my eyes so I can process the signals. It’s what predators do, and the biggest mistake my enemies made was to forget that.
No blood. The coppery iron fug of blood is hard to miss, but it’s missing here.
But I’m getting cologne.
That’s problematic. Cologne could mean that Patrick is prowling around.
Casting my mind back to the past, I categorize the various scents I would smell on Saoirse when she would come and meet me at the apartment over Damien’s bakery.
I would recognize those over the counter celebrity fragrances she wore from their intense fruity-flowery scent.
Her shampoo smelled of apples.
I got the occasional whiff of her Da’s cologne, not because he would hug her, but from all the times Saoirse would stack the washing machine with his clothes or carry his coats to the dry cleaners.
What I can sense right now isn’t any of those perfumes.
And that means I’m not alone.