Chapter 42
JOE
To say my morning has been an absolute fucking shit-show is a grossly hideous understatement. It would have been easier if Walsh had cornered me and buggered me up the arse with VapoRub as lubricant.
There was no way that I could deny the footage of AJ climbing out of Moore’s turned-over car, and his bloodied body twisting right into the barrel of the gunmen waiting for him. The footage was as clear as day.
I don’t know if it was seeing AJ injured, the abduction itself, or the fact that he can be heard calling her name like a desperate plea for someone to watch over her, right before the van doors were slammed shut and the vehicle sped away, but Katie had to be heavily sedated to calm down after witnessing the traumatic event.
She pulled cannulas from her arms in a frenzy, causing blood to spurt everywhere.
She practically rugby tackled a nurse, which, with four broken ribs, bruised and battered, was no small feat.
The hospital staff had to call security to restrain her before she could be safely sedated and treated for her injuries.
Since seeing Walsh’s men take her ex-husband away, éabha has experienced a similar, but less severe, reaction.
She hasn’t tackled anyone yet. I’m no fool.
I know that despite everything AJ put éabha through, some warped part of my wife still loves the man—not romantically, of course.
The type of love that can only be formed from years of similarly traumatic history and shared experiences.
I’ve tried to keep my mind preoccupied. I’ve tried everything I can think of to keep my fingers busy, but much like an itchy ball sack on a hot summer day, the urge to scratch is impossible to ignore.
I keep finding that video, or it keeps finding me.
I’m unsure if it’s an unconscious desire to punish myself, or if the damn thing has gone so viral in the last twenty-four hours that it simply cannot be avoided.
Something is just not sitting right with me.
This is too orchestrated.
Too brash.
Not like David Walsh’s usual sloppy signature.
The carpark is dimly lit and silent, except for the flickering fluorescent light above.
I want nothing more than to just stay here.
I don’t want to drag my arse into Moore’s office to see whatever the hell he called me in to witness.
I’ve got a niggling feeling that whatever it is is going to drive this tension headache I’ve had all day up a notch, or ten.
Steeling myself, still white-knuckling the steering wheel, I take a deep breath and force myself to step out of the car.
Passing familiar faces in the corridors as I’m led back to Moore’s office, I can’t shake the feeling of dread creeping up my spine like a slimy, engorged leech.
As I enter the office, I see Moore standing by his desk with a grim expression, confirming my suspicions that whatever the hell is going on is far from pleasant.
“Oh God,” I turn my back on my old partner, bracing myself for the bombshell he’s about to drop. “He’s dead.”
“He’s…” Moore trails off, his voice barely above a whisper. “He…” He curses under his breath before finally meeting my gaze. Moore says nothing else, slowly lowering his finger to the mouse pad on his desk and clicking on a video file with his name on it.
Nothing but static fills the screen before a grainy image of a man tied to a chair comes into view. His arms are bound behind his back, and his head is covered with a black hood—much like the way Katie described her abduction.
The figure does not struggle against his restraints. He does not budge a single inch. I take a moment to view his surroundings—dark, dull, and eerily quiet. “It looks like the inside of a warehouse,” I think to myself, noticing the concrete walls and dim lighting.
“Thought so too,” Moore concurs, chewing his lower lip.
“We linked in with the criminal assets bureau; they’re checking Walsh’s records for any properties matching this description.
So far, they have seized three houses and frozen his bank accounts; he’s not going to have anywhere to hide for long. ”
My gaze focuses on the footage again; something about the angle of the figure’s head gives me the impression that he’s waiting, listening to his surroundings. An AJ Quinn move if I’ve ever seen one. The viper is always ready to strike when the opportunity presents itself.
Why do I want this bastard to win?
Why do I want the man responsible for putting my wife behind bars to be the one to come out on top in this game of cat and mouse?
Better the devil you know, I suppose.
A pair of legs come into view, momentarily blocking out the figure in the chair before they make their way to him, revealing AJ’s snarky, grinning face. “Dinner would have been nice,” he quips, looking up at his captor, completely unfazed by the situation.
A door opens and slams shut somewhere behind the camera. “AJ!”
Grey eyes snap to whoever is off camera, his smirk morphing into a scowl. The name rolls off AJ’s tongue as if he were spitting out venom. “Walsh.” His glare could sauter a man in two. “Be a dear and release my binds. I would very much like to strangle you.”
Moore grunts, calling AJ every single name in the book, even going as far as inventing a few of his own.
There is not an ounce of fear behind that steely gaze, just unbridled, unyielding hatred.
I catch the slightest glimpse of movement behind AJ’s back; he’s working his restraints with nimble fingers, something that has, so far, gone unnoticed by his captors.
“You can’t kill me,” Walsh taunts, still not in range of the camera. “Don’t you know who I am?”
“You’re nothing, David,” AJ responds calmly, his eyes never leaving Walsh’s.
“A festering case of crotch rot that refuses to go away. And I’m the cure.
” A large, toothy smile spreads across his face, just as Walsh’s masked minion pistol whips him across his blood stained face.
AJ’s head snaps to the side, but he quickly recovers, the smile never leaving his lips as he turns back to face Walsh, spitting blood in his direction. “That tickled.”
The door to the office flies open, a nervous garda stands in the doorway with a folder. “Boss,” he shoves the folder in Moore’s direction, distracting me momentarily. I turn back to the screen just as Moore snatches the folder and begins to review its contents with a furrowed brow.
Fuck, I missed something. Can’t be anything too important. Name calling mostly, AJ keeps goading Walsh to buy himself time. Just as I refocus on the screen, AJ snaps free of his binds, springing to his feet like a predator that has broken free of its cage.
There is a struggle between AJ and the masked man who pistol whipped him. Ok, I’m being generous. The idiot makes a swing for AJ and is quickly disarmed and cracked over the head with his own weapon.
AJ turns the gun on who I can only assume is David Walsh.
I hear the distinctive click of the safety being released as a pair of legs, part of a torso, and an armed hand appear on screen.
“You’re dead, Quinn! Dead!”
“You first,” AJ responds coolly, his finger tightening on the trigger only for it to click empty when he attempts to fire.
Something flashes in AJ’s eyes—not quite fear, not quite anger.
Whatever whirlwind he’s feeling has him launching himself at David Walsh, knocking over the camera, and leaving me to guess what the hell is happening, judging by the sound of flesh hitting flesh and grunts of exertion.
A shot sounds, sending my stomach sinking to my rectum.
The screen goes black, leaving me with the same nausea and unease as Moore must have felt when he first watched this.
There has been no sign of Aiden Quinn since his abduction.
If he got away, if he managed to overpower David Walsh and escape, he would run home to Katie because she is the only thing on this earth that man loves more than himself.
I turn slowly, eyeing the folder in Moore’s hand just as he snaps it shut with a twinkle of hope in his eyes. “We have an address,” he all but barrels through the doorway, screaming orders for every free garda to follow him to the location.
I’ve never witnessed a precinct clear out as rapidly as a burst dam releases water.
I’m left standing there, dumbfounded. What the hell do I do? I’m not a garda anymore; I handed in my badge. But fuck me if I’m not invested in this case.
Pulling out my phone, I quickly dial my boss and hope to God that he knows what to make of this shitshow.
“Craig!” I exclaim as soon as he picks up.
It all comes out as stuttered, nonsensical rambling that he seems to be able to decipher.
I imagine he has had to get used to unintelligible rantings from having three kids at home.
“Fuck, is he dead?” Craig asks, interrupting my panicked monologue.
“I don’t know, man,” I reply, feeling a wave of dread wash over me. “What do I do? Do I go? Do I not go?” I glimpsed the address right as Moore snapped it shut; I know exactly where the warehouse is located.
Craig knows AJ, as does Jay. I wouldn’t go as far as to say they’re friends, but much like my wife, the lads have history with him. They’ll want to know what happened.
“Go; find out what you can. I’ll keep éabha busy in the office for the time being.” How the hell he manages to always keep his calm in situations like this is beyond me. “Just be careful; Walsh might still be there.”
I hang up, unsure if I even said anything or just nodded my head, assuming he could see it through the phone, and run out the door.