Chapter 21
TWENTY-ONE
Lochlan
Three weeks of hiding out in condemned shitholes, and I’m starting to think most rodents have better living conditions than I do.
The latest place where we’ve set up camp is an apartment building in the Bronx and—you guessed it—a condemned shithole like the others. It makes Grandpa Finn’s estate seem like the Four Seasons.
Graffiti covers every wall. The windows are boarded up with plywood that’s rotting at the edges, and there’re rats the size of cats that scurry past your ankles.
The whole place smells like mold and piss and the dried blood of whatever poor bastards got gunned down here six months ago.
That’s why the city wants it demolished—some gang-related shooting that made the news and embarrassed the local council. They want to tear it down and pretend it never happened, which means the demolition crew won’t be by for another few weeks.
Robby’s the one who knew about it. His dirty cop connections keep us one step ahead of the law, or so he says.
It’s the third place we’ve crashed at in three weeks. Anything to stay on the move and off the radar of my brother and the clan.
I’m sitting on a stained mattress in what used to be someone’s living room, back against the wall and laptop open on my thighs.
The box fan in the corner is doing fuck all against the May warmth that’s brought higher spring temperatures, driving home the point that a condemned building like this doesn’t have centralized AC.
Every time I shift position, my stomach aches in protest. An immediate reminder I took two bullets three weeks ago and maybe I should be resting instead of running a full-scale operation.
But resting is for people who don’t have family to destroy.
I’m composing the latest round of intel drops to the Ferreras while Akio’s in the far corner working more IT magic.
Most of the others, like Aleksei and Marco, are out doing my bidding.
We’re in the final stages of our plan against the Callahan Clan, gearing up for our big move. The thought process is to catch Ronan and his guys off guard like they caught us. Strike when he’s out for a night on the town, enjoying himself.
He just so happens to be attending Senator Banks’s upcoming donor gala. The perfect opportunity to make my last stand against him and the Callahans.
Somebody knocks at the door. Three sharp raps that come in quick succession. I already know who it is, giving Akio a nod to go ahead and open up.
Dr. Hino steps inside, looking as matter-of-fact and businesslike as usual.
He’s a petite man who’s never seen without his fedora and large, oversized glasses. Both make him look like he’s some character in a 1940s noir film.
He marches into the room with his leather doctor’s bag and sets to work without so much as a hello.
For once, I’m the more polite person in a situation.
“Afternoon, Doc,” I say. “Nice to see you again.”
“Mr. Callahan,” he replies aloofly with a rigid nod. “I see no progress has been made. You are looking as terrible as last time.”
A slight grin slants onto my face. “Always a straight shooter, Doc. But I’m aware I look like shit.”
He begins pulling his tools out of his bag and gestures vaguely at me. “Remove the shirt.”
I comply, yanking the plain T-shirt over my head and sitting up straighter for his exam. The still-healing wound in my stomach stings when I move too abruptly; the stitches pull tight as if overly strained and about to bust.
None of which has stopped me from my work. But it damn sure hasn’t helped either.
Hino assesses me with sharp eyes behind his large glasses. “You’ve been moving too much. The stomach wound is inflamed. If you tear these stitches, the damage will not be something I can easily repair.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
“You won’t,” he says bluntly. He moves on to the tender flesh on my shoulder from where I’d also taken a bullet that night.
As he prods me, I hiss through my teeth, trying to absorb the pain.
The doctor’s nonplussed. “You’ll continue pushing yourself until you collapse, and then you’ll expect me to fix whatever mess you’ve made of yourself. This is the pattern with men like you.”
“Men like me are the reason you can afford that nice house in Westchester, Doc.”
“Men like you are the reason I have gray hair.” He starts wrapping fresh bandages. “I’m recommending another two weeks of bed rest. Minimal movement. No strenuous activity.”
I let out a short, humorless laugh. “Yeah, I’ll get right on that. Maybe I’ll take up knitting while I’m at it.”
Hino doesn’t respond this time. He’s apparently reached his word limit, which shouldn’t be surprising. There have been times he’s visited me and didn’t utter more than two sentences the entire visit.
It’s to be expected of the freelance Japanese doctor.
This is strictly work for him—he has no allegiance to any crime family and doesn’t get personal. It’s what makes it so ironic that most of the crime families enlist his medical services in dire times of need.
Across the room, Akio’s hunched over a folding table covered in tech equipment we’ve brought with us everywhere.
Stuff like laptops and routers and a large ball of tangled cables he’s been sorting through since morning.
He’s been in charge of digital setup since we left my grandpa’s estate a couple weeks ago.
Even while on the run, you need access to essentials like secure Wi-Fi and encrypted communications.
“Hey, Doc,” Akio calls out without looking up from his work. “How’s Kai doing these days?”
Hino’s reaction is so subtle you’d never know it was his prized son Akio’s asking about. The one who’s in the Yakuza and has a vicious reputation.
The doctor’s hands pause slightly in the middle of wrapping my new bandage, then he carries on as if no question’s been asked of him.
“My son is fulfilling his duty. It keeps him busy… and calling me for medical services much like Mr. Callahan does.”
“Yeah, I bet,” answers Akio dryly. “Kai’s always been all about making moves. Used to run a market on our classmate’s lunch money as kids.”
Hino merely grunts. Then promptly packs up as soon as he’s done with my bandages.
“Two weeks, Mr. Callahan,” he says. “Whatever vendetta you’re seeking can wait until the wound has healed.”
“Duly noted, Doc.”
He vanishes from the rundown apartment within seconds.
Akio waits until the door’s closed before glancing over at me, his untidy hair falling across his brow and partially into his eyes. “His son’s an asshole.”
“You go back?”
“All the way back. Training wheels back.”
“Figured,” I answer. “He have something to do with what happened to your family?”
Akio shrugs as he returns to his work station. “Yes and no. Depends on whose version of the story you hear.”
I lean back against the cracked wall and turn over Akio’s words. It’s funny because they apply to more than his past with Kai Hino.
They apply to everything I’ve been going through too.
If you ask my brother—or our piece of shit selfish father—they’d tell you I’m misled. I’m the one in the wrong to feel betrayed and want revenge for what they’ve done to me.
Then there’s my version. The version I like to believe is the truth.
The brutal, fucked up reality that my family hung me out to dry and were fine moving on when my corpse wasn’t even cold yet. They took out my son to save a stranger who just married into the family.
The same can be applied to another situation I’ve found myself in.
To the outside world, things between me and Chantal would be viewed as demented.
I would be viewed as a monster for taking this young woman and keeping her captive for weeks. If they heard the grizzly details about what transpired while Chantal was in my custody, they’d say I was a bad man that deserves the worst.
…can’t say they’d be wrong.
But what I can say is what went on between me and Chantal wasn’t so black and white. Our version of the story is a lot more gray as lines blurred and feelings developed.
Feelings I’ve spent three weeks trying my damnedest to let go of; feelings that refuse to go the fuck away no matter how hard I try to force them to.
The authorities haven’t come busting down the door and hauling me off to prison. Which means Chantal’s protecting me and my identity.
Ronan and the clan were a given—they’d always want to handle beef independently of the law.
But the fact that Chantal hasn’t gone to the authorities and sang like a canary means something, right? It means she doesn’t want me caught; she doesn’t hate me.
What we had going was real. How could it not be when it felt like it was?
The apartment door swings open, and in comes Marco looking less polished than usual. He’s got a few strands out of place when normally his hair is basically gelled down with super glue. Sweat gleams from his brow, and he’s got visible armpit stains on the light-blue button-down shirt he’s wearing.
“It’s a fucking scorcher out there,” he puffs, wiping at his forehead. “But we got the cargo moved, boss. The Callahans’ll never find it.”
“Good. About time you do something useful,” I snipe.
Marco cracks up. “No need to bust our balls! We’ve earned our paychecks. Well, except maybe Robby. You know he’s out by the SUV right now getting chewed out by Aleksei? He almost fucked it up for us today.”
“What else is new?” Akio asks from his workstation.
I carefully rise from where I’ve been sitting with the laptop. “You seen my burner? I haven’t seen it since we left that abandoned auto shop we were staying in. I need it to place some calls for our big strike at the donor’s event.”
“You check the laptop bag?” Marco asks.
“I checked everything.”
His eyes sweep over the room, bouncing from wall to wall, then he snaps his fingers.
“You know what? When we were packing up at the auto shop to come here, Robby was stuffing a bunch of shit in his backpack. Everything was so chaotic I told him grab what he could. Maybe your phone got tossed in by mistake.”
It’s a reasonable enough suggestion.