How long will I be held here? How long will I be his prisoner?
And why do I wish he won’t let me go?Chapter ThirteenKeenanI’m fucking done with contracted hits. Done.
And not just because tonight’s yanked me out of a taste of perfection with Caitlin. Mack Martin’s group is well known for contracted hits, but their work is sloppy and haphazard. Last year, one of his men performed half a dozen hits, a Clan record in Ireland, and the fucking wanker marked every one of them with a slash of blade on the back of his kills. The police found him on the seventh, and easily linked each one of the deaths he’d marked. The Martin’s worked hard to ensure that none of the blame fell on them, but as insiders, we knew better.
“No more hits,” I tell Carson. “For fuck’s sake. The only hits we do from here on out are for retribution.”
“Aye, boss,” Carson says. “That’s what this is, though.”
Well that’s a horse of another color.
“Not a contracted hit?” How’d I miss the details on that? Is the girl affecting me? Have I lost my focus?
“Nossir,” he says, opening the driver’s side door and sliding in. He clicks the locks so I can ride. “Patrick O’Conner’s owed The Clan three million dollars since before the new year. Your father gave him until yesterday to pay, and Boner caught him trying to flee the country.”
Son of a bitch. I should fucking know this.
“And why didn’t you tell me this before?” I ask. I fucking hate being left out of important details. Carson’s eyes widen, and he shakes his head.
“We did, Keenan. Yesterday.”
Christ. The girl is affecting me.
I don’t respond.
“Our plan?”
“Boner’s got him in lockdown and Tully’s prepared to finish the job.”
“He’s been punished?”
“Thoroughly. Begging for them to end him now.”
I don’t respond. I can envision already what’s happened and what will. And it doesn’t bother me. It should. It fucking should. No matter who I am or what I do, I won’t allow myself to become immune to the brutality we inflict, we endure, and the lives we take. As Clan leader, when I rise to that role, I’ll keep myself sharp.
We’re off site tonight, and I almost wish we weren’t, that we would do what we had to in the interrogation room, right here on our property. As soon as I’m able, I want to get back up to Caitlin. To touch her. Speak with her. And somehow, some way, be cleansed of tonight’s deeds with her purity and simple candor.
Just yesterday, I wished I’d be sent on a mission of violence, one I could control and manipulate with my own bare hands, but this time I’m glad I’m only here as witness. I don’t want to touch the unsullied girl with blood-stained fingers. Not tonight. Christ, not tonight.
We pull into the parking lot of an abandoned warehouse, one of the very few on the outskirts of Ballyhock, and in silence leave the vehicle. The gun I’m carrying has a silencer, and though I hope I don’t have to use it tonight, I’m prepared. I pull on gloves, check my weapon, and march to where my men wait by the warehouse.
Tully and Boner are inside, but Nolan waits with a few of my other men by the door. Nolan’s fucking sober this time, for once. He nods and opens the door. Though we do what we have to, not a one of us is immune to the taking of a life when necessary, and few of us like it.
“Keenan,” Nolan acknowledges me as I pass.
“Any word?” I ask, code for asking if we’re clear. No one’s followed us, no one’s tapped us, the man we’ll execute tonight’s not brought baggage with him.
“No word,” Nolan confirms, walking in with me.
I enter the warehouse, my feet leaden. I never feel like this. I thought I’d grown immune to the taking of a life, even enjoyed the power and control fulfilling an assignment gave me. But tonight feels different. Perhaps Caitlin’s affected me in more ways than I’ve realized.
I hear the man’s cries before I enter the room.
“Shut it,” I snap. “You brought this on yourself, and I don’t want to hear you blubbering like a fucking child.”
I take it all in in seconds. The man on his knees, arms tied behind his back, his face beaten beyond recognition. Though his eyes are swollen shut, tears still manage to leak down his bloodied face. Tully’s bare from the waist up, his muscles covered in a fine sheen, glistening under the overhead lighting. His clothes are neatly folded, tucked under Nolan’s arm. He doesn’t want to harm his clothing. His fists are covered in blood, his eyes cold and uncompromising. He nods to me without turning his head.
“Boss.”
“You’ve something to say for yourself?” I ask the man in front of Tully. He only sobs louder.