“Don’t be stupid,” I say loud enough for everyone to hear. “We know who you people are. We know who you work for. I’m not here to murder anyone right now, but I’m not against it either. It’s been a long, challenging day, and I want answers.”
“I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about,” the barman says.
I reach forward, grab an empty glass, and hurl it at him. He ducks, but too slow. It glances off the side of his head and he grunts as it cracks into the bottles behind him, shattering some vodka. The room stinks like alcohol and blood as the barman reaches up, dabbing fingers to a bleeding wound above his ear. His white hair’s stained rusty with it.
“Try again,” I say. “We’re here to find Cillian O’Shea. If any of you know how to contact him, speak up now.”
“Nobody contacts Cillian,” one of the older guys at the bar says, a man with black hair and a sharp nose. “Just doesn’t fucking happen.”
“Mickey, you fucking moron, shut your fucking trap,” his friend says. A sensible bastard.
I nod to Nico, who steps forward and slams the butt of his gun down across the sensible bastard’s head. He grunts and topples back, falling to the floor with an ugly thud. He’s in his forties or fifties, and I wonder if he’ll survive. Doesn’t matter.
The young men at the booth bristle. “Any of you move and I start killing,” Gavino says. “You’re sardines in a fucking can right now. Easy prey. Stop your fucking complaining.”
Nico wipes blood off his gun.
“Shall we try this again?” I smile at the barman. He’s glaring at me as blood drips from between his fingers. “Cillian can be reached. I need contact information, and I need it now.”
Sharp Nose sits back, looking from his unconscious-and-maybe-dead friend and back to me. “You really fucked up now. You just knocked out Cillian’s uncle.”
“And what’s that make you? Queen of fucking England?” Gavino laughs at his own joke.
The barman glares at Sharp Nose though and something passes between them, some unspoken look, and Sharp Nose drops his head like he’s sorry now and shutting his damn mouth. “Nico, check our downed friend for a phone.”
Nico does it slowly. The tension’s so thick I could chew it. The barman doesn’t move, only bleeds. The young men watch, waiting for their chance to make a move. Gavino keeps his gun steady, level, and ready, staring at them, daring them to go Rambo. Nico comes back up with an iPhone after a moment, tries to unlock it, and has to physically open the downed guy’s eyes to finally make FaceID work.
“What name is he under?” I ask, not looking from the barman, but talking to Sharp Nose.
Sharp Nose says nothing. He stays very still as Nico flips through the contacts. “Nobody named Cillian in here. Lots of very suspicious names though.”
“Which one is it?” I raise my gun. “Might as well finish off this old fuck. Then I think we’ll start executing the young men, one by one.”
“He’s under Charlemagne,” Sharp Nose says, looking around wildly.
One of the young men groans. “You fucking idiot,” he snaps. “God, you fucking moron, Kyle Finnian, you worthless fucking piece of trash.”
“We’re done here,” I say and back toward the exit.
Nico follows, keeping his gun aimed and level. He keeps thumbing the screen, making sure it doesn’t time out. I reach the door first, but keep him covered as Nico goes out.
Gavino comes next. The young men bristle. The further away he gets, the better their chances. Gavino’s at the door and about to leave when they decide it’s time.
I shoot as the young man sitting on the edge of the booth dives out and draws a gun. It’s a good move, fluid and swift, and my first shot takes him in the thigh. He screams as blood splatters all over and his friends pull their weapons, diving every which way.
Gavino throws himself outside as the bullets start flying. I shoot back, killing one, his head rocking back before I stagger after, into the hot afternoon. Something sharp screams in my knee, and I realize it’s not from my injured muscles, but a bullet grazed right along my thigh. Blood drips down my leg as I half run, half stagger into the street. Nico’s at the car, the doors all open and waiting, and I’m stuck in the street when the Irish come after me.
I’m a sitting duck. The car’s five paces away, which are five too many. Gavino’s on my right, about to get in the back seat, and Nico’s crouched down on the other side of the hood. Nico shoots, and I hear a scream, one of the bastards drops in a bloody heap, but it’s not enough. Another step, another step. I hear the gunshots and feel them whiz through the air around me as I dive at the open front door.