Chapter 61
Brody
Kieran gave me the keys to his rental SUV and the address to the airfield, although I’d caught it from Ewan’s text. He’s piss drunk when I make the series of turns to the private airport where Ewan’s set to land. Kieran groans, clutching the dashboard. “I’m gonna puke.”
“Ye’re gonna die soon too. Nae worries about vomiting, mate,” I mutter, navigating a sharp turn. An empty runway stretches about a mile long at the private airport. I pray to God that Ewan has sent most of his clan on commercial flights. I don’t want to kill any women and children. He’s such a selfish bastard, though. I could see him stepping from his wee plane with his horde of guards only. Then I pray that Bawbag Hank is with him. I doubt Kieran punished the lad per his claim at the Irish pub.
I park on the outside of the gates.
“I’m fecking tired, Brody. Tell me when they get here, aye?”
“Aye.” I roll my eyes as he bunches his army green jacket into a ball, positioning it at the passenger window like a makeshift pillow.
Again, it strikes me as peculiar that Kieran’s so comfortable around me. We aren’t the same laddies anymore. Though, I’ll say the lad from the barbershop was not hired by Clan McFarland. I’ll give Justice that. But if I were a snitch, I’d not close my eyes in the presence of my opponent. I’d not turn my back on me either. The hangar is across from us, and I pull to a stop on the opposite side of a long stretch of road. My clan is in position, parked behind the white structure.
A half-hour later, as Kieran snores in my ear, a Learjet cuts through the pale-yellow sky, racing before the wee setting sun. I rub my hands together, reach over, and nudge Kieran with my elbow.
Kieran scrapes his hand over his face. “Thanks, mate.”
Nae, thank ye, bawbag.
About a half-mile out, Ewan’s private plane touches down on the asphalt, decelerating. My palms are itching to wrap around Kieran’s scrawny neck, feel his pulse weaken. At the hangar doors, the small plane has glided to a halt just inside the massive garage’s entrance. We get out of the Lincoln and stroll over the shortest width of the airstrip. Kieran pulls his hair into a loose bun, muttering about an ax-splitting headache.
“Eh,” I grunt, giving him the once-over. With a dingy shirt stretching across his muscles and unkempt jeans, I guess there’s a slight chance he’s strapped. The fecker once wore suits, hid all sorts of weapons. I’m a fecking snake, and now, I’ve promised to survive for Justice Flowers, which decreases the likelihood of me dying. It’s not that I’m thinking like a pussy—still don’t mind dying or anything—but I’d ache for her pussy in the afterlife. Either way, the merciless death of Kieran’s innocent father is Clan MacKenzie’s blessing. This motherfecker’s a wreck. Taking him down will be easy.
My narrowed eyes slide away from him as we pass the wide threshold into the hangar. A maintenance exit is at the rear. Farther toward the back, it’s darker, and I notice a strip of sunlight along the buffed flooring. Clan popped the lock, and they’re awaiting my signal. We can’t have the slimeball jetting away at the sight of too many MacKenzies. Much of the garage area is free of clutter. There’s only one area for my clan to hide—behind a metal storage rack that’s on the opposite side of the plane—and that’s pushing it.
An electronic whirling sound kicks off. The door to the private plane descends.
A lad I’ve never seen before dips his head outside the Learjet, hard dark eyes tracking between us. Gripping the AK-47 slung over his shoulder, he gestures to Kieran.
“Who is he?” Ewan’s stone-faced guard growls in a Russian accent.
Kieran sneers. “Do ye fecking see me with heat? Nae! That there’s Brody fecking MacKenzie. Ye’re on Clan MacKenzie territory. Stop it.”
By now, the Russian and I’ve entered a pissing contest. The way I see it, the motherfecker wants my eyes to lower since he’s brandishing a weapon. With my hands twitching at my side, I glare through him as he stomps down the steps.
Russian number two follows behind him, gun trained, tiny black eyes boring through us.
“Nae, this isn’t MacKenzie territory.” Ewan’s voice can be heard from the background as a third fecking Russian comes bounding out of the plane, same fecking blockhead, packing the same heat.
Since I’m standing closest to the plane's nose, I’ve a better view of the entire area. Hair slicked back, Blythe pops his head from the side of the storage area, AR rifle in hand. I’ve not given the signal since Ewan is a slippery motherfecker. Something tells me the arsehole has more than a trio of Russians.
“This is McFarlands’ land. The entire country is McFarland land.”
I still haven’t gotten my eyes on Ewan. Another blockhead steps up behind the third one.
I clear my throat, playing the cards they dealt me until I set eyes on the devil himself. “Uncle Ewan, this is how ye welcome the lad who’s to marry yer daughter?”
“Step back!” The Russian sneers.
Kieran leans a shoulder against the side of the plane.
Ewan calls out. “Sweep the area, Ivan.”
Ivan descends the stairs. I step forward, staring straight down the barrel of his gun. “I don’t fecking think so. Ewan, did I come to yer home like this? Nae fecking respect?”
“Aye,” he barks out.