Dublin, Ireland
The moment the plane touches ground in Dublin, I grab my duffel bag, hoist it over my shoulder and prepare to disembark. The curvy Irish stewardess who’s been sniffing around me the whole flight gives me a smile.
“Hope you enjoyed your flight, sir,” she says, honey coating her tone.
I nod brusquely and keep it moving.
I’m on edge. Have been since I boarded this flight.
Some might call it a suicide mission or a fool’s errand. Whatever fits, I guess. True, it’s a fucking long shot.
But it’s the only shot I’ve got left.
It takes me an hour to clear customs. When I step out of the airport, the fresh Irish wind hits me smack in the face. Green hills roll in the distance beneath a cerulean sky.
I feel Cillian’s absence more keenly than I’ve ever felt it before.
He should be here with me.
But even as I think it, I know that Cillian would never have stepped foot back in this country. It wasn’t a refutation of the land itself.
It was a refutation of the family that exiled him from it.
I bite back the anger for my best friend’s sake and unclench my fists. This is not the time for doubts. It’s not the time for old grudges, either.
It’s time for war.
I didn’t bother with booking myself into a hotel ahead of time. For all I know, I’ll be dead by nightfall.
Besides, my purpose is clear. Things must be done in their proper order.
I take a cab from the airport and drive out about an hour from the main city to an address that I’ve picked out from one of my old portfolios.
I feel strangely naked. Since I’d taken a commercial flight out here, I couldn’t travel with the usual arsenal of weapons that I would usually have with me. I was already flying under a fake identity I purchased in Mexico City, so the added scrutiny of a gun in my luggage would’ve been unnerving.
But it does mean that I’d be showing up on the devil’s doorstep without so much as a pocketknife to defend myself.
That won’t do.
I need to rectify the situation.
The cab stops outside an old warehouse-like building in the middle of nowhere.
“This is the place?”
“Aye,” the cabbie replies. He looks back at me. “You sure you know what you’re doing, son?”
I hand him the cash and get out without saying a word.
At the front entrance of the warehouse, I find two men smoking by the front façade. They straighten up when they see me. One stamps out his cigarette.
“You lost?” the older man asks. He’s got blue eyes that reminds me of Cillian and a sports cap that supports some team I’m not familiar with.
“I hear you sell quality caviar,” I enunciate clearly.
At the code phrase, both men raise their eyebrows. Their faces shift from suspicious to courteous at once.
“Come right on in, sir,” the younger man welcomes, jumping to his feet.