I follow him into the warehouse, which carries a distinct and unpleasant scent. The other men walks behind me. Together in that single file line, we go to the very back of the building.
The younger man fiddles with a lock. When the bolt slides free, he pulls it open and steps aside to usher me in.
I nod my thanks and enter.
The moment I walk in, the smell of oil and metal fills my nostrils.
Sleek, shiny guns stare back at me from every nook and cranny. I’m spoiled for choice.
“We’ve got a variety of caviar for you,” the older man says pridefully as he slips in the room behind me. “Only the finest.”
“I can see that,” I rumble. “Good thing I came hungry.”
* * *
By the time I walk out of the warehouse, I’m armed and most definitely dangerous. My duffel bag rattles with fresh weaponry as I walk a few miles down the road and catch a cab back into the city.
Now that I have guns on me, I feel much, much better.
I have the taxi drop me off at a bar that Cillian mentioned a few times over the years.
The pub is typically Irish in façade. It’s got a distinctive sign out front that says “O’Malley’s” in a swirling Gaelic script. The paint job looks a little old.
But other than that, the place looks relatively well kept. Completely innocuous.
I walk in, bag and all, and sit myself down at the bar directly in front of the bartender. The man has an impressive ginger beard, but his hair is dark brown, the exact same color as his eyes.
He casts an appraising glance over me. His eyes linger on my tattoos as though he’s looking for signs.
“What can I get you, friend?” he asks, though his tone doesn’t suggest we’re friends at all.
“Beer,” I reply. “Guinness is fine.”
“Coming right up.”
As he fills my beer mug up to the brim, I survey the barroom. There are three men occupying one booth and a few lone customers hunched over their alcohol at single tables. Drunks, by the looks of them.
The men sitting at the booth are eyeing me curiously. I get the sense that if I ask them the right questions, I might get the answers I need.
“New in town?” the bartender asks.
“Brand new.”
“Ever been to Dublin before?”
“I haven’t even been to Ireland before,” I reply.
He drums his fingers on the beer tap. “Business or pleasure?”
He’s trying to be casual, but I can sense the underlying interest in my answers. “For some, business is pleasure.”
“Talking about yourself there, lad?”
I have no trouble understanding his thick Irish accent. Probably because Cillian had the same one when he first landed in the States.
Of course, he’d worked hard to lose his accent over time, but it brought back old memories.
Memories that make me very fucking angry.