“Does it matter?” he snarls.
I laugh darkly. “You’re right. It doesn’t.”
He pulls to a stop outside the gates of a fancy compound. It’s sprawling, but nowhere near as luxurious as the one Stanislav owned.
I can see the smirk pulling at the corners of his mouth. He obviously thinks he’s got me cornered. Tables are turned, motherfucker, he’s no doubt laughing to himself. There are probably several dozen armed men on the inside, which will leave me indisputably outnumbered. Security cameras, armored doors, weapons hidden in every corner…
Big fucking deal.
The bartender looks at me out of the corner of his eye from the driver’s seat, probably wondering why I look so fucking calm right now.
“You’re going to just walk in there with me?” he asks as he rolls down his window and waits for the guard on duty to step out of his little hut.
I shrug. “This is what I came here for.”
“An audience with Ronan O’Sullivan?”
“That’s right.”
“Even if it costs you your life?”
I shrug again. “My life is not as important to me as you might think,” I reply. “Perhaps that’s a necessary part of being a good fighter. You can’t win if you’re scared of being killed.”
“Is that how you killed three men in a matter of seconds?” he asks.
“That,” I agree, “and I’m very fucking good at killing.”
I can see the grudging respect in his eyes as the uniformed security guard emerges from the outpost and saunters over.
The two men converse quickly. I can’t hear what they’re saying, but I’m not really paying attention anyway. I’ll end up inside one way or another.
The bartender turns to me. “He wants your name.”
“Tell him it’s Cillian O’Sullivan.”
The bartender’s eyes bulge, but when I don’t break my stony expression, he sighs and repeats the name to the guard.
I’m just hoping that the cameras won’t catch my image behind the sports car’s tinted windows. Any idiot would be able to tell I’m not who I just claimed to be.
I’ll never know for certain. But a minute later, the gates swing inward. We move inside, park, and get out of the car.
“Stop.”
An armed guard blocks my path, his eyes narrowed on me. He clutches his gun threateningly.
I yawn pointedly and wait.
Then the front doors of the mansion swing inwards on silent hinges. A small group of armed men pour out, but I know they’re just lackeys.
Did he come? I wonder. Did the sound of his son’s name call him out here?
For a second, I think I fucked up. That my plan has failed and I’m about to take a bullet to the skull courtesy of some underpaid stooge with a twitchy trigger finger.
And then he emerges.
A tall, grizzled man. Blond hair faded to snowy white.
But it’s the shock of his bright blue eyes that has me reeling for a second.