But our track record is damn near perfect.
“If this is it,” I say, “I’m honored to die alongside you lot.”
A collective murmur of agreement rises in the air. I turn back to the death squad standing in front of us.
We don’t have a fucking prayer. Which is probably why the Kinahans don’t seem in a hurry to start the fight.
They’re the types who want to play with their food before they eat.
If that’s the case, they’ll find that I’m poison.
I hear movement behind me, the scraping scratch of one dragging foot. I glance to the side and spot Kian, stepping into place by my side.
“Are you fucking serious?” I growl, giving him some major side eye.
He gives me a noncommittal shrug. “You need all the help you can get.”
I can’t help but glance back towards the window where I left Saoirse. I only allow myself two seconds to look and in that time, I don’t manage to spot her.
“You’re just gonna die with the rest of us,” I hiss.
Kian smiles. “Always wanted a glorious death.”
“What’s glorious about this?” I demand.
“Fighting alongside my big brother is as glorious as it gets.”
“Jesus,” I say, shaking my head. “You’re a big fucking softie.”
“Wonder where I get it from,” he drawls.
I almost smile. Then I notice the line in front of us start to part slowly to allow someone to pass through.
“Who is this?” I whisper under my breath.
The man that emerges from behind the Kinahan line is almost as tall as I am, but he’s slightly hunched so he appears shorter.
He’s bulky on top, but his narrow waist and tapered legs make him look almost comical. All top-heavy. Hulking.
And fucking grotesque.
Half his face is melted, disjointed, and frozen in place. Like someone smashed it to bits and rearranged it again with a blindfold on.
“Fuck me,” Kian wheezes, his eyes going wide.
“Do we know this guy?” I ask.
Kian looks at me in shock. Maybe the expression in his eyes is what makes me realize that I do know this guy.
Of course I do.
“Brody fucking Murtagh,” I whisper.
The boy—though he’s a man now, I suppose—walks forward until he’s standing just a few feet away. His dark eyes run over me as though the very fact that I’m standing straight makes him resentful.
It appears the rumors are true.
Brian Murtagh has sculpted the broken remnants of his son into a monster.