I march through the house feeling like my head could pop off my shoulders with the pressure, Brad and James yelling after me, pulling everyone from whatever they’re doing around the house. Mum comes out of the kitchen, drying her hands on a tea towel. Those fucking tea towels. I wrench the door open and stomp down the steps. “Which one?” I shout, getting no answer to my question. I turn by the cars. “Which fucking car?” I bellow, my lungs draining, my body quaking.
“First,” Ringo says, tossing a set of keys at me. I catch them and go straight to the trunk, opening and pulling out the first gun I can lay my hands on.
“Fuck, Danny, wait!” Brad yells.
I jump in and skid off, looking up at my rearview mirror. Brad’s going apeshit, up in Ringo’s face, fisting his suit. James is walking calmly to the next Mercedes.
I flash my lights as I approach the gates, and Bud opens them. I pass through. Slow at the entrance. Look both ways.
It doesn’t take me long to decide which direction I’m going in. I spin the steering wheel to the right and floor the gas, heading toward town. I flick the stereo on. Laugh when Frankie starts singingRelaxto me. Light up a cigarette. Focus on the road, overtaking car after car, my driving smooth and calm but really fucking fast.
I see his Bentley up ahead. Take one more, long drag of my cigarette, flicking it out of the open window collecting my gun from the passenger seat, resting it in my lap. I overtake one last car and pull in behind Sandy, flashing my lights. He starts to slow. Signal.
He pulls over at the side of the road and gets out, looking back at me. I slip out calmly, gun in hand, and walk toward him, lifting my arm, watching as his face falls into confusion.
I squeeze the trigger, but the car that screeches up behind catches me off guard, and I swing around, my finger loosening. It’s not Brad or James or any of my men.
Russians.
For the first time since I left Rose in the bathroom, the fog clears. I look back and forth between Sandy and the other men, surrounded.
Outnumbered.
They all lift their guns at the same time, like Sandy’s pressed the start button on his men. I inhale. Time slowing, my brain slowing with it.
The first shot catches me on my arm, knocking me back onto the bonnet of my car. The second in my thigh. The third in my shoulder. I lay on my back on the hood of the Mercedes, looking up at the blue sky, wondering... is this it?
Has my lack of control killed me?
I feel the tip of a gun pushing into my forehead.
I breathe in.
Close my eyes.
Bang!
“You stupid, stupid fuck!” James growls.
My eyes ping open, just in time to see his raging face before I’m yanked to the ground. “Fuck,” I choke.
“You hurting?” James asks, his own face screwing up as he lifts and looks over the roof, firing.
“A bit.” A fucking lot.
“Good.”
A plume of dust blows up, and Brad skids down the side of the car, joining us. “You stupid, stupid fuck.” He rises, fires, and drops back down to his arse next to me. “If we get out of this alive, you’re dead.”
“Otto flies around the back of the car, landing at my feet. I wait for what words of kindness he might throw my way. He doesn’t need words; his look says enough, but he speaks anyway. “If you die, I die.”
“That’s very honorable of you,” I wheeze, trying to lift my gun. I can’t. My arm is dead.
“Not honorable, son. Just a very real threat from your mother.”
“Good old Mum,” I quip, my feet slipping all over the stone as I try to get up. “Where the fuck is he?” I soon drop back to my arse when bullets start hitting the side of the car.
“Driving off into the sunset.” James rests back, looking up at the sky, exhausted. In pain. I’m with him.