Page 71 of Beautiful Scar

The brick row home is nothing special.

We sit in silence and watch. Alexan occasionally takes photos with a long, powerful lens, but otherwise he says nothing. There’s only the clicking of the shutter and the sound of cars and human noises nearby. The city continues to churn around us, but all I can do is stare.

A long trail brought us here. Vito’s whisper network. Arsen and the Brotherhood’s underground connections. A dozen or more informants all pointed the finger at this simple, rundown house on a bad block far from McGrath power.

It’s past one in the morning. Baltimore’s struggling to get to sleep. And all I can think about is revenge.

“I want you to stay here.” I check my gun and slip it into the holster at my belt.

“You don’t know what’s in there.” Alexan’s frown is deep as he leans forward and peers at the windows. He lifts the camera and snaps a photo. “You might need help.”

“I need you ready to drive us back home.”

“Your brother told me to watch your back.” Alexan glances at me, head tilted to the side. “I’m not sure who to obey right now.”

“Obey the guy with the gun.” I glare at him and push the door open. “Stay in the car.”

He doesn’t argue as I stride across the street toward the shadows. I head around the block and find the narrow alley between the two houses, mostly blocked by fences. There’s a claustrophobic path, mostly just dirt and weeds strewn with beer cans, bottles, and needles, and I shimmy my way along it.

My heart’s a steady thump.

There’s no fear in me right now.

My cause is righteous. I look forward to murder.

But I pause when I reach the right backyard. I can still hear Dasha retching into the toilet after seeing my place. She apologized a dozen times, but it didn’t bother me at all.

Only I felt sorry for her. I could tell going into my room was an enormous step, and I was so proud that she took it all on her own. There’s clearly some block, some ugly stain on her past. Something to do with that scar on her face. And it’s the reason she’s afraid of the world.

But she’s changing. A little bit, step by step, and each time she goes a little bit further, my chest warms brighter.

I just don’t know why she got sick, and she doesn’t either. It worries me like a splinter in my eye. If there’s something going on with her, I need to figure out what, and I have to fix it.

I grab the edge of the fence. It rocks and creaks as I drag myself over and tumble down into an overgrown yard. I pause at the edge, staring at the black house in front of me, wondering again if this is the right place.

Ciaran McGrath’s safe house. Allegedly, at least. From what the whispers say, the twins have separate places just in case something goes wrong. Oisin is apparently better hidden.

Which makes sense. Ciaran’s the loud and brash twin. If either of them is going to give this address away, it’ll be that idiot.

And all I need is one.

I hurry to the back door, listening and watching for movement, but there’s nothing. I pick the lock, and the door creaks open to a messy kitchen. Vinyl floors, appliances that look like they’ve never been used. The place reeks of cigarettes. It’s almost overpowering. An ashtray on the table is overflowing with butts, and there are stacks of boxes in the corner filled with big tubs of protein powder.

The next room is a living area. Cheap couch, crates for tables. The rug is stained and burned in a dozen places. There’s nothing on the walls, only a big flatscreen TV, in decent shape considering the rest of the house.

Everything’s quiet. Nothing moves.

I head to the stairs. They make no noise as I go to the second floor. I keep myself calm and steady and ease the gun from its holster as I carefully peer up at the landing. I wait, listening carefully, before taking the last few steps quickly.

Gunshots crack the silent night, loud like planes taking off. Two bullets rip into the wall behind me, and a third thuds into myribs. I throw myself forward, rolling awkwardly into a bathroom as more bullets smash all around me, sending bits of plaster dust into the air. I jerk sideways, hiding behind the wall as the shooter unloads his clip.

Pain lances down my side. My breathing is shallow. Blood stains my clothes, leaking down my shirt. The bastard got me good. Too fucking good.

He was waiting for me.

I roar with rage when the shooting pauses and teeter out into the open, unloading my clip. There’s a door to my right, but the shooting came from straight ahead, another bedroom at the end of the hall. I charge toward it, firing steadily as I go, keeping count of the bullets.

But I feel weak and dizzy as I keep bleeding. I bang against the door, shouldering it sideways, and drop low seconds before he returns fire, lighting up where my head should’ve been.

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