Page 80 of Irish Reign

The guardhouse door opens quickly, without any caution. “You’ve been a stranger, Kel?—”

The rest of the guard’s greeting is blown away with his face. That’s why I like the Walther; it does a hell of a lot of damage at close quarters.

The guard slumps to the ground as the McLaren drills through the gate. I hope Russo’s neighbors have been bulldozed into accepting the sound of gunshots in the night.

Russo’s house is in the city. He doesn’t have a winding drive, the way I did at Thornfield. He doesn’t have gardens and a greenhouse and cottages for staff.

Instead, a circular driveway curves in front of his pile of brick. My Bentley sits in the middle, blocking an easy path to the door.

A straight leg of asphalt runs up the side of the house. Declan has flown drones over here plenty of times. He’s reported there’s a garage in back, big enough for four or five cars. And there’s a door into the back of the house—maybe an old servant’s entrance, maybe straight into the kitchen.

I’m happy to play the role of hired help.

Parking the McLaren close to the back door, I use the car’s body as a shield while I snug the Walther into my waistband. I’m racking the shotgun when the back door opens, framing a hefty shadow in a brick of yellow light.

“What the fuck, Kelly?”

The blast of the shotgun is even louder than I expect, echoing off the brick wall of the house. The recoil knocks me back a step, even though I’m braced for it.

A second guy appears in the doorway, gripping a pistol in both hands. He straddles the mangled meat that used to be his buddy, slipping in the mess. He can’t see much out here with the light at his back. His eyes dart left to right as he tries to pick me up. I raise the shotgun like it’s an extension of my own arm, ready for the recoil this time, and the second guy collapses in a rain of blood and bone.

I step over both corpses. The gears in my brain tick quietly, like an engine cooling in the night. Two hands of cards spread over the kitchen table. Two espresso cups sit in matchingsaucers. The dead men behind me were the only guards in the kitchen.

I rack the shotgun again and head into the house.

It’s an old home in the heart of the city. It’s built like all those colonials, with a central hall, rooms off either side. I clear each doorway like the trained killer I am, making sure no bogger will jump me from behind.

I know from the start where I’m headed. It’s the closed door at the front of the house. A study or a parlor or a den. Dim light glows beneath the door, an open invitation to anyone paying close enough attention.

I raise the shotgun to my shoulder. I test the brass of the doorknob with two fingers and a thumb. I take a deep breath, shoving back all my thoughts about Madden, about Samantha, about my craving for revenge. I’m a machine again, a carefully balanced pile of gears and wires.

When I throw the door open, I duck a little, putting my head where a sure shot will least expect it. I come up with the shotgun ready, sweeping the room for my first target. I take in the leather couch, the matching chairs, the desk as big as a destroyer.

But none of that matters. None of that means a thing.

Because Russo is standing against the far wall. And Samantha is standing in front of him. Naked. He’s got his arm around her throat and a pistol pointed at her head.

And she’s staring at me, her eyes full of terror.

40

SAMANTHA

Nothing makes sense.

One moment, Russo has me on my knees. His gun is in my mouth, stinking like acid rain on a field of nuclear waste. I can’t sob, can’t pray, can’t breathe, because I know what he did to Eliza. One twitch of his finger, and my brains will spray onto the wall. I picture him fucking my corpse with his pistol.

There’s a sound outside—the short sharp pop of a firecracker. But that’s not right; Independence Day was almost a month ago. It must be a car back-firing. That’s why I hear an engine racing.

Russo hears it too. His hand jerks at the sound, banging the pistol against my teeth. Terror squeezes bile onto the back of my throat, and I start to gag.

I don’t want Russo to be the last thing I see before I die—his cobra stare, his greasy lips, the knife-sharp edge of his jaw. I close my eyes and try to picture something else, anything else.

Braiden. If I have to die, he’s the one I want to see.

Braiden’s cobalt eyes, challenging me to stand tall. The quirk of his lips, like he’s holding back a smile. The stubble on his cheeks after a long day’s work, when his lips finds the tender spot beneath my ear, along my jaw, at the hollow of my throat.

There’s another blast, much closer than the first, and another. Russo yanks me by the hair, dragging me to my feet. His arm is tight, pulling my body close to his, and that gun—that stinking, freezing gun—is pressed against my temple. He jams the barrel into the spiderweb of scars he gave me when I was ten.

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