Page 54 of The Twins
I looked at Jamie, handsome and smart. Phil, built like a brick shithouse and sullen to boot. They were all in on it. This brothel…safe house, was just part of whatever they were up to. Whatever game they were playing, as Chelsea had put it.
“I want to see this kill wall…now.”
Andrew glowered, said nothing, then turned and walked toward the side of the house.
“You sure?” Finn asked, slipping his arm around my waist.
“Yes. I need to, now that I know about it.” I followed Andrew.
Cillian was on my left, Finn on my right.
“What are you going to do with the information?” Finn asked as we stepped onto the street and into the shade of the sycamore trees that lined the avenue.
“I don’t know yet. I haven’t got the information.”
“You know what we are now,” Cillian said.
I stopped and turned to him. “I know you’re fighters, that you believe in justice, and now I know that you are prepared to murder for your beliefs.”
“Kill,” he said. “Murder is different. These guys were sent here from the Devil, we just send them back to Hell. Where they belong.”
We started walking again. My mind was spinning. What on earth had I got involved in?Whohad I got involved with?
Chapter Twelve
Finn
Damn it. This was going way too fast. Supersonic. Cillian and I had never told anyone we’d dated about Galahad, yet here was our new woman, jumping down our throats about it.
She was piecing it all together in an instant.
And her big brain was still working. I could almost hear the cogs of her mind turning as we reached Andrew’s apartment block.
We rode the elevator in silence. I glanced at Cillian. He had the same steely expression I saw in my own reflection.
Andrew just appeared furious. He and Chelsea had been going strong. This was their first row to my knowledge, and it was a biggie. But at least he was open to showing Rebecca the kill wall. Perhaps, like us, he could see there was little point in arguing. It was easier to just show the headstrong beauty what was what.
Andrew unlocked his apartment door and ushered us in. It was clean and tidy, per usual, with polished floors, neat kitchen, and views of the city. But now it had a woman’s touch—a bunch of white peonies on the table, the scent of vanilla, and a pair of leopard print high-heeled stilettoes were tucked in the shoe rack.
“This way,” Andrew said.
We followed him to his study. He opened the door and went straight to a drink cabinet where he poured a good inch of whiskey. “There it is.”
Rebecca stopped in front of the wall. It was a mass of information. Photographs, mainly headshots, some with names, some without. There were names without pictures. Countriesand cities connected with pieces of string to some of the names and blank cards with question marks.
She moved to the center and peered at Ranson’s photograph that had a heavy black cross marking through it. Beneath it were several blank images, string linking them to Ranson and countries—Romania, Kosovo, Armenia, Albania—and then more names and photographs.
Albania had a cross through it.
“What do the crosses mean?” Rebecca asked.
“Dead,” I said. “No longer polluting the earth.”
She touched Albania; it had Candy Floss written on it now. “And this was Chelsea’s mother?”
“No, that was a woman who was dealing in young Albanian women. Bringing them to the UK on false pretenses and then allowing them to be drugged up so bad they could be raped day and night for money. That’s who Candy Floss was. Chelsea’s mother was impersonating her to bring these bastards down,” I said, desperate for Rebecca to understand. “Which we now know.”
She traced the string up to Ranson again and then down to Romania. “And is this who she was working with?”
