Page 120 of Three Irish Kings
It’s like taking in a breath of fresh mountain air every time I see her.
Then Liam’s text comes through.
Do it. It’s bad. Children.
The wrong and unpleasant kind of shiver runs through me.
Cormac employs the worst of the worst because he wants men without honor, men without conscience. He wants them to do all the awful things he asks without batting an eye. Recently, Cormac has gotten into sex trafficking, but even he is against it being children.
I can only assume this Thomas isn't so discerning.
I’m still annoyed about the job, but at least it’s one I won’t mind doing. Might actually enjoy it, if I'm honest with myself.
Losing a piece of my soul is worth it when it allows me to deal with scumbags like this.
I place my gun in the sheath at the small of my back, hidden under my shirt. I stick a knife in my front pocket, just in case.You never know when someone will get close enough to slide a blade between your ribs.
I’m not nearly as good with knives as Dare is, but years of underground fighting have calloused my knuckles, made me a pretty hard hitter. I can hold my own in hand-to-hand, and use a blade if I have to.
Guns are just... easier. Less intense. Faster. Like the kill is removed, somehow, less personal. I’ve had my fair share of close-contact kills, but when I use bullets, the kill is cleaner.
However, since this fucker ruined my day, and considering his line of business, I might make an exception for him.
I park half a mile away from the location, walking casually up the street with my hands in my pockets. Since I don’t want anyone to notice that I’m on a mission, I keep my pace casual and approach the building, a small apartment complex.
The place is crumbling everywhere, leaks in the ceiling, peeling wallpaper, sticky floors.
I’m looking for 2B, and I find it on the second floor.
Whatever Cormac is paying him, it’s clearly not enough.
Maybe this guy doesn’t deal in kids; maybe he gets his kicks out of them.
Either way, I want to make it hurt.
I crack my knuckles as I press my back flush against the wall next to the door.
Reaching over, I knock three times, pause, and then two more times. It usually works if someone is hiding out.
Sure enough, the door opens, and I strike, grabbing him around the throat with one hand and forcing him back into the house.
He chokes, and I kick the door shut with my foot.
I could have just as easily popped him in the head with my gun and silencer, but this feels better.
This is what he deserves.
He’s a sallow thing, about half my size, wide, watery blue eyes looking up at me, pleading. “Please. I have a wife and kids.”
“Doesn’t look like it. And even if you do, they’re better off without you.”
“I can show you pictures of my kids, please?—”
I squeeze my hand around his throat, cutting off his words and his air supply.
Pressing my nose to his, I hiss, “I don't care to see any pictures of kids you've got to show me, pervert.”
I drop my hand, and he clutches at his throat, sucking in air.
