Page 95 of Irish Brute
So I do.
He’s bleeding like a firehose as I shove the scrap of his ear past his bleeding lips. I force him to swallow. “Who sent ya, shitehawk?”
He’s broken. He’s bleeding. I’m kneeling on his chest, and there isn’t a man in the tent who’s come to take me off him. He glares at me like an eagle being plucked, but he rasps, “The fucking cunt deserves it.”
The gun is just three strides away. The grip is cold in my hand, like it’s been left in a snowbank all winter long. I shove the barrel past his broken teeth, and then I pull the trigger.
41
SAMANTHA
Idon’t realize I’ve dropped the envelope until I see it on the floor of the tent. It’s spattered with blood, the spray the same color as the massive stamp: Time Sensitive. Eyes Only.
I can’t feel my fingers. I can’t move my toes.
A waiter sprawls on the ground, a dark crimson pool growing beneath his head. Braiden stands over the body, animal rage twisting his face.
The gun still rests between the man’s lips. I wonder if that’s how Russo left his Beretta when he shot Eliza.
I start shaking. I try to look away, but I can’t control a muscle in my body.
“Breathe,” Braiden says.
I’m not supposed to be here. I should be in my office, working. I should be in my cottage, putting together notes for an all-client memo that I’ll write tomorrow.
“Come on,piscín. Take a breath.”
Security called from the front gate. They said the envelope was dropped off by a courier. It’s addressed to Trap. The upper left corner says Federal Bureau of Investigation.
“You’re safe,piscín. No one can hurt you now.”
Someone planned all this. They lured me here. They wanted me in this tent. With that waiter. With that gun. They wanted me dead.
“A little help here?” Braiden calls over his shoulder.
The fucking cunt deserves it.
“Look at me.” Braiden uses that voice that snaps something in my soul. My gaze tears away from the body at his feet, and I find myself drowning in a sea of blue.
“Mo chailín maith,” Braiden breathes, and his arms are around me and his hand cups the back of my head, holding me close as my teeth chatter so hard I think they might chip.
Braiden turns, moving me with him. I can’t see the body anymore, can’t see the nightmare.
Somewhere to my left, Trap says, “Best?”
Sawyer takes out his phone. “I’m on it.”
And then Trap steps into my line of vision. “Sam?” he says. “Do you want me to call Alix? She can take you back to the house.”
Braiden’s arms tighten around me, and he growls something without words.
Trap ignores him. “If you’d rather go to the cottage, Alix can take you there.”
“She won’t be goin’ anywhere but Thornfield,” Braiden says.
Trap seems to have gone selectively deaf. “Sam. If you want to leave the freeport, just say the word. Alix can take you anywhere, or I will. Your choice.”
I hear the words. I understand them. But I can’t piece together what I want to say.
