Page 26 of The Celtic Resolution
“Shit!” Saoirse throws herself back behind the wall, panting. “I don’t suppose there’s a chance we can talk them down?”
“Doubtful.” I dart upward and fire quickly, finally hitting one of the men camped out in the window of the tailor shop. “They don’t seem to give a shit about talking.”
“Think they knew you were coming?”
“I think—” Ducking back down to avoid the next burst of gunfire, I puff out my cheeks. “I think they expected it and were just waiting after we cleared out that house.”
“Fuck,” Saoirse gasps. “Oh, about fucking time!”
Following her line of sight, several black sedans roar down the street and screech to a stop not far from us. Out of them pour several men and women armed to the teeth who immediately start firing into the building containing the Triad. One man sprints over to us and hits the ground, narrowly avoiding some bullets.
“Hank!” Saoirse grabs him by the arm and hauls him behind cover. “Jesus, have you got a death wish? Cormac would never forgive me if something happened to you.”
“Sorry we’re late,” Hank pants slightly. “Roadworks.”
“You’re not serious.” I stare at him in disbelief as he nods and flashes me a lopsided grin.
“New York, eh?” He turns back to Saoirse. “You want them alive?”
She nods quickly. “I need them.”
“On it.” He’s back on his feet before I can say anything else and he joins the rest of the squad as they approach the building in a formation born from the military.
“Shit. You lot don’t fuck around.”
“Nope,” Saoirse replies. “Not when it counts.” Suddenly, she grabs my hand and stands. “Come on.”
With Saoirse leading the way, we head toward the tailor shop where the Triad have had the sense to duck inside behind cover. Not that it will save them. As soon as Hank’s team kick down the door, all hell breaks loose. The dark building is lit up by the flashof muzzles and bangs of smoke grenades, men yell and shout over the cacophony of gunfire and footsteps thunder all around. The crashes sounding from the floor above are loud enough that it’s a wonder the ceiling doesn’t crash down on top of us.
In a cloud of smoke that clogs my lungs and makes my eyes water, I stumble along a wall using its sturdiness as my guide until I run into the back of one of Saoirse’s men. He glances at me and smiles briefly, then leads the way down a small corridor toward a room at the back. Just as he approaches the door, a closed door to the left swings open and an armed gunman charges out of the broom closet with his weapon drawn. Barely thinking, I charge forward and slam my shoulder into the man’s chest and send us both crashing back into the broom closet. We land hard and the man scrambles about underneath me like a feral cat. Two punches to the face and he’s rendered unconscious.
“You alright?” yells the man I’ve paired with.
I clamber unsteadily to my feet and nod, coughing harshly around the smoke that still lingers in my lungs and turn to face him. “Yeah, I’m good!” I’m still speaking when a gunshot rings out in the corridor and the man vanishes from view with a spray of blood.
“No!” Gun raised, I charge out of the broom closet in time to see the guard fire several shots into a dying Triad on the ground. There’s a moment of relief when our eyes meet and I wait for that simple, small smile.
It doesn’t come.
His eyes roll back in his head and he collapses forward without making a sound.
“No!” I throw myself forward but don’t reach him in time before he hits the ground. Pain lances up my knees as I hit the ground next to him and grab his shoulder, rolling him over. Blood pools in the hollow of his throat and stains his neck darkcrimson. It floods forward, washing up over his chin and down into his dark shirt, making the black stretch out like an infinite abyss.
“Where?” I yell as if the pale man beneath me has any ability to answer me. “Where is it?” I pull at his sopping clothes, try to smear the blood off his skin and roll him back and forth as I desperately search for the wound, the source of the bleeding. My fingers are drenched in seconds and no matter where I search, I can’t find the wound to stem it. I press my hands against his neck, then against his chest and his shoulder and pints of warm blood wash over my fingers but I can’t locate it. In the mess of his clothes and armor, I can’t find it.
My heart races like the thump of pounding footsteps in my ears and while I didn’t know this man at all, his concern for me was more than enough to plant a curl of guilt in my chest. If he hadn’t been checking on me, maybe he would have seen the gunman. “Shit, shit, shit, shit! I can’t find it, I can’t find it!”
It’s not until Saoirse appears next to me with her gentle hand on my shoulder that I realize the gunfire has stopped and the smoke is clearing. Her grip tightens on my shoulder and her face is warped with sympathy when I look up at her.
“He’s gone, Bruno,” she says quietly. Hank stands just behind her, looking pained.
“I tried,” I gasp. “I couldn’t find the— and there was so much blood, I just couldn’t?—”
“I know.” She slips her weapon back into her hip holder and tightens her grip on my arm. “Come on.”
Three hours later,I lean against the hood of Saoirse’s car and watch as she says her final goodbyes to Mickey’s family. Thatwas his name. Mickey Simmons, twenty eight years old with a wife and two kids. Watching his wife break down at the news of her husband's death was a tough pill to swallow but I refused to look away. I only knew him for ten minutes but I felt a responsibility to be there and look her in the eye when I told her about his last moments. Despite her grief, she seemed thankful that Mickey wasn’t alone in the end. Then Saoirse took over with a practiced response to this kind of news and I sank into the background to process.
It was supposed to be an easy bust. Maybe if I’d done things differently, it wouldn’t have turned into a firefight where we needed back up, then it wouldn’t have become a bloodbath and Mickey would still be alive.
