Page 13 of If You Go
“We knew that already, man,” Joshua cuts in, his voice tight. “Sam O’Brien’s already brought me into the loop with the basics. What we want is more detail.”
His eyes don’t leave Juniper. The second K—Kirian? That’s not right. When whatever his name is said threat, she’d pulled out her phone, scrolling like she wasn’t even in the room anymore. I know that look—June’s not ignoring him, she’s building a wall. She does that when something cuts too close, when she doesn’t want anyone to see the crack.
“No wonder Hazel texted me saying she couldn’t come in,” Juniper mutters.
“What’d she say?” Josh asks.
“That Surry’s car was demolished in her guarded underground garage,” June answers, flat, like she doesn’t want to let the weight of that land in the room.
I take over. “Josh, take Juniper home. Full lockdown. I’ll stay here with Corver in the truck. June, we’ll get this place back on its feet. Just hold tight.”
She nods, reluctant. She puts her phone down and looks around the space. A single tear falls over her lashes, spilling down to her cheek. Josh reaches out and wipes it before it can go any farther, and then leads her out toward the Lotus. Corver slides up next to me, arms crossed, his eyes scanning, calculating. He’s already halfway inside the data by the time he reaches me. That’s how Corver is though: Quiet, lethal, always two steps ahead.
I follow the Irish guy through the shop. My boots crunch on glass that used to be neon signs of tattoo supply brands, windows that lined the walls to the outside, and mirrors that leaned in corners. Two days ago, this place buzzed not just from the sound of the tattoo gun, but with life and loyalty.. June’s personality on full display in the most artistic way possible. Now it looks like a bomb went off in a thrift store.
I stop in the middle of it all. My chest tightens. I’ve been in plenty of wrecked places. Bars after brawls, houses after hits, back alleys after we left bodies cooling. But this? This was a home for June. Her dream. I can see her laughter in the now ruined paint, her fingerprints on every displaced shelf. Now it’s not where her heart resides, it’s just, ash.
We step over the busted mahogany door that used to guard June’s office. I paid for that door myself, heavy as a coffin lid. Now it’s on the floor, hinges torn clean.
“Would ye like ta go first, Mr. Slater?”
“How do you know my name?” My voice is sharp before I can stop it.
He smirks, not in arrogance but in confidence.
“’Tis our business ta know. Anyone who’s close to the O’Brien’s, we keep watch on. She’s had a dangerous past, Miss Surry, an’ it ain’t finished wit’ her yet.”
“Close to the O’Brien’s? But I’m not? We’re not?”
“Ah, now, but ye are. Yer brother, Joshua Slater, he speaks wit’ the young Mr. O’Brien on da regular. An’ Ms. Hall, she’s close t’ Ms. Surry. So by connection, lads, ye’re close t’ de family. We know who ye are, what ye do. An’ truth be told—we’re impressed. Not many can do what ye three do, an’ walk away clean.”
I let that sink in. They know who we are, who we really are. And what dangerous past? My fists clench. I thought this was about the shop, maybe someone had become ballsy enoughrunning with Mikey’s old crew. Or maybe someone had decided to get at us for something we had done, seeing us here regularly. But no. Not even close. Not even to do with June at all by the sounds of it. June is just collateral damage.
“So this isn’t random?” I mutter the question. Not knowing what else to say to the guy.
“No, sir. Not random. ’Tis personal. An old enemy crawlin’ out o’ de grave.”
We get into the office and the desk is splintered, drawers kicked in, safe dented but intact. Atop the wreckage, one piece of paper sits dead center of the desk. Too perfect. Too intentional.
I motion to it. The haughty Irishman leans over, visually scans it, takes a photo, then bags it with tweezers like he’s done it a hundred times before. He leaves it on the table so I lean over and take a look to see what it says.
While he works, I let my eyes sweep the room. Juniper’s crystals, gone. Hazel’s sketches, shredded. Whoever did this wasn’t just sending a message—they were stripping away identity. Making it clear that nothing sacred stays untouched. It’s a good lesson never to fuck with someone who owns RPG’s or other heavy ballistics. It’s obvious this goes deeper than simple revenge. If they’re after Sam’s sister, Surry, then they’re clearing out her circle first—isolating her.
Kellan or whatever pulls his phone out and straightens before walking over and slides me a card with his information on it.
“Mr. Slater, I’ll leave ye now. Mr. O’Brien wants dis rebuilt. He’ll front de cost, send men, tools, whatever ye need. Credit card arrives tomorrow.”
Before I can answer, he’s gone. Efficient. Brutal. Irish to the bone.
I nearly collide with Corver coming in, his face pale, his phone glowing with red codes.
He looks like the devil himself just texted him.
“We got trouble, brother. Big trouble. Surry’s ex. Name’s Gavin Kelly.”
“Okay. What about him? Do we know him from somewhere?”
Corver’s voice is tight. “He just took over the Russians.”
