Page 103 of Dirty Dylan: Dirty Dusters

I don’t know whether to shake his hand or hug him, but he makes the call for both of us as he pulls me against him. He’s a wall of steeled muscle. The yang to my business partner’s yin. Or at least one of them. He and Paddy look so alike they could be brothers.

Shit, no wonder the poor girl’s so confused she’s depressed.

He releases me, and we turn our attention back to Ghost, who’s stood looking on. He’s probably hoping I’m done wiping the floor with him. I am. For now.

“You guys need another private moment?” Ace grins.

“Nope. I’m just about done reminding Ty of how he took my virginity and then dumped me the very next day. But then, you’d know all about that shit too, wouldn’t you, Mr. Ace of Broken Hearts.”

Ghost lets out a low whistle before snickering.

I walk away, leaving them both standing there in my dust. I’m pretending I’m pissed off, but I’m really wearing a wide smile.

Biker boys. You’ve got to love them. And let’s be honest.

Most women do.

CHAPTERFORTY-FOUR

DYLAN

Play Gentlemen’s Club, Manhattan, New York

We ownseveral disused areas of the New York subway system. Each is sealed, completely soundproof, and easy to hose down. All have facilities to turn bodies into soup or wrap them in concrete, depending on how long we have to destroy any physical evidence.

The selected venue for my re-introduction into the cold-blooded murder Duster Hall of Fame is directly underneath Play. It’s a concrete prison. It never sees the light of day, so as well as being dank and depressing, it’s also bone-chilling cold. This must be what it feels like to be buried alive. The only sound is dripping water, no doubt caused by the rain currently pounding off the city streets above.

I stare at the nameless man who’s been bound to a canteen-style chair and is currently unconscious. I’ve only just arrived. In his excitement, Paddy started without me. Today’s deserved victim already has a few missing digits all of which have been neatly arranged on a small kidney tray sitting atop a wheelable trolley nearby.

“What’s he done, Paddy?” I ask as I put on a pair of disposable coveralls that match his.

“Our brother Gavin here.” Paddy throws a glass of water in his face, and I watch as the balding man wakes up with a start. “Has been grooming two young Irish girls. Both of them are only twelve years old.”

Gavin was probably in the middle of a really good dream, and he’s now been awakened into his worst possible nightmare. A nightmare you wouldn’t wish on your worst enemy. From what I’ve heard from Cillian, our Paddy is a bloodthirsty fecker. I wouldn’t know. I’ve never seen him in action. I guess there’s a first time for everything.

“Haven’t you, Gavin?” Paddy leans forward and slices a scalpel up the corner of his mouth. Gavin screams his agony as blood pisses everywhere. Gav now doesn’t need to smile to show us his teeth.

“I didn’t do it, Paddy.”

“Don’t lie to me, you fucking swine,” Paddy hisses before slicing the other corner of his mouth. More screaming. More teeth on display. Gavin’s top lip is now more of a flap that vibrates as he sits there sobbing away to himself.

“Cut his shirt open, Dyl.”

Paddy’s pacing now. He looks demented. Like he’s got some great inner turmoil going on. Something must have happened, and this fucker here’s going to pay the price whether he likes it or not. Because it would seem the only way to appease Paddy’s demon is to offer a blood sacrifice.

I reckon it’s best to just do as I’m told. Brother or not, I don’t want our Paddy waving his blade in my direction. I might not be the best looking of our lot, but I still quite like my facial arrangement as it is. I pick a scalpel up off the trolley and do the honors. Gavin’s pissed himself, and going by the stench, he’s also emptied his bowels. I almost feel sorry for him.

Almost.

Because when I think of those two wee girls whose lives will never be the same again, any fleeting thoughts of sympathy vanish.

Just as I’m putting the scalpel back, Paddy comes to an abrupt standstill beside me. My own bowels almost turn to liquid.

“She called me, Dyl.”

“Who did?”

“Jaine.”

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