Page 27 of Dirty Eoin

One? Two? As many as he can before turning the gun on himself?

I watch as he points the weapon at the back of Eoin’s head. I hesitate; I’m tempted to let him get on with it.

Let justice be served.

You have no proof, Jaine.

My conscience is right. I don’t. Plus, if that asshole is guilty, he’ll die by my hand, no one else’s. I pull the trigger and the goon falls forward the moment my bullet connects with the back of his skull.

Then?

All hell breaks loose. Shouting. Screaming. People running for their lives.

Just as I’m moving to hide my weapon behind the statue, that’s when I notice the second marksman. This sniper is on a ledge to the right of me and he’s armed with a rifle. Again, his weapon is pointed at the family and not at Irish.

This isn’t good.

I should be out of the goddamn building by now. Every second I remain increases my chances of being caught. I know that. But what can I do? I have no choice. I delay my escape by raising my weapon once more.

Line up. Check scope. Pull trigger.

Click. Boom.

I watch as he topples from the balcony and lands in the middle of the congregation.

What follows next is pandemonium. There’s no other word to describe it.

Taking a deep breath, I hide my rifle, put on my hat and sunglasses, leave the room, and make my way downstairs.

When I reach the bottom, Eoin and Cillian O’Connell are already ushering the panicking guests outside.

Please don’t recognize me.

I spin around to walk the other way and my gaze connects with Sophia’s. Irish’s wife.

His future.

She’s talking to Fergal.She knows it’s me under this disguise. She points in my direction and Fergal looks across.

I turn and walk. I don’t panic. I don’t run. But I know he’s now following the girl who dared turn up here today without an invitation.

I speed up and try to lose him in the mayhem before making my way behind the building. He’s more likely to think I’ll make a run for it rather than hang around, right?

Wrong.

A hand grabs the top of my arm. The grip is vice-like. It’s the grip of a murderer. It’s the grip of a madman. It’s the grip of death himself.

I turn and stare briefly into the eyes of Da Duster just as something connects with the side of my head, and I lose consciousness.

CHAPTERELEVEN

DYLAN

Saint Patrick’s Cathedral, Manhattan, New York

Carnage.That’s what it’s turned into.

The day from hell has turned into a bloodbath. A fitting end to a mobster bash some might say. The shootings have provided us with an impromptu finale as they’ve put a stop to any of today’s other pre-planned festivities taking place.

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