Page 31 of Dirty Eoin

It’s a disused area of the subway. They own several. It feels a bit like a concrete tomb. The cold bites into your bones, and it’s so quiet the silence echoes in your head. It’s only broken by the constant dripping sound. If you had to spend any length of time in here, you’d no doubt go as insane as the man standing in front of me.

The smell? Death.

Lysol. Piss. Shit. Copper. All sprinkled with a generous pinch of good old-fashioned fear.

The floor’s recently been hosed down, so someone’s already met their maker today. The O’Connells must have squeezed one in just before the ceremony.

It was probably Irish. One for the road.

Maybe the deceased’s wedding gift wasn’t up to scratch. One less guest to wine, dine, and impress, I guess.

I’ve never been in one of the Dusters’ torture chambers before, although I have seen inside when Sarah live-streamed her cutting out the throat of the Colombian trafficker.

I finish looking around, then return my gaze to Da Duster.

He’s wearing black dress pants and a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up, likely because my blood, when he spills it, will be a fucker to get out. The rest of his wedding attire has been discarded.

“You’re awake, girlie.” It’s an observation. He can quite clearly see that I fucking am. His voice is deep, quiet, and soothing in its tone. No doubt he’s perfected it over the years. He’s got the balance just right. It lures people in by pretending to be someone who gives an actual fuck in an attempt to hide what he truly is.

A demon who doesn’t.

He stares at me with eyes that are identical to Padraig’s and Fin’s. I ignore his words and hold his gaze.

“What were you doing at my son’s wedding?”

I ignore him. He doesn’t deserve my response. He doesn’t deserve anything from me when he’s already made up his goddamn mind. He breaks eye contact, but only so he can pace the floor as he runs his hand repeatedly through his white hair.

It’s clear the hand movement is to stop him from doing something else. What exactly? Slitting my throat? Throttling me?

What can I say anyway? That I’m a vigilante sniper and I decided to stop by and save their unworthy Irish necks? Right now, I wish I hadn’t bothered.

“Answer me.” It’s a threat. I stare at him. I’m looking at evil itself right now, all wrapped up to look like a kind old granddaddy.

My son’s grandaddy.

“Fuck you.” The words in my brain slip out of my mouth. Jesus Christ. Delaney’s right. I do have a death wish.

Fergal reaches me in two strides and backhands me across the face with such a force my teeth rattle against the inside of my mouth. Blood is now all I can taste. My head throbs so violently I feel like I’m going to pass out.

Don’t give him the satisfaction, Jaine.

“The bride told me she’d seen you skulking around. Were you involved with the shooters? Were you trying to harm my family?” His voice sounds pained. Like the thought of anything happening to his family keeps him awake at night and tortures him relentlessly twenty-four-seven.

Ditto.

So, even though Sophia recognized me, she decided not to tell Da Duster who I am. Figures. It was most likely in the hope he’d react first and ask questions later. She was right. That’s exactly what he has done.

She’ll get hers. In this life or the next.

He’s in my face now. Eyes of sparkling blue contrast against a face that’s lined with age and from living in this life. My gaze connects with his. I hide nothing. He hides nothing. Neither of us looks away.

Thousands of tortured souls clawing to get out. That’s what I see when I look into his eyes. Does he expect me to show fear as I witness the depth of death, destruction, and depravity that resides within his fucked-up head space?

I fear no one.

I wonder what he sees when he looks into my eyes. Does he see the same? The countless souls of the vermin whose lives I’ve ended. I truly fucking hope so.

“Speak, girl. Don’t make me have to drag it out of you.”

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