Page 26 of Dirty Eoin

Yet.

But I will. I’ll make it my mission to find out. Same as I’ll make it my mission to find out who killed Ace.

Maybe both are related.

A stray tear runs down my cheek as self-pity pays me his daily visit to deliver me a cake of despondency for one. Something to snack on as I witness this whole fucking debacle.

I quickly wipe it away.

Have I got what it takes to carry this through? I’m already feeling overwhelmed. What if I miss the shot and Irish gets killed right in front of me? What if I’m successful but I get caught afterward? I haven’t thought this through properly. Maybe Delaney’s right. Maybe subconsciously I do have a death wish because, right now, I’m acting the way Razr would.

Still. It’s too late now. I have one shot at this. No pun intended. So, what will be will have to be.

“Focus, Jaine,” I whisper-hiss at myself once more.

I look through my scope for any unusual signs. Let’s face it, it’s not like I can search for someone who looks like a serial killer. Most of the congregation gathered here today could wear that cap.

When the Wedding March is played, I ignore it.

When Sophia walks down the aisle on Luc’s arm looking beautiful and radiant, I ignore her.

When they say their vows in front of The Almighty, I ignore them.

I ignore it all because I have to. I put thoughts of Irish out of my head because I have to. They’ll only distract me and get one or both of us killed.

My finger rests on the trigger as we near the crux of the proceedings. I breathe slowly.

In on four. Out on four.

Repeat.

I don’t want to fucking hear it.

I now pronounce you husband and wife.

But I just did.

My heart shatters as those life-altering words are spoken, the emotional pain instantly turning to physical as my empty chest cavity constricts in on itself.

Irish lost. Ace lost.

So much heartache in such a short space of time. But I’ll survive. I have to.

In on four. Out on four.

Repeat.

Breathe, Jaine.

I just need to focus my energies on hand-delivering karma now.

It’s then I spot who I suspect could be the marksman. He’s sitting immediately behind the O’Connells and fidgeting in his seat. Is it him? I watch as his hand reaches inside his jacket. I frown. If it is, then there’s no way he can get a clear shot at Irish from his position. At least not without standing.

Show me the gun.

I can’t react until I know for sure he’s the shooter. I wait and I wait until the kaleidoscopic sunlight glints off the barrel of the now-raised weapon.

Jesus Christ. Is this guy a suicide sniper? Is he going to do what I think he is? Is he going to attempt to take out the O’Connell family? From where he’s seated, that’s what it appears he’s primed to do.

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