Page 69 of Dirty Eoin

He opens the car door for me, and I step out.

There’s a chill in the air, and it’s depressingly overcast. There’s no real view from where we’ve parked. We’re hidden behind sky-high walls of stacked containers. Some old. Some new. Many with their paint or advertisements peeling off thanks to the saltwater content in the brackish water of the Hudson River.

There’s a reason we’re hidden. Why anyone who pulls up here is kept out of sight. They’re either a Duster, one of their high-rankers, or an unfortunate individual who’s destined never to leave.

High ranker. Checkmark.

I guess I’m just about to meet the other two.

“This way, please, Mrs. O’Connell.”

I nod at Liam, then follow his tall, lean frame through a maze of containers until we reach our final destination.

Hopefully not mine.

The rusty door’s already ajar. It’s almost welcoming.

Almost.

Liam motions his head for me to follow him inside. When I do, my eyes are instantly drawn to the man bound to the canteen-style chair that’s been placed in the center of the old container. A chair that’s been set in a slab of concrete so it can’t topple over. It’s my guess the slab, the chair, and the unlucky person currently residing on it will be tossed in the Hudson when what’s done is done here today.

Unfortunate individual. Checkmark.

The balding, rotund man looks to be mid-forties. He’s wearing pants and nothing else aside from a thin layer of what I take to be his own lifeblood.

His eyes are currently bulging on his face as though trying to silently communicate with me.

To plead. To beg. To lie. He needn’t waste his time. I’ve heard every excuse before.

He’s barefoot, so I’m guessing it’s his socks that are filling his mouth and being used as the makeshift gag to prevent him from talking. His chest is heaving. Either he can’t breathe or it’s in fear. I think it’s the latter considering the other person with us in this freezer-like metal box.

“Leave us.” The other person finally speaks, addressing Liam.

Duster. Checkmark.

My eyes shift from the soon-to-be-deceased to Eoin O’Connell.

He’s dressed professionally like me, but he’s removed his tie, his suit jacket, and rolled up his sleeves.

Like father, like son.

I guess it’s a sign that they mean business. Something to bear in mind for the future, perhaps.

He needn’t have bothered with the sleeves. His shirt is already drenched in Mr. Unfortunate’s blood.

My gaze connects with his. Green on green.

Anger. Arousal. Adrenaline.

Which one this time, I wonder?

I wait for Liam to leave before I speak.

“What’s he done?” I motion my head toward the man strapped to the chair. The instant I show Mr. Unfortunate some attention, he tries to plead his case past his gagged mouth. Maybe he thinks that as a woman I’ll find the art of cold-blooded murder offensive. As a woman, perhaps I should. As a biker and a serial killer, I don’t.

What Mr. Unfortunate here doesn’t realize is that depending on what he’s guilty of, I’d gladly do the honors myself.

“He’s part of the male choir at St. Peter’s. Has been for years. We found out today he’s been grooming a young Irish boy. That he’s been fucking him for months. His parents only discovered the atrocity when the ten-year-old lad tried to hang himself before finally confessing everything.”

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