Page 167 of Dirty Padraig: Dirty Dusters

There’s just one last thing I need to do before I go.

Because I have to go, you see. Because when you’ve loved and lost as many times as I have, there’s nothing left. I can’t even stop to think.

I dial his number from my other phone, and he answers immediately.

“Nate.”

“Jaine, is everything okay?”

“Everything’s fine. I’m just calling to let you know that I’ll be the one going in.” He knows I’m referring to the suicide mission.

There’s a pause. “You do know what that means?” He sounds shocked.

“I know exactly what it means, Nate, but it’s the right thing to do. I’m the one they’re after, so let’s just give them what they want.”

“You have the address?”

“I have it.”

“And the recording device?”

I dig it out of my inside pocket, switch it on, then put it in my mouth.

“I’ve just swallowed it.”

“Jesus Christ, Jaine.”

“It’s the only way, Nate.”

I disconnect the call and then throw the phone into the lake to rest beside the other.

Jaine Jones no more.

Mounting the hog that doesn’t even belong to me, I set off for the home of Luciano Ruocco. If he wants me dead, then he can be my guest, but I’m going to see him sent down for life before I go.

CHAPTERFIFTY-FOUR

JAINE

The Ruocco Home, Upper West Side, New York

Sittingastride the hog with the engine still running, I stare at the Italian-inspired mansion from across the street.

It’s impressive, but so too is the extensive Ruocco property portfolio. Having run a background check, they have very little by way of cash reserves, so it’s my guess that many of the buildings they claim to own are via off-the-record mortgages. That they owe some seriously big names some seriously big money, hence why they need their hands on the Duster’s liquid billions.

Given that Sophia’s now a widow, she will, of course, have access to Irish’s personal wealth. Not that it’s for me to mention anything.

I’m sure they’ll already be aware. They’ll no doubt have had someone take photographic evidence of Padraig and Eoin’s bodies as they were pulled from the smoldering embers of St. Peter’s Church.

The bile from my empty stomach rises to the surface, but I swallow it down. I can’t vomit in case I throw up the recording device. It’s not for much longer. Then it will all be over. I bite back tears of pain and devastation. I can’t let them surface, or I’ll never recover enough to do what I have to do.

I haven’t spoken out loud on my way here. I know Nate can hear every word. It hasn’t been intentional. It doesn’t really matter what I say now.

My life has been rendered meaningless.

“I’m at the Ruocco property. Anything mentioned about either my clients or the Dusters is off the record. I need you to honor that. Anything said about me is irrelevant.” He knows what I’m saying. That I won’t be alive long enough to take exception.

I turn my hog in the road, then pull up outside the black metal gates. I press the intercom, and they immediately swing open.

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