"She showed me footage of Ian at a slave auction," Petra says, her voice tight. "I saw it with my own eyes."
"That kind of thing can be manipulated." Michael waves his hand in dismissal.
"What about Elsa?" I ask.
"Who?" Michael questions, cocking his head.
"The girl you had me hold," Petra says, her voice so low I can barely hear it.
Michael shakes his head. "All is fair in love and war. Joyful Justice threatened our business—you prudes don't like what we do," he says to me.
"I don't have a problem with sex workers," I say. "I have a problem with sex slaves. A big problem."
"How many times do I have to say this? We don't deal in sex slaves!" Murphy's voice raises enough that Curls looks over his shoulder, checking on his bosses. Is it possible Murphy doesn't know what his brothers are up to? I glance at Petra, and she is chewing on her lip, brow furrowed.
"You didn't tell him," I say to Michael.
His blue eyes glitter with anger. "What are you blabbering on about?”
"Murphy doesn't know," I say. The truth is written all over Michael, exposed in the hard lines of his face and the tense grip of his hand. The reason Murphy thought this wouldn't end in violence is he thought he was innocent. How sad. "You and Ian did this without him knowing,” I say with a note of awe in my voice. What assholes.
"That's ridiculous,” Michael says, but he doesn’t sound convincing.
Murphy turns to his brother and then to me. "Bullshit. Don't try to drive a wedge between us. We're family. That won't work."
I can't help the laugh that pops out of me. "Boy, you are in for a big surprise. You didn't know."
"You're full of shit," Murphy says, showing the first signs of anger…of doubt.
"This is just sad," I say to Petra.
She doesn't respond, too busy staring daggers at Michael.
“Do you know they kidnapped Mitchel Swan’s mother, Matilda?” I ask Murphy. “Just like they kidnapped Elsa.”
Murphy shakes his head. "Fuck you." He stands quickly, knocking against the table and making the beer in our pints dance. "I'm done here."
"Sit down," Petra says, her voice low but commanding. "We are not done until I say we are."
Murphy turns on Petra, hulking over her. "You come here, to our city, and bring an enemy with you to accuse us of..." He sputters for a moment. "Of dealing with fucking Isis, and you expect me to sit down and take it?"
"You can talk to us or you can die," I say, raising my gun.
Murphy laughs, turning as if to leave. The silent thwap of a bullet exploding through the silencer beats at my ears milliseconds after I pull the trigger. Murphy's eyes go wide, and he looks at the wall right behind him where the bullet penetrated a painting of dogs playing cards, tearing the canvas and sending slivers of plaster floating into the air.
"You crazy bitch," he says.
“Sit down, or I'll kill you."
He turns to Petra. "You're letting her get away with this."
"Sit down," Petra says, keeping her eyes on Michael. The older brother is frowning but does not look afraid. Blue growls low, and I flick my eyes to Curly and Buzz at the door. They are facing us, their bodies stiff, but well trained enough to know not to make a move when a marksman has their boss in her sights.
“We should go,” Petra says. “You two will come with us.”
"Do you have a death wish, woman?" Murphy asks.
She stands, eyeing him. "Do you?" She grabs his bicep, her hand not able to get even halfway around it. Petra has no weapon, but she starts to push Murphy toward the goons at the door with the confidence of a person carrying an Uzi.
Blue lets out a sharp bark, but Michael is already moving. Exploding from his chair, he wrenches the table up, tossing it at Murphy and Petra, and diving for me. His hands wrap around the gun as Blue knocks into him, and we all go down in a pile.
Michael’s breath is hot on my face, my weapon pressed between us. A brief waft of sandalwood and spice overtakes me as my nose is pressed into his neck. I open my mouth and bite, keeping my hand tightly around the gun, my finger slipping between the trigger and the handle so it can't be fired.
Michael grunts as my teeth sink into him.
He is on top of me, Blue on top of him. I can't see a thing, but I hear crashing and thuds of impact around us.
Michael tries to pull away from my teeth, and I release him. Blue yanks on his arm and the man is off me, his fist pummeling at Blue. The taste of his sweat is thick on my tongue. I didn't break the skin, but a red mark in the shape of my teeth is outlined on his neck.
Petra is in a corner, Murphy and Curly circling her as she swings the gold strap of her purse. Where is Buzz?
A blow from behind knocks me forward, off my knees and onto my chest, landing on my stomach with a grunt. Buzz is on my back, the gun under my stomach.
I can't breathe.
Hands wrap around my neck, and, leveraging himself up, Buzz smashes my face into the filthy floor. I'm stunned for a moment, but with a last gasp of air I try to twist over. Buzz is too strong, and with his weight on me, I'm paralyzed.
Blue barks a warning, and suddenly Buzz is knocked off me. I roll over, my gun automatically coming up. Michael, stumbling to stand, sees me and the gun aimed at his chest and freezes, one hand on the pool table, the other dangling by his side, blood dripping off it from a wound in his forearm. I don't fire. Can't kill him yet. First I need answers.
Buzz is under Blue, my dog’s jaws wrapped around his neck. The goon is laying very still as Blue keeps up a low and threatening growl. He won’t rip out the man’s throat unless Buzz does something stupid…like try to move.
Picking myself up I glance over my shoulder to see Petra lash out with her purse strap at Curly, who shies away with a yelp, holding his left eye, blood welling between his fingertips. Murphy lunges at her, and she disappears behind his bulk. Shit.
I can't kill him yet either. Keeping my gun on Michael, I circle to the pool stick I left leaning against the wall. Taking it in my free hand, I notice the cue ball by the corner pocket. Putting down the stick for a moment, I pick up the white orb and hurl it at Murphy's head. It strikes him, and I feel a small wave of triumph. Good fucking shot. He lets out a grunt and reaches one hand to touch the back of his head.
Picking up the cue stick, I push my gun into my waistband. Michael’s eyes go wide when I put the weapon away, and he lunges for me, running right into my stick. It catches him across the throat, and he stumbles back, choking. "I'm actually more dangerous with this thing," I say, twisting it back and cracking him in the side of the head. He crumples like a demolished skyscraper.
Curly sees his boss go down and looks at me with his one good eye. Dropping his hands away from his injury, he falls into a fighting stance. Oh. He is trained. I can tell from the set of his shoulder, the placement of his loosely curled fists, and the way he's ignoring the blood dripping down his face.
A smile tugs at my mouth, accepting the challenge, falling into my own stance, bringing my stick under my arm, ready.
Curly moves closer to me—slowly, cautiously. Petra and Murphy are in the corner of my vision; I see the gold strap of her purse flash but can't take my eyes off Curly long enough to check what she is doing.
Curly eyes Petra's pool stick where she left it on the table. I step forward quickly and lash out, he reacts lightning fast, throwing up a block so that my weapon smacks into his forearm. That will hurt tomorrow but isn't going to slow him down today.
He spins away, grabbing up the other stick and whipping it toward me. I knock it down with my own then step forward, using the downward momentum of my weapon to bring the far end up and around to smash into his head. He stumbles back but doesn't go down.
I keep moving forward, not wanting to let up and allow him to move onto the offensive. Kicking out with my front leg, I keep him off balance then bring my stick around again to smash into his side.
The pool stick splinters
at the impact. Fuck.
I jump back as his weapon whips forward, aiming for my face. I feel the breeze of it on my nose as I retreat around the pool table. Catching my breath, the wide expanse of red felt between us, I take stock of my stick. It’s cracked right in the middle. Bringing my knee up, I break it the rest of the way and, with a shorter stick in each hand, smile across at Curly.
Blood drips off his chin from the slash on his left eye, and a red welt is rising on his forehead where I got him. He smiles back at me, a nightmarish figure in black. But I am not afraid.
I take a split second to glance at Petra and Murphy. She's got her chain around his throat—I can see it tight on the back of his neck, making the skin bulge. His arms are up, so I'm pretty sure his fingers are between it and his windpipe.
Curly is circling around the table, and I return my full attention to him. He steps over Michael's collapsed figure and past Buzz, still subdued under Blue, and keeps coming, his stick light in his hands. I fall back into my fighting pose. Left leg forward, right back, arms up, sticks gripped. He settles in across from me, and we begin to circle in the tight space.
When my back is to Michael, Curly lunges forward, and I duck, lashing out at his knees as his stick swings over my head. I hit him in his right knee, and it buckles. As he falls, our faces are at the same height. Twisting, I bring my other stick around and into his nose. Blood explodes and he flies back, his bad knee bending awkwardly, and his other leg splaying out.
I slide forward on one knee and bring an elbow down onto the side of his head. His eyes roll, but he does not lose consciousness. Fumbling, he brings his weapon up, but the guy is dazed, and I easily knock it back. His fingers go slack and the stick drops, rolling away. I bring one of my sticks around, cracking him on the temple. This time his eyes roll into the back of his head and his lids shut. But he's still breathing. For now, anyway.
Panting, I stand up. Michael is still out. Buzz is still under Blue. And now Murphy is on his knees, Petra holding her golden chain tight around his neck. She is looking down into his face, her eyes glittering, blood seeping from a wound on her cheek that is quickly swelling. Damn, she took a punch from that behemoth and is still standing.
"Wait," I say. She glances up at me. "Don't knock him out. We need him to carry Michael.”
Petra and I might be able to kill the brothers, but no way are we strong enough to carry them anywhere.
Petra looks down at Murphy for another moment and then releases the tension on the chain. He falls to the side onto his hands and knees, choking for breath.
Petra kicks him in the stomach hard enough that he falls to the side. He rolls away from her, and I pull my gun, aiming it at his head when he stops at my feet.
His eyes are bulging and there are deep, livid impressions in his neck from the thin gold chain. "Come on, sweetheart," I say from behind my gun. "Pick up your brother and let's go."
"What about him?" Petra asks, gesturing to Buzz as Murphy stumbles to his feet.
"You'll fucking pay for this," Murphy wheezes at me.
"You're so not the first guy to say that to me," I tell him before turning to where Blue is still holding Buzz by the throat.
"I guess we should knock him out," I suggest to Petra. She nods. Raising a hand to her face she probes the wound on her cheek and winces. Anger clouding her features, she crosses to the pool table and, reaching over Michael, pulls a ball from the well. "Blue, come," I say as Petra approaches them.
Blue steps back and hops over the prone Buzz to my side. "Get on your knees," Petra says. Buzz rolls onto his side, facing her, and begins to rise to his knees, but lunges out before he gets there, tackling Petra around the waist. As she falls backward, she brings down the 8-ball, cracking it right onto the scar on the back of Buzz's head.
They smash into a table, which collapses under their combined weight, and land with a crash on the floor.
Buzz lies still, and Petra wriggles out from under him and stands, breathing hard. She looks down at her leather pants and silk blouse—the delicate fabric is stained with blood and wrinkled. Her lips go into a tight line as she surveys the damage. Then she picks up her purse from where it landed in the wreckage, reattaches the gold chain with a click, and slips the strap over her shoulder before turning to Murphy. "Pick up your brother. We're leaving."
Chapter Twenty-One
Lenox
The sliding door of the van flies open with a loud whoosh, and the damp night air billows in. Four shadowed figures darken the opening. Twisted in the driver's seat, the wheel pressing into my side, I aim my gun at them.
"It's us," Sydney says, the dome light catching the waistband of her indigo jeans and gray T-shirt—a thin spray of blood arching across it. "Put him in." Her voice is a command, rough and low.
An unconscious man is pushed onto the bench seat behind me, helped by a large man with light-colored curls I recognize as Murphy McCain, the youngest brother. I reach back with my free hand to try to help. "Keep your filthy hands off my brother," he growls. My eyes rise to meet his gaze. His eyes, the same blue as a shallow sea over white sand, narrow as they meet mine.
I take my hand back, clenching my jaw to keep from answering. "Shut the fuck up, Murphy," Sydney says, echoing the voice in my head. The smile that pulls at my lips can't be helped. Her East Coast accent is tinged with a British lilt—she used to live in London, and the cadence of their speech is catching, even here in Ireland.
Murphy sneers, climbing into the van and sitting on the bench seat next to his unconscious brother. "You'll all pay for this," he promises.
“I'm pretty sure you said that already." Sydney climbs into the row of seats behind them, the scars on her face, one under her left eye and the other running over that same brow into her hairline, stand out stark under the light until she sits back into the darkness. Her eyes meet mine, and she aims her gun at Murphy before giving me a nod. She’s got them covered. Blue leaps onto the seat next to her, his ears flattened so as not to brush the ceiling.
Petra gets into the passenger seat and I face forward, trusting Sydney and Blue to have my back. "Where to?" I ask.
"I'll direct you," Petra says.
She leads us through the narrow, crowded streets to the edge of the city. The air is misty, and our headlights are white beams in the night. "Here," she says, pointing down a narrow lane. The road leads out of the city and into the countryside. The houses fade away, and farmland rolls out in dark waves on either side of us.
"Next driveway," Petra says.
A moan from the back draws my attention, and checking the rearview mirror, I see the other brother, Michael, is waking up.
Petra wants me to take their place—steal their business. Make it my own. My lips tighten at the thought. I don't want to be like them.
"What the fuck?” Michael gingerly touches his temple. "Murphy, what the hell is going on?” His confusion is tilting into anger quickly.
"They are taking us hostage, brother. Looks like Petra is leading them to our safe house."
The driveway appears on my left, and Petra points. Taking the turn, we pull onto a gravel drive, the stones crunching under the van's tires.
Tall crops tower on either side of us. The drive leads to a darkened house. The headlights illuminate a stone facade and glinting metal roof. I pull around the circular drive until the side door of the van is facing the entrance to the home.
Petra climbs out and heads to the house as I twist in my seat again, bringing my gun up from where I rested it in my lap. "Who the fuck are you?" Michael asks. His dark blue gaze is shadowed by a large bruise on his temple. With the dome light on, I can see the resemblance between the two brothers. They share strong jaws and straight noses—but where Murphy's eyes are the light blue of shallow waters, Michael's are the navy of deep ocean. Where Murphy is large and bulging, Michael is compact and corded.
Petra returns to the van, sliding back the side door. Beyond her, the house door is now open, yellow light spilling out f
rom the hall. "Come on," she says.
Murphy and Michael climb out, standing sullenly in the drive as Sydney and Blue follow. I turn off the engine and come around as they start up the steps to the house.
It has the musty scent of a place rarely visited. Dust has settled on the empty coat hooks by the entrance, and as we head down the hall to a sitting room, it is obvious no one lives here. The large room is furnished with a sagging couch and several wooden dining room chairs but not a hint of personal effects. Petra has placed rope on two of the chairs, and she gestures for the brothers to sit.
They make eye contact. Will they try to fight their way out of this?
Already having been bested by Sydney, Blue, and Petra, without me even there, the men don't risk another defeat. As they settle into the chairs and Petra begins to bind them, they do not look frightened or nervous. Michael's brow is furrowed in annoyance, and Murphy's jaw is clenched in anger.
Petra, done tying their arms and legs to the chairs, comes around to face them, cocking one leather-clad hip and resting a hand on it. "Well, boys," she says with a smile. "I always did want to tie you up."
Michael glowers at her.
"You've been bad boys," she says, beginning to pace in front of them.
A shiver runs over me. We will never get them to betray their brother, not without torture. But we don't need betrayal. All we need is the location of Mitchel's mother.
Then we can kill them—quickly. With mercy. Ian will come to us once his brothers are gone.
"We have not," Murphy says, sounding almost like a petulant child.
"I wonder," Petra says, stopping her pacing and turning to Murphy. "Do you really not know?" She looks at Michael. "You do."
The older brother does not answer, just stares at Petra, hate burning in his gaze.
"Yes, I thought so. But you Murphy." She shakes her head. "You might actually not know."
That would make killing him a harsh punishment. If he really has no idea what his brothers are up to...
Betray the Lie (A Sydney Rye Mystery, #11) Page 18