by Bethany-Kris
“Where are you?” Connor interrupted his father.
Sean didn’t answer right away, but he did hear something crash in the background of the call. “Son.”
“Where—”
“You’re too late, lad. You’ve always been too late.”
The call hung up.
Connor didn’t realize his hand was shaking until he heard the phone crack from the pressure of his clenching fist. He dropped the offending device, a sickness beginning to well in his throat. He could practically taste the bile on the back of his tongue as he brought out his own phone and called the brownstone’s line.
She was just there.
She had just answered.
He needed to be sure.
Evelyn didn’t pick up the call.
Connor tried ten more times.
He already knew.
His body went numb.
Connor didn’t bother to properly park his Harley when he arrived back at the brownstone. He barely noticed the dark sky above him, and he couldn’t entirely remember the drive from Jersey to Brooklyn with all that much clarity, either.
He had never been so numb before.
Never so … dead.
Killian leaned against the front stoop, waiting as he had been told to do. Connor only vaguely remembered calling the Lieutenant, and he wasn’t even sure if he explained what was happening, only that he demanded the guy get to the house and stay there.
Connor stalked down the walkway and up the front stairs, hearing Killian question him, yet never quite making out exactly what he was saying enough to respond. Or maybe, Connor just couldn’t make the words he needed to say form properly in his mouth.
This was what going crazy felt like.
He’d fecked up.
Badly.
He’d left Evelyn exposed.
Like a fool.
This was his fault.
All his.
“Connor!”
He pushed open the brownstone’s front door, unsurprised to find it unlocked. There was no damage to the door, so he suspected that had simply been Sean’s point of exit, not entry. Killian followed close behind him, still asking too many goddamn questions, as Connor headed for the back of the house.
There he found the broken doorjamb and busted lock.
There, he found the entry.
For a long while, Connor stared at the door, his frustration climbing and his rage boiling.
“Shite,” Killian mumbled behind him. “She’s not going to be here if we look, is she?”
Connor didn’t feel like answering that, so he didn’t. Turning fast on his heel, he headed back down the hallway, and then up the stairs. Evelyn had said she would be in the studio, working on something, though she hadn’t said what. Nothing looked out of place in the hallways, or the stairwell. Not a single piece of art had been knocked over, his bookcases and shelving units were fine, and even the decorative tables were untouched.
His studio, though?
Connor stood in the midst of a feckin’ hurricane.
Outside the room, it looked calm and fine.
Inside the room, someone had fought for every goddamn inch.
Easels had been upset, paints and charcoals were spilled and broken on the floors, and the canvases had been overturned, or ripped through. Smudged handprints in sky blue paint streaked across the floorboards, too wee to be a man’s, and likely a perfect match to Evelyn’s. Footprints showcased the dance between two people, one moving one way, another mimicking the steps only a few feet away.
“I don’t know where he went,” Connor said more to himself than his friend behind him. “I don’t where he might take her.”
Connor figured, at this point, he didn’t need to explain who he was talking about, because Killian probably already knew. He hated to admit his weakness—and his feck up—but he didn’t have to, really. A single look at the state of his studio was enough to tell the story of his mistake.
“I don’t know where he would take her,” Connor repeated.
That was what scared him the most.
That he didn’t know his father enough; that he didn’t know Sean’s state of affairs beyond his house in Jersey, and his business dealings elsewhere. He didn’t know the first place to begin, but time was ticking down.
He needed to figure it out, and soon.
“Why take her?” Killian asked. “Why her?”
Connor pulled the packet of information he had stolen from his father’s house, and handed it over without a word. He waited Killian out, hoping he wouldn’t need to explain further once the man got a good look at the contents.
Killian whistled low. “This is some crazy cac, mate.”
“Understatement.”
“What about vacation homes or a place out of state?”
Connor shook his head. “None that I know of.”
“He changed his M.O. over the years,” Killian noted.
“Not sure that matters, boyo.”
“It could, Connor.”
He didn’t think so. “His end goal remained the same—he killed them. He killed them in a very specific way that has not changed from the first girl to the last.”
“But he went from killing them upon conclusion of hunting them, to keeping them for sometimes years before he acted on that final scene. Something changed, whatever it was, and that means she probably won’t be any different.”
Connor ignored the soreness in his throat as he spoke through his rage. “That doesn’t help me, Killian.”
“It gives you time.”
“An illusion of it, not a promise.”
But Killian did have a good point.
Evelyn was not like the other victims in Sean’s folders. She had spent years under men who beat her, who took away her life sources as punishments, and only gave them back as rewards for appropriate behavior. She was a manipulator in those games, learning to enjoy pain, teaching herself to control situations to get what she needed or wanted to sustain her life.
It had never been about them.
She always took care of her.
“This might not be any different,” Connor said, voicing his inner thoughts.
Killian glanced. “What are you going on about?”
“Who knows my father best, or damn near?”
“Uh …”
He didn’t really have to think about it like Killian did, because he already knew the answer. Most of Sean’s men, including Lieutenants like Killian, assumed the man’s son was his closest companion. Conner knew different. The only person Sean trusted throughout his life, though he would never call him a friend, was the same fool who had been there since day one.
“Lachlan,” Connor said, “always his right-hand.”
“You think he knows where Sean went to?”
“Maybe not. But he’s been around Sean since I can remember, and before that, Declan and his father. He knows something. And it might not be what I need, but it could get me there.”
“So, we need to find him, right?”
Connor nodded, already turning around and heading to his bedroom. He was a feckin’ mess, bloody and dirty, and needed a change of clothes. He didn’t mind the blood, but he figured a clean outfit might be to his benefit when he went on a rampage. He was already crazy enough without adding to it with his attire.
“We’re going to find him.”
Killian cleared his throat, but didn’t follow Connor, instead calling out from the hallway, “You know, a lot of those men are loyal to who they’ve always known. And if it ain’t Sean, it’ll be Lachlan.”
“Your point?”
“It might not be as easy as you think to just … talk to him.”
Connor laughed darkly, pulling on a clean shirt before strolling back into the hallway. “Who the feck said anything about talking? Get me a gun—one with a lot of bullets to spare.”
He’d save the knives for another day.
• • •
Connor glanced up at The Morning Glory’s sign, and sent up
a silent apology to the pub for what he was about to do to the place.
“You’re sure you want me to stay outside?” Killian asked.
Connor loaded the clip into the semi-automatic rifle, and balanced the gun on his shoulder. “Make sure no one sneaks out behind my back. I want all the foolish feckers inside until I’m done.”
Killian nodded once. “All right.”
“And cops. Watch for those things.”
“Nobody is calling the cops around here, Connor.”
Fair enough.
Connor headed down the steps that led into the pub’s front entrance without another word to his friend, and entered the business with the gun still sitting on his shoulder. He didn’t intend to use it unless he had to, but he fully expected that he would have to.
The Irish were stubborn like that.
As he expected, at least three active Lieutenants in the O’Neil organization had huddled themselves into a corner, pretty common for a weekday, when they weren’t particularly busy. Not to mention, the boss wasn’t around to be barking at their arses about being lazy pieces of shite. A couple of older men—mobsters from a previous era—played checkers and drank their whiskey in the corner.
No one seemed to notice Connor’s entrance.
Well, except for the pub’s owner.
The man’s gaze met Connor’s, and his shoulders deflated a bit at the sight of the gun. This probably wasn’t the first time someone had come into the place, ready to shoot it up if needed, but it couldn’t be a pleasant sight.
Connor ticked his head to the side, his silent order for the owner to scram. The man did, sliding out from the bar and heading toward the back of the pub where he could exit without being noticed.
He waited a few extra seconds, just to be safe and make sure the owner was out of the pub. After all, he liked the man, and he had fond memories of the place from when he was younger. He’d like to be invited back again someday, so respect was due.
Then, when Connor was sure the business was clear, he flipped the rifle off his shoulder, aimed at the back of the bar, and let off a good twenty rounds into bottles of spirits, glasses, and whatever else happened to be on those old shelves.
Glass shattered.
Liquor poured.
Connor faced the men he needed to speak to, resting the gun back to his shoulder like he hadn’t done a thing.
He had everybody’s attention now.
“Anybody know where Sean is?” Connor asked.
One of the three men stood, glaring like a fool at Connor. “Aye, you feckin’ shite—what are ye doing, acting like a right cunt in here?”
Connor knew the Lieutenant’s name that sassed him, but he didn’t care to use it at the moment, because the man hadn’t answered his question. “Sit down, and listen this time.”
The man didn’t sit.
The hard way it was.
Connor pulled the Eagle he’d kept holstered at his back from its hiding place, aimed, and fired off one round, watching as the bullet plowed through the man’s forehead. Actually, it kind of blew his head apart, making quite a fancy design on the wall behind him before his body fell over the table, useless once again.
The rifle was grand for a lot of noise.
The Eagle was grand for making a point.
“Here’s the thing,” Connor said, “I need some information. And there isn’t one of you feckin’ cunts that are leaving this joint until I get it. If that means you need to make some calls to get me somewhere, then we’ll do that. We’re already one down, there’s only two of you idiots left. Somebody better get me information.”
The remaining two men gaped, their gazes darting between Connor, and their dead comrade.
“W-what are ye looking for, Connor?” the shorter of the two asked.
“My father, or Lachlan. I’ll take either. Don’t waste my time.”
• • •
“We need a safe place,” Connor mused. “A quiet place, where we won’t be interrupted.”
Killian nodded from the passenger seat of the truck. “There’s that whorehouse your father abandoned after it got raided a couple years back. He never approved anyone to fill the rooms again, but it’s still there, locked up tight.”
Connor considered it. “The one with all the red doors inside?”
“Customers knew which rooms the girls were in by the doors.”
“Shite part of town, mostly no cops, and—”
“He can scream for days,” Killian interrupted with a chuckle. “No one is going to hear him.”
Oh, that was perfect.
Connor did a U-turn in the middle of the road, flipping off some fool that honked his horn, and headed in the direction he needed to go. It took another forty minutes before he had parked his truck around the side of the rundown, dilapidated building that had housed dopesick working girls for years. He’d only visited the place once or twice for something Sean had needed, but he wasn’t about to forget the bright red doors inside.
“Grab him,” Connor ordered, “and I’ll get the chains.”
Killian pushed out of the truck. “Why the chains?”
“The place is old. Thought it might look nice with a decoration hanging from the ceiling or something.”
Connor could tell just by the look on Killian’s face that he had no clue what his friend was talking about, and he didn’t intend to explain. Killian would figure it out soon enough. He grabbed the chains from the back of the truck, and two of his favorite knives he’d stored back there when he had needed his hands free for the guns.
Killian dragged a gagged and bound Lachlan from the backseat of the truck, letting the man fall to the ground without easing the plunge. A gruff ompf sounded from under the black hood they had shoved over the Irish mobster’s head, which was sort of good news.
He was still alive, anyway.
And awake.
That made things easier.
“Pissed himself, he did,” Killian grumbled.
“Careful not to get it on yourself,” Connor warned as he headed toward the locked side door of the whorehouse. “You’ll be walking your dumb arse home.”
“I’m helping you, in case you forgot!”
“Not by smelling like piss, you shod.”
Killian muttered something under his breath, but Connor’s attention was already stolen by something else. He focused his work on getting the lock undone on the door, and once it was, he wasted no time heading inside to look for the perfect spot to do his business.
Ten minutes later, Connor had found a room with a red door and sturdy enough rafter to hold the weight of a man while he screamed and twisted in pain. Killian helped to string a still-gagged and blindfolded Lachlan up to the rafter by his wrists, and then he stepped back to let Connor handle the rest.
He gave his friend fifteen minutes—at the most—before he would need to leave the room.
This wouldn’t be a pretty sight.
Connor tugged the hood from Lachlan’s sweaty head, and let it drop to the ground. The man was still gagged, but at the sight of Connor, he sneered and tried to spit at him, his body moving forward a few inches. He couldn’t go much further than that, considering just the tips of his toes were touching the dirty, damp floor.
“So, we’re going to do this thing,” Connor said, pulling both of his knives out of his back pockets. “And this thing we’re going to do can be easy for you, or very difficult, depending on how it all goes, all right?”
Lachlan glared, but attempted to say nothing behind his gag.
“This knife,” Connor said, holding up the bigger of the two, “will cut through your joints with ease. I can get it in there, pop a wee bit of the cartilage and tendons, and your joint will just fall apart.”
His victim swallowed hard, his gaze darting to the blade.
“Now this one,” Connor said, holding up the slimmer blade with a razor-sharp edge, “will slice your skin like it’s cutting fat from a raw steak. They’ll both hurt, but one will make
it quicker, while the other will skin you alive before you can even get the chance to bleed out.”
Connor smiled, stepping back just a bit. “You see, I happen to be exceptionally talented with these knives, and I know each and every spot on your body that will kill you with the right cut. I will miss each and every one of those spots, Lachlan,” he taunted, wanting the man knowing, yet terrified of his skills. “I will slice your skin until it looks like raw meat, until it’s hanging off your very feckin’ bones, and then, I’ll start cutting out your muscles, because it doesn’t bother me. And you know me, don’t you? Watched me since I was a wee lad, under Sean’s feet. You know me—I can do this, and I will.”
For the first time since they had pulled the hood from Lachlan’s head, Connor saw a real glimmer of panic in the man’s eyes. Not necessarily fear, but panic.
“Do you want me to pull out the gag?” Connor asked.
Lachlan nodded once.
Connor pulled the gag out.
The screaming began almost instantly. It was a natural reaction, an attempt to save his life, though it would be entirely useless. Connor rubbed at his temple, the high-pitch noise making his head ache like a drummer was back there beating on his skull. He waited the man’s yelling out, and once it died down, he looked at him again.
“Grand, are you?”
Lachlan spit at him, barely missing him. “Just like your father, Connor.”
“Don’t be offensive. I’m a wee bit different. I don’t hunt women.”
“Yet.”
“Never,” Connor responded in kind, shrugging. “I don’t have that urge—I just like to cut, remember?”
Lachlan’s gaze darted down to the knives in Connor’s hands again. “I don’t know what you want from me, lad. Your father hasn’t called me in two days, and the last time he did, he was in a right fit over your stupid arse. I couldn’t understand a feckin’ thing coming out of his mouth.”
That might be true.
That didn’t mean Lachlan couldn’t help in other ways.
“Tell me what you know about Evelyn,” Connor said quietly.
Lachlan stiffened in his chains. “I don’t have nothing to tell, lad.”
Wrong answer.
Connor stepped forward, taking the thinner of the two knives and putting it to work. Quickly, he shed the man of his dress shirt and pants, cutting them from his body. Then, he drew a pathway from the tip of Lachlan’s sternum down to his naval, the cut moving so quickly it only began to bleed just as Connor withdrew the blade.