by Raen Smith
“Because the man who threatened me said he’d kill me if I went to police,” Charla said softly to Paul, ignoring Ronan. “Believe me, there was nothing else I wanted to do than drive to the police station after he let me go. But the man was someone who keeps his promises. He will come and hunt me down if I go to the police so I called Liam instead. He told me to give him twenty-four hours so that’s what I’m doing. If things aren’t settled by tomorrow afternoon, I’ll go to the police.”
“And what if we get Mickey? You think the man who broke into the cottage is going to let you get off that easy? You think he’s going to disappear?” Paul asked.
“I don’t know,” Charla said. “I assumed if Mickey got arrested, his crew would get the hell out of town.”
“Maybe,” Ronan said. “Maybe not.”
“Maybe he’ll make good on his promise,” Paul added.
A shudder coursed through Charla’s body. She hadn’t thought of the actual possibility he’d come after her anyway.
“He’s going to get the hell out here, just like Charla said.” Liam squeezed her knee. “We’ll make sure of that.”
She swallowed hard, hoping like hell Liam was right, but a man like the one back at the cottage would be the type of guy to prove him wrong. She closed her eyes, trying to wipe away the vision of his piercing eyes and twitching lips. She never wanted to see that man again.
“Whatever you say, boss.” Ronan stood up and clapped his hands together. “Now where the fuck is that collection of yours?”
Chapter 13
Liam turned away from the window and looked down at the flashing screen in his hand. He texted a response to Charla and slid the phone into his back pocket. Two days ago, he never imagined he’d send a message like the one he just sent Charla. Everything about her was entirely unexpected, something Liam knew he couldn’t do without. He would do anything to make sure no one laid a hand on her. Mickey was going down tonight, one way or another.
“Everything all clear back at the apartment?” Ronan slid open the chamber of his .22 and double-checked the rounds. He clicked it shut and tucked it into a holster beneath his shirt.
“All clear,” Liam said, turning back to the window. There was no sign of Mickey or his crew, but he didn’t exactly expect him to use the front door. Someone who had evaded the FBI for more than ten years didn’t show up like this in Blackwell and use front doors. He was calculated, keeping himself out of view. So it struck Liam as odd that Mickey would go back to the same bar for the past two nights unless there was a reason. Liam intended to discover why.
“For now,” Ronan added, looking back at the alarm clock on the nightstand. “It’s almost eight-thirty. You want to head over?”
“Yeah,” Liam said, looking at the street one last time before meeting Ronan’s eyes. They all shared the same blue striking eyes as Helen. A shot of adrenaline coursed through his body as he thought of the man who shot her dead in the alley. He had altered the course of their lives irrevocably. Because of him, Liam never had the opportunity to know Helen. He never had the chance to make his biological father proud. Mickey took away the relationship he could have had with Ronan and Paul as kids growing up. Mickey had taken so much from all of them and it was time to make him pay.
“You ready to get this bastard?” Ronan slapped Liam’s shoulder and held his hand there for a second before dropping it.
“Yeah.” Liam’s gut tightened. He would have no better satisfaction than taking him down.
“Fuck yeah,” Ronan barked back as he thumped his fist over his heart.
“We go in and we wait, you got it? Even if we see him, we wait. Our only chance is to get him alone. He’s not going to go down easy,” Liam said, studying his brother’s hard eyes.
“You kill our mom, you pay,” Ronan said.
Liam studied him, seeing his own anger mirrored in Ronan. It was exactly why Jerry hesitated to tell them the whole story. He knew it would put them over the edge. It would give them the fuel they needed to capture Mickey. But Liam knew it better than anyone, they couldn’t let the rage dictate their actions. He pointed his index finger into Ronan’s chest. “We stick to the plan. No fucking deviating. We go in and out quietly. I take him down and you pull up the van.”
“I fucking got it.” Ronan’s eyes steadied on Liam’s.
“Then let’s do this,” Liam said, leading them out of the safety of the hotel room to The Blarney Stone.
***
Charla gazed out the front window of the apartment, watching as two women and one man disappeared through the door below her. The Dirty Leprechaun had another healthy crowd tonight, the dull thud of the music and laughter rose through the floor. She wondered how Liam slept at night, the stillness of the cottage still deep in her bones. She had been so tired the night before, so comfortable in his bed, she barely noticed the sound. She looked over at Paul and Jerry who sat next to each other on the couch, watching a Cubs game. Jerry’s jacket was draped over the armrest, exposing his holster that cradled his .9 millimeter against his ribs.
“Eight-forty-five,” Jerry answered without looking at her.
She sighed and turned back to the window. Waiting to hear from Liam and Ronan felt like eternity. It’d been two hours since they left and fifteen minutes since she last texted him. He’d reassured her everything was going to be fine.
Fine. She didn’t exactly feel fine. How could she when someone had threatened to kill her less than twelve hours ago? She wrapped her arms around herself and looked out the window again.
He knew my name. He knew my goddamn name. What else did he know? She closed her eyes, trying to remember everything she’d done after Jack’s death. Maybe she was missing something. Maybe there was someone who knew more. She thought of the lawyer’s office. Gary seemed fine. He read Jack’s will with no emotion, reciting the instructions he’d left for his estate. Gary had said Jack changed his will a week after she’d arrived on his doorstep. She was to sell everything and deliver the note to Liam Murphy. That was it.
I have to be missing something. She opened her eyes, gazing out the open window again. The warm summer breeze brushed against her face, carrying the sound of a man’s laughter below. She looked down to see a man open his wallet and tuck a piece of paper in it. Then he slipped the wallet into his back pocket and grabbed the hand of a woman as they walked down the street.
Charla watched them disappear into the night, the dusk swallowing their silhouettes as they crossed the street onto the other block. Then she turned back to Jerry and Paul, still sitting on the couch next to each other watching the game. The crack of the bat echoed from the TV, followed by the cheer of the crowd.
“Alright, alright.” Paul waved his beer at Jerry before he took a drink. “That’s what we needed.”
“It’s not about the money,” Charla whispered, taking a step toward the living room. “It can’t be about the money. He wants something else.”
She stepped in front of the TV with her hands on her hips, oblivious to Paul’s craned neck. “He wants something else.”
“Move, Charla,” Paul said, waving her out of the way. “I want to see the replay.”
Jerry was silent, watching Charla pace back and forth in front of the TV. “He wants to know the truth is buried with Jack. But I didn’t bury Jack, I spread his ashes on the lake,” she muttered to herself. “There must be something else he has. Something that would incriminate Mickey.”
“Come on, Charla,” Paul said, clearly agitated. He stood up and took a few steps over to see the TV. “There it is. That a boy.”
“Charla…” Jerry said, leaning forward with his eyes intent on her. “What is it?”
She stopped and stared at Jerry for a second before muttering something neither of them could hear. Then she disappeared into Liam’s bedroom. She grabbed the photo of Helen and Jack off Liam’s dresser and sat down on the bed. She flipped it around when Jerry appeared in the doorway.
“What is it?” he asked.
“It’s not that,” she said, waving him off. She held up the picture frame. “It’s this. It’s this picture.”
“It’s a picture of Helen and Jack,” Jerry said, taking a step closer. “I’ve seen it a half a dozen times. It was taken the day after they got married.”
“It’s not the actual picture,” she said, flipping the frame around again to finish peeling the tabs back. She tucked her nail underneath the cardboard to pop it out. It was still there, just where Liam had left it. “It’s this. It has to be this.”
She held up the thin piece of paper, its edges worn and yellow. “It’s a receipt from Legends Diner dated back to 1990. Jerry, that’s the year you said Jack showed up at your door. What month was it?”
“June,” he said, sitting down next to her. “He showed up at my door on the night of June 17, 1990. I’ll never forget that date.”
“This is dated June 12, 1990,” she said, holding out the receipt to him. “Do you know the restaurant?”
“It was a place down the street on the edge of my neighborhood,” he said, leaning over to scan the receipt. “A little diner where some of the mafia guys would hang out.”
Paul stepped into the bedroom with his phone in his hand, typing furiously. “The restaurant is still open. Let me do one more thing here…” He frowned and tapped through his screens.
Charla turned back to the piece of paper. “There’s some writing on here. It’s faded, but it looks like it says Thanks something with a smiley face.”
“Antonio,” Jerry finished. “Thanks Antonio. That was the name of the guy Mickey accused of murdering Jimmy. Antonio was found two days later floating face down in Charles river. I can only guess someone from the Irish crew was responsible. They never found out who did it though. There’s that retribution thing again. Caused a huge rift between the two groups, or at least that’s what I read. Boston was never the same after that.”
“Jimmy Bourke’s body was found seven blocks from there,” Paul said, holding up his phone. “In a back alley.”
“The Italian side of town,” Jerry added.
“That’s the proof,” Charla whispered.
“It doesn’t mean anything,” Jerry said. “It puts Antonio in the location where Jimmy was murdered. If anything, it’s the opposite. It’s further proof he could have done it.”
“Not if he was eating while the murder happened,” Charla said. “This has to be it. Why else would Jack keep this?”
“Why would he be in the Italian part of the city anyway?” Paul asked, leaning against the door frame.
“Unless he suspected something,” Charla finished, looking over at Jerry.
Jerry slowly shook his head and took the receipt in his hand. “I don’t know. It seems like a stretch.”
“I agree,” Charla replied. “But there was something the man at the cabin wanted and bad. Bad enough he wanted to know where I brought all Jack’s stuff.”
“But he’s dead. It’s been over twenty years,” Paul said. “No one is going to dig up that stuff anymore.”
“Except for the mafia,” Jerry said. “They are the only ones that care. It’s about the legacy -”
BANG.
A loud thud resounded from the back of the apartment. Jerry’s hand shot to his holster as he stood up in one smooth movement. He pulled out the gun and held it steady in front of him. “Stay here. I’ll go check it out.”
“You sure you don’t want me to come with? I can get a gun from Liam’s safe…” Paul motioned his head toward the black box next to Liam’s bed.
“Not a chance in hell,” Jerry replied without missing a beat. “Just stay here. I’m sure it wasn’t anything.”
He crept down the hall and vanished into the kitchen.
“What time is it?” Charla whispered.
“A couple minutes before nine,” he whispered back, sliding through his screens on his phone. “I’m sure they’ll call in a little bit to tell us they got him. See right here?” He pointed to a pinpoint on a map. “This is where Liam is. I’m tracking his phone and this tells me he’s right by the bar. I’m sure they’re waiting for the right second to get him.”
“I hope so,” Charla whispered.
“Let me see this.” Paul took the receipt from her hand and snapped a picture. “Put it back in the frame.” He handed it back to her, his eyes steady on her. She could see the nervousness in his face. She guessed she didn’t look much better. “In case.”
“In case,” she repeated, tucking the paper back into its original spot and placing the cardboard over it. She carefully folded the tabs back and then crept up to open the top drawer of his dresser. She tucked it under Liam’s clothes and shut the drawer. “Nothing’s going to happen here. It can’t, right? With all those people in the bar below us, they wouldn’t think of coming here. There’s no way they could get -”
BANG.
The sound of Liam’s kitchen door shutting echoed through the apartment making both Charla and Paul jump. She shot him a sideways glance, wondering how he could be so different than his brothers.
“Jesus,” Paul whispered. “I’m jumpy as hell.”
The sound of footsteps followed. They were soft at first and then a clattering echoed in their ears.
“A kitchen chair,” she whispered. She shot off the bed and ran to the door, shutting and locking it quietly. The sound of a struggle and grunts followed.
“Fuck me,” Paul said, appearing next to her. He hit the keypad on his phone and dialed nine. Charla’s hand stopped him.
“Just wait a sec,” she said, putting her ear to the door. “You don’t know if Jerry’s getting the best of him.”
The struggle and grunting stopped.
“I don’t hear anything,” she whispered.
“Charla, I’m not screwing around anymore,” Paul whispered back, holding up his phone. “I’m not about to get murdered in this bedroom. We’re talking about the mafia for fuck’s sake, Charla. I’m just a nerd from Blackwell. I sit in front of computer and develop crap people pay a shit ton of money for. I’m not cut out for this shit. Fuck excitement.”
“Fine,” she whispered back.
“Charla,” a man’s voice called through the door. He sounded close, on the other side of the door. She stepped back, recognizing the voice from earlier. Fear coursed through her. “Remember me, Charla? I hope you’re not calling the police because we made a promise. I don’t break promises.”
She grabbed Paul’s phone and ended his call before he could finish dialing.
“It’s him,” she whispered.
“Fuck,” Paul whispered back. He held up his phone again and slid through the screen.
She grabbed his hand and violently shook her head.
“Liam,” Paul mouthed, quickly tapping through the screens to send a text message.
“Charla,” the man said again as the door handle jiggled from the other side. He tapped the wood lightly with three slow knocks. “Open up.”
She wasn’t going to let this bastard in. She stepped away from the door slowly and made her way around the bed to the safe. She motioned Paul over.
“Charla,” the man warned, his voice dropping a level lower. “Don’t make me do this the hard way. I know you have what I’m looking for.”
He banged on the door three times again, hard and fast. “I’ll fucking break this door down.”
Her hand shook as she swung open the safe to reveal a loaded gun just as Liam had left it. Emergency only, he had warned them both as he showed them how to take off the safety.
“This is a fucking emergency,” she whispered as she grabbed it and flicked off the safety. She pointed it at the door, her hands shaking as the man pounded on the door.
“Loosen your arms,” Paul whispered Liam’s instructions, pushing gently on her forearms.
“You want to do it?” She hissed back. The pounding at the door grew lo
uder and more violent.
“Fuck it,” Paul said, moving behind her. “What if he shoots through the door?”
“Maybe I should first,” Charla whispered, placing her finger gently on the trigger.
“You don’t know if he has Jerry,” Paul warned in her ear before he rolled across the bed and leaned against the wall closest to the door. He motioned her over with quick wave of his hand as the pounding on the door suddenly stopped.
The dull thud of music and voices from the bar below filled the room as Charla maneuvered herself across the bed and next to Paul against the wall. Just as she took aim at the door, a sudden BANG echoed through the room.
Before she could release her finger on the trigger, a black figure appeared and pulled her arms up in one fluid motion. The gun exploded in her hands, the pop ringing in her ears as a bullet shot through the ceiling. She winced as a pain radiated in her gut, her body crumbling beneath the man’s boot. Her hands immediately released the gun, the heavy metal clanking against the floor. She doubled over in pain.
Paul lunged forward, reaching for the gun when a boot stepped on his hand. He fell to the ground, wincing as he tried to move his hand beneath the boot, but the man dug his heel down. “OW,” Paul yelled.
“Don’t fucking move,” the man barked as he picked up Liam’s gun. He held two guns in his hands now, pointing one at Paul and the other at Charla. He shook his head when he realized they couldn’t move even if they wanted to. She was still doubled over in pain and Paul was pinned to the ground. He let out a low laborious breath before talking again. “If you don’t want me to blow your heads off, you’ll do what I tell you, understand?”
“Yeah,” Paul said quickly. “Whatever you want.”
Charla nodded, trying to straighten her body. She looked up to see the man from the cottage staring back at her with his green eyes, his face completely exposed now. His face was smooth except for a small scar slashed in his eyebrow. His jaw was thick, his muscles taut beneath his fair skin. He had thick black hair that matched his clothes. Her eyes caught a silver chain around his neck that disappeared into this tight black shirt. His lip twitched up as she studied him.