by Raen Smith
He took step toward her and brushed the gun against her cheek in a slow, sweeping motion. She held her breath and flinched. “On the bed,” he barked, motioning them over with the guns. He walked over to the safe and looked in, somehow missing the bag. “Any more guns?”
Charla and Paul both shook their heads.
“Phones on the bed,” he ordered. They obliged, setting their phones out in front of them. “Anyone else in the apartment?”
“No,” Charla said, looking out the door for any sign of Jerry.
“He’s in the kitchen,” the man said, surveying the room. He set Liam’s gun on the dresser and started opening the drawers.
His head perked up just in time to see Charla and Paul exchange looks of panic. Charla was sure she hadn’t heard a gunshot. She looked at the gun in the man’s hand, recognizing the long cylinder attachment she’d seen in movies. A silencer. She swallowed hard, her chest tightening.
The man looked down at the gun and then back at Charla. “Don’t worry your pretty little head. He’s just passed out. The old ones go down pretty easy.”
She breathed a sigh of relief and watched as he flung open each drawer and dug through Liam’s clothes.
“Where is it?” He turned around to face them, pointing the gun back and forth between them. “Who should I take out first?”
“In the safe,” Paul said. “The bag’s in the safe.”
The man’s eyes narrowed before he walked to the safe and reached in to retrieve the bag. He held it up. “This? You think this is what I’m looking for?”
He tossed it on the bed and pointed the gun at Paul. “Open it.”
“It’s all there,” Paul said as he unzipped the bag. “And I can get you more if you need it. I can match this… ”
The man lowered the gun and cocked his head. “You can match this?”
“Yeah, I need a day or two,” Paul said, pulling the stacks of cash out of the bag and holding them up.
The man took a stack in his hand and turned it over, inspecting it closely. Then a loud rumble erupted from his mouth. “I don’t have a day or two.”
“I could get it faster,” Paul rushed, reaching for his phone. “I need to make a few phone calls.”
“Don’t move,” the man interrupted as he tossed the stack on the bed. He pulled the bag open and examined the contents, filtering through the stacks. “That’s it. That’s all there is?”
“It’s all there,” Charla added. “All 250 grand.”
“You lied,” he said, pointing the gun back at her. “We had a deal.”
“I didn’t know about the money until a few hours ago. I had no idea what you were looking for this morning,” she stuttered. “I didn’t lie. I had no idea. You have to believe me.”
“I’m not looking for money,” he said. “Tell me where it is.”
A rise of panic welled in her chest as she forced herself to keep a steady and cool face. “I don’t know - ”
“You do know,” he said, leaning over to press the barrel into her forehead. She gasped, trying to keep her eyes open.
“I don’t know - ”
“Charla, I’m losing my patience,” he barked. “Mickey’s not going to be so forgiving.”
“In the drawer,” she breathed. “The top one.”
“Don’t fuck with me, Charla,” he said, his eyes piercing her as he leaned in closer. The silver chain hung loose beneath his shirt.
“I’m not,” she whispered.
He finally released the barrel and stepped back.
“Fuck,” Paul muttered under his breath as he grabbed Charla’s hand. The man fished through the top drawer until his hand suddenly stopped. He slowly pulled out the framed picture of Jack and Helen. He gazed at it momentarily before holding it up.
“This? You sure this is what I’m looking for?”
“I think so.” She nodded her head slowly.
“Either you think or you know,” he said, leaning in to her again. His chain loosened around his neck and a silver medallion popped out of his shirt. She narrowed her eyes to focus on the small circular shape.
BANG, BANG, BANG. The sudden knock erupted at the back door. The muffled sound of a woman’s voice followed. “LIAM?”
The man looked back at her with a questioning look. “Who is it?”
“Gina,” she replied. “She’s the bartender downstairs. She must have heard the shot…” She looked up at the ceiling to see the hole the bullet had left in the plaster overhead. “Your medallion…”
“Shut the fuck up,” he warned, pointing the gun at her again. “This is what you’re going to do. We’re going to walk into the kitchen, and you tell her everything is fine. You don’t open the door. Tell her Liam will be back soon and will check in with her. Make any mention of any trouble, and I shoot bullets through all of your heads. Understand?”
“Yeah,” Paul and Charla both replied. Paul squeezed her hand before letting it go.
“Walk,” the man ordered as they climbed off the bed. Charla led them through the hall as he followed with the barrel pointed against the middle of Paul’s back.
“Stop,” he whispered just as Charla saw Jerry’s still body in the middle of the kitchen. A single streak of blood ran down the side of his face, near his eye. The vision brought back to her step-father lying in the middle of the living room. But this was different. Jerry didn’t deserve to die. She started to reach out to him, but a hand grabbed her arm and swung her back.
She turned around to see Paul mouth “NO” with the gun at the back of his head.
“LIAM?” Another bang sounded at the door.
“Hey Gina, it’s Charla. Everything’s fine,” she called. She looked back at the man who nodded his head, urging her to say more. “Liam will be back in a little bit. I’ll make sure he comes down and checks in with you.”
“Okay,” she said. “Charla, you sure everything is fine? I thought I heard a loud pop or something. You want to open the door?”
“I would, but I’m in a bathrobe,” Charla called, looking down at her jean shorts and tank top. “Kind of embarrassing, you know.”
“Sure,” Gina said. “Just send Liam down when he gets back, okay?”
“Will do,” Charla called. She exhaled at the sound of footsteps fading down the stairs and looked back to Jerry, finally seeing the slight rise and fall of his chest.
“Living room,” the man barked, pointing to the couch. Paul and Charla sat down next to each other, the man standing in front of them with the picture. “Jack and Helen.”
Paul and Charla sat in silence, both wondering how long it would be before Liam would come. It had to be ten minutes since Paul had sent the text. It would be just a matter of time, as long as they could stall.
“Yeah, Jack was a good man,” she said. “I was his in-home caregiver for three years. You get to really know a person when you live with them. He was always wearing a robe and cowboy hat, forgetting to put on his pants. He had Alzheimer’s, but he never let it break him. He always had a good sense of -”
“Shut it,” the man interrupted. He held the picture out to her. “I don’t see anything in this picture I want. There’s nothing in this picture that tells me what I want to know.”
“What do you want to know?” she asked.
“I want to know who killed Jimmy Bourke,” he said.
“The medallion on your chain - ” Charla started, leaning her elbows on her knees.
“Answer my fucking question,” he said. “Tell me what I’m looking for.”
“Open the back of the frame,” Paul said, leaning back into the couch and sighing. “It’s in there.”
“Mickey killed Jimmy. Jack had nothing to do with it,” she added. “Other than being an innocent bystander. He saw it happen and then Mickey framed the Italian mafia guy, Antonio. Then he killed Helen.”
His eyes shot up from the frame as he peeled back the tabs. “Killed Helen?”
“Yeah,” she said softly as his eyes snaked through
her. “What’s your name?”
“Who fucking told you this?” he barked, ignoring her question.
“Jack,” Charla whispered. “Before he died.”
“You said he had Alzheimer’s,” the man argued. “You believe a dying man with no memory?”
“Yeah,” she defended herself. “It’s the only thing that makes sense. He took his boys here to hide from people like you. He started a new life for all of them.” She paused before adding, “Who are you?”
“You want to know my fucking name?” He laughed as he pulled out the receipt. “If I tell you my real name, I have to kill you.”
“The symbol on your chain,” Paul said, carefully lifting up his shirt to expose the ink on his heart. “I have the same symbol on my chest.”
The man lowered the piece of paper and glanced down at Paul’s chest. “I don’t see anything.”
Paul leaned forward on the couch and then finally resorted to standing up slowly. He pointed to the small circle. “It’s faded, but it’s there.”
The man looked closer, a sudden look of recognition washing over him. “You’re Brody.”
“Yeah,” Paul said, nodding his head as the man looked him over from head to toe. “My mom changed my name to Paul, but yeah, I guess I’m Brody.”
“Not exactly what I anticipated,” he said, looking down at the paper again. “Is this real?”
“I think so,” Charla said. “As far as we know.”
“You sure or you think?”
“We’re sure,” Paul said. “It’s proof that Antonio didn’t kill Jimmy Bourke. It was Mickey.”
“Sit down,” he ordered, waving the gun at Paul. Then he slid the gun into his holster and took out a phone from his back pocket. He snapped a picture of the receipt and then slid the phone back into his pocket. “Anyone else know this exists besides the two of you and Jerry?”
Brody and Charla were silent.
“Who else knows?”
“Liam and Ronan,” she reluctantly answered.
“Where are they?” He slid the gun out of his holster again.
“I don’t know -” she said, realizing he didn’t flinch at the names. He knew their names. He knew all of their names. “Who are you? Why do you have that medallion?”
The man tucked the receipt in his pocket and gave the picture one last look before setting it down on the coffee table. He glanced at Charla before his eyes steadied on Brody. “My name is Declan, and Frank Connolly was my father.”
Chapter 14
The amber liquid slid down Liam’s throat, the burn lingering for a moment before settling into his gut. Two shot glasses clanked against the counter simultaneously. The soft buzz of U2 played in the background as the crack of pool balls sounded behind them. They’d been at the bar for ten minutes, long enough to locate Mickey and his men tucked in a back booth in a dark corner of the bar. They were inconspicuous, like they needed to be, but it still struck Liam as odd that he would take the chance of showing up two nights in a row. Fugitives didn’t stay fugitives hanging out in the same location.
“I see two,” Ronan said quietly, staring straight ahead at the rows of liquor lining the back of the bar.
“One in black, one in blue,” Liam said, twisting the empty shot glass on the counter.
“They won’t be a problem,” Ronan added.
“It won’t come to that,” Liam replied, pulling out his wallet. He threw a handful of bills on the counter and stood up. “We’ll be gone before they even know anything happened.”
Ronan tapped the edge of the counter twice before standing up and following Liam out of the bar. They walked out onto the quiet street. The summer haze was fading into night, the soft glow of moonlight falling onto the street signs.
“8:52,” Liam said, checking his phone one last time before silencing it. “Go get the van. Park it on the back side of the bar, but keep it running. Lights out. I’ll secure Mickey and then you come up the alley.” He pointed to the narrow passageway between the buildings. It would be a tight fit with the industrial garbage container along the building, but the van would squeeze through. After watching him race, Liam knew there was no better man to trust than Ronan behind the wheel.
“Got it.” Ronan met Liam’s hand near their chests and then they slapped each other on the back once. “Go fucking get him.”
“I will,” Liam promised as Ronan turned the corner and jogged down the street to grab the van. Liam leaned up against the wall to wait. He didn’t want to take the chance of encountering anyone else in the alley. He took a deep breath, thinking of Charla back at the apartment. She was in good hands with Jerry, but he couldn’t fight the crippling feeling wrenching in his chest. It was the same feeling he felt before the bomb detonated killing his buddy in Afghanistan.
He thought back to Charla’s description of the man in the cottage. He was dressed in black, just like one of Mickey’s henchmen at the bar. But the two men sitting next to Mickey at the bar weren’t big like Charla had described. Liam wouldn’t describe either of the men as massive, and they definitely weren’t bigger than him like she had said. But she had also been in a life-threatening situation, and Liam knew that details can get hazy after trauma like that. Bombs get bigger and louder. Villains become stronger and more menacing. Rooms get smaller and darker. And the victim becomes more helpless.
He shook his head, trying to get the vision of Charla’s panicked face out of his head. He wouldn’t let anything happen to her. He couldn’t. He owed taking down Mickey to her, his brothers, Jack, and most of all Helen. He pushed himself off the wall, double-checked the empty sidewalks one last time, and turned the corner to make his way down the alley. He jogged down the long stretch until he hit the garbage container. He crouched and withdrew his Glock from his holster. He had no intention of firing any shots, but he knew Mickey wouldn’t go down easily. He would need coercing, and Liam would need to do it fast.
The door on the other side of the garbage container squeaked open and shut with a resounding thud. Soft footsteps followed and a set of black shoes appeared near the middle of the garbage container. Liam pulled his head back, and waited for him. But the shoes stopped.
Liam tightened his grip around his gun and waited for him to pull out his cell phone, just like Jerry had said he’d done the night before.
“Hey, baby girl.” The man’s voice pierced the silent alleyway.
Liam sprung forward as he heard the engine of the van rev at the end of the alley.
“Drop it and raise your hands in the air,” Liam demanded as he aimed the gun at the back of the man’s head. The cell phone dropped to the ground with a clatter and the man raised his hands. Liam looked down at the man’s shirt, expecting to the see the collared shirt of Mickey. His stomach dropped at the sight of a blue shirt, like the one of his henchmen. The man quickly spun around and landed a sidekick to Liam’s rib.
The pain shot through his side and chest as Mickey’s henchmen stared him in the face and extended his arm to knock Liam’s gun out of his hand. It spun across the ground and knocked against the wall of the building. Liam ducked just in time to miss his second punch and lunged full force to tackle the man to the ground. They rolled in the alleyway, both connecting punches to each other’s faces before Liam reached for his gun. He slammed the butt of his gun into the man’s face as the van’s tires stopped inches from them.
“Where is he?” Liam yelled as the man continued to struggle beneath his hands. The man kicked his leg out and slammed Liam in the back.
“Fuck,” Ronan said as he opened the van door. He grabbed Liam and pulled him off of the man. The man stood up, panting, with blood running down the side of his face. He raised his hands in the air and let out a small laugh.
“Where is he?” Liam pointed the gun at him.
The squeak of the side door made them turn their heads. A man wearing an apron appeared thirty feet behind them. “What the fuck is going on?”
Two more men appeared behind him, bigger
than the man standing before Liam and Ronan. They slowly reached behind their backs, a movement Liam knew all too well. He wasn’t getting into a shoot-out in the alley of The Blarney Stone without Mickey in sight.
“Go,” he muttered as he swung around the front of the van and climbed into the passenger seat. Ronan was already in the driver’s seat and pressing the gas before Liam could shut his door. The man stumbled out of their way and pressed himself against the wall as they drove past. The sound of shots echoed through the alley. The crack of shattered glass made Ronan and Liam duck their heads as they hit the end of the alley, crossed the sidewalk, and merged into traffic. Ronan swerved to miss a sedan before maneuvering onto the right side of the road. The long blow of a horn sounded behind them as Ronan blew a stop sign and pushed forward.
“What the fuck was that?” Ronan said, gripping the wheel.
“I don’t know.” Liam shook his head and tucked his gun into his holster. He felt a warm trickle of blood near his right eye. He wiped it away with his hand at first, but quickly realized it wasn’t going to stop. While he tilted his head and pulled his sleeve to meet his eyebrow, the sound of sirens echoed behind them. They both looked in their side mirrors to see the reflection of flashing blue and red lights stopped in front of The Blarney Stone.
“Fuck,” Ronan said, easing up on the gas. “You call the police?”
“No,” Liam said. “You?”
“Fuck no,” he said, looking in the rearview mirror before he turned to Liam. “You all right?”
“Yeah, I’m fine,” he replied. “Fucking Jiu jitsu ninja or something. Wasn’t expecting that.”
“No shit.” Ronan let out a small laugh. “That fucker was fast. Now what?”
“I don’t know.” Liam dropped his sleeve and reached for his back pocket to pull out his phone. His screen flashed with a message from Paul that read SOS. “Fuck. We have to get back to the apartment.”
***
“What are you going to do?” Charla asked, watching Declan set the bag of money on the coffee table. “Leave us here?”