by Ken Bruen
“Gold rush?”
“Yes, ’tis an old wing of me family. ’Tis a rich wing, too.”
“I thought the gold rush was California?”
“Aye, ’tis true, but they weren’t the smartest people, me relatives.”
The guy squinted at Max again, as if studying him, then smiled and said, “Well, welcome to America, Mr. Mullan. It’s a pleasure to have you back.”
Driving away slowly Max could barely contain himself. He was back on his home turf – America, the land of freedom. Yeah, okay, there was a downside, he had to be fucking Irish, maybe for the rest of his life, but hey, he could pull it off. After all, how hard could it be to be Irish? He already liked to drink and kill people, he’d be a goddamn natural.
Humming that anthem Angela used to sing, The Soldier’s Song, he drove at a nice easy pace till he hit the open road. Then, thinking he better start getting used to his new identity, he shouted “Bollix to ye all!” and fucking floored it.
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