Page 98 of Dublin Beast

Carl looks at his asshole friend and then frowns. “Bullshit. The only thing keeping us alive is what we know. If we spill it, you’ll kill us.”

“If you make me wait, I’ll kill you,” Tag corrects. “So, who’s it going to be? There’s only one winner here, lads.”

The two of them lock gazes and seem to come to some kind of unspoken agreement to keep quiet.

Tag shrugs and backs off. “Suit yourselves.”

Brendan and I move in.

My twin takes Carl and I crack my knuckles and stand over the skinny little prick with a mouth full of bravado—like that’s gonna save him.

I don’t start with a punch.

I start with a bitch slap—open-palmed and precise. The sound of it ricochets off the walls, a sharp, wet crack that snaps his head to the side and splits his lip like a peach under pressure.

He snarls, more shocked than hurt. I grab his shirt, haul him to his feet, and slam him into the wall. The building is made of cinderblock, so there’s no give to the collision. It’s like a fly hitting the windshield of a car.

Before he can recover, I swing my fist like a baseball pitcher, arching my sledgehammer punch up, behind my shoulder, and then windmilling it right into his balls.

The thud of my fist is lost to the breathy grunt as he drops to his knees. He wheezes with a wet gasp, face pale, eyes watering.

I don’t say a word. Don’t need to.

Pain speaks loud enough.

Tag steps in again, as calm as the eye of a hurricane. “This is the part where I ask again. Where you two start thinking about how nice it would be to breathe through your nose tomorrow.”

They both stay silent. Bleeding. Shaking.

Tag sighs. “All right, brothers. Give these assholes some incentive to talk.”

This time, I don’t ease in. I grab my guy by the collar, haul him upright, and drive a right cross into his jaw.

He hits the floor like dead weight.

Too much like dead weight, actually.

I stare at him, but he doesn’t move.

Tag’s curse slices through the air. “Fucking hell, Bryan! What part ofincentive to talkmeans a one-punch kill?”

I shrug, my chest heaving. “Oops.”

I don’t feel bad. Not even a little.

My jaw is clenched so tight I can feel it pop in my ears. My knuckles throb. My heart’s a war drum in my chest.

Brendan’s guy glances at the unconscious body beside him, then at Brendan’s still-raised fist.

He raises both hands, fast.

“Okay, stop! I’ll talk.”

Tag nods. “Good lad. I suggest you make it quick before Bryan sets his sights on you next. It seems he’s having trouble with impulse control today.”

I step back, breathing hard, hands sticky with blood. I flex my fingers, bones still twitching from the hit.

It helped.

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