Page 85 of Her Irish Savage

There’s a low building to our left, walls of windows dark forthe night. The Land Rover’s headlights pick up gently rolling hills in front of us. Green grass swoops to either side, trees carving out windbreaks.

It’s a golf course. Patrick’s driven us to the municipal golf course.

Correction.

Patrick’s drivingonthe municipal golf course. And the car that’s chasing us follows.

It’s a Cadillac Escalade. Black. Classic. Big enough for a grown man to sleep on the back seat. Or for a couple of bodies to fit in the rear compartment.

Patrick slams on his brakes, turning the wheel with practiced precision. The Land Rover spins in a perfect half-circle, coming to rest facing the torn-up greens and somewhere—beyond our line of sight—the shattered gate. Patrick cuts the engine, along with the lights.

The Cadillac brakes too, but its driver doesn’t spin the wheel. The Escalade barrels past us, hurtling toward a pitch-black shadow.

That’s not a shadow. It’s a water hazard.

The Cadillac stops with its front wheels on the edge of the drop-off. Its nose extends into mid-air. Its headlights beam into space.

Patrick reaches between my legs. I don’t have time to be surprised before he yanks open the glove box, and his fingers settle over the grip of a gun.

Looking up, I can barely make out the shapes of two men using the Cadillac’s back doors as shields. Someone calls from the driver’s side: “Let’s keep this simple, Cujo.”

Patrick’s jaw sets in concrete.

“Give us the girl,” the driver shouts. “And you won’t end up dogshite, like your da.”

The passenger probably thinks he’s being clever by howling like a mad dog. Patrick calls out, “Fuck you.”

“Dowd gave us orders.”

Of course he did. Iknowthe car poised on the edge of the water hazard—it belongs to Uncle Aran. And the man driving it is one of his favorite runners.

“Fuck Aran Dowd,” Patrick calls.

At the same time, I shout across the green. “You’re making a huge mistake, Kevin Joyce!”

Patrick flicks his attention to me for a heartbeat. “That gobshite’s still in the Crew?”

“Uncle Aran uses him for special jobs.” Which means that one of us—Patrick or me—isn’t expected to get out of this alive. Maybe both of us. But no… Joyce could have fired through the Land Rover’s back window by now if Uncle Aran wanted both of us dead.

Joyce has finally figured out a response. “Your man’s the one making a mistake. Now get out of the car, both of you. Slow and easy. And keep your hands where we can see them.”

Patrick reaches for his door latch, but he doesn’t open his door. Keeping his eyes on the Escalade, he says in a low voice, “Do you trust me?”

“Yes.” It’s one word. But it’s two months of thought. Two months of living on top of each other in the Back Bay apartment. Two months of this game we’ve been playing, Daddy and little girl.

“Good girl,” he says. “Get out of the car. Walk straight over to Joyce.”

In a twisted way, that makes sense. Joyce will have to focus on me, on dragging me into his car, on getting the back door closed. Patrick can come after him as Joyce backs up from the edge of the water hazard.

If the other guy doesn’t take out Patrick first.

Joyce is getting restless. He calls out, “I’m counting to three. One!”

Patrick nods toward the Cadillac. “Go on, then,” he says. He holds the gun in his lap, the one he took from the glove compartment.

The other guy will definitely take Patrick out first. He’ll have no reason not to open fire on the Land Rover, the instant I’m safely away.

I lick my lips. I don’t want to leave the car. I don’t want to leave Patrick.

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