Page 87 of Her Irish Savage

My first shot must have gutted him. My second caught his head as he collapsed.

That leaves Joyce.

I stalk to the other side of the car, arms stiff, Magnum ready. It’s a dark night, only a sliver of moon. The Caddy’s headlights are useless. Its interior light casts a wavering yellow circle, like someone’s pissed on the shadows.

Swinging around the car door, I automatically adjust my aim.

Joyce has managed to pull himself halfway into the car. One of my shots pulverized his right arm; nothing but meat and gristle hangs from his shoulder. His legs sprawl on the ground. Itlooks like he tried to shift his revolver to his left hand, but he dropped the gun on the transfer.

I kick it away and point my Magnum at his face.

“Dowd’ll eat yer bollocks fer breakfast,” Joyce says.

“He’ll have to catch me first. And if you’re the type he’s sending round, I’m feeling fairly safe.”

Joyce shakes his head, his teeth gleaming red in the weak light. “He’ll make ya watch him fuck that cunt.”

I’m close enough that I barely need to twitch my wrist. The Magnum explodes, and a black pool spreads where Joyce’s cock used to twitch.

The motherfucker howls, his eyes going wild. I think he’s watching the demons who’ll drag him down to hell until I hear Fiona’s trembling voice. “Let me finish the job.”

One quick glance shows she’s picked up Joyce’s revolver. The dim light makes her bare arms look like they’re carved out of marble. Her ribs are heaving, her breath coming sharp and fast. Her hand shakes as she aims at Kevin Joyce, and her lower lip quivers like she’s about to burst into tears.

Joyce starts to beg. He says he didn’t mean it. He says he had no choice. He tries English, tries Irish, and then he stops arguing and just cries for his mam.

Fiona’s killed before—the four she’s proud of and the three that give her nightmares. She’s followed orders, and she’s made her own choices. She knows how this game works.

But the Bell rings inside my skull, crystal clear in the summer night. Fiona shouldn’t have to bear the weight for this one. She doesn’t need to remember this sack of shite, sobbing, desperate, snot running down his face as he pleads.

One more twitch of my wrist. One more pull on the trigger. One more blast from the Magnum, and the thing that used to be the head of Kevin Joyce explodes all over the interior of Aran Dowd’s Cadillac.

I take a deep breath before I lower my weapon.

But before I can turn around and take my little girl in myarms, tell her it’s over, tell her she’s safe, she throws herself at my back.

She pounds me with her fist. She does her best to bite me as she screams beside my ear. She throws her head back and howls louder than Joyce ever managed—no words, nothing human, just a flood of feral rage.

33

FIONA

Red.

I’m blinded by a curtain of red, darker than my dress under moonlight. Itoldhim what I wanted. Isaidwhat I needed. I claimed that writhing sack of shit as mine.

But Patrick Moran is just like every other man I’ve ever met. He plays a good game. He says he isn’t interested in the Old Colony Crew. He acts like he’s willing to let me take the lead, to let me be his captain.

But the instant I didn’t do exactly as he demanded, he made his own choice. He took charge. He stole what belonged to me.

“Put down the gun, Fiona.”

I hear the words, but I don’t care. I continue to beat him with my fist, pounding at his chest, because he’s finally turned to face me.

“Put down the fucking gun.”

That animal sound still tears across my throat. I hear it. Iknow I’m making it. But I can’t stop. I don’twantto stop. I want to scream at him forever.

“Goddammit, Fiona!”

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