Page 20 of The Thief
But Freddie's not done.
He straddles the fallen man and pulls a gun from inside his jacket. It’s an expensive piece, professional grade. The kind of weapon that doesn't miss.
"Wait," I gasp. "Don't?—"
Too late. The shot echoes off the alley walls like thunder. The man's head snaps back, and suddenly there's brain matter decorating the brick wall behind him.
Freddie turns to Sean, who's trying to crawl away despite his injured arm. The gun tracks his movement with mechanical precision.
"Please," Sean whimpers. "Please, I'm sorry. I didn't mean?—"
Freddie shoots him in the kneecap. Sean's scream cuts through the night like a siren. The second shot takes out his other knee, leaving him writhing on the ground like a broken insect.
"You'll live," Freddie says conversationally. "Probably never walk properly again, but you'll live. Consider it a lesson in manners."
The third attacker, the one I dropped with my elbow, is stirring. Freddie puts a bullet through his shoulder, then plants a boot on his chest to hold him down.
"Same lesson applies to you."
He turns to me, gun disappearing back inside his jacket like it was never there. "You hurt?"
I'm sitting up now, checking for damage. Bruised ribs and scraped hands, but nothing serious. "I'm fine."
"Good."
He helps me to my feet, his touch gentle despite what I just watched him do. The contrast is jarring; his tender hands that seconds ago were dealing death with casual efficiency.
"We should go," he says. "Before someone calls the police."
"What about them?" I gesture to the groaning men.
"What about them? They attacked you. They got what they deserved."
"You killed that man."
"He was about to split your skull open with a crowbar."
"But—"
"But nothing." His voice is harder now, edged with something dangerous. "You want to stay in Belfast? Fine. But understand what that means. Understand what kind of world you're choosing."
I look around the alley, at the blood pooling under streetlights. Men who are broken and bleeding because they thought they could take what wasn't theirs. This is my world now. This is what staying means.
"How did you know?" I ask. "How did you know to come?"
"I’ve been watching. Saw them follow you from the shop."
"You've been watching me all night?"
"Since I left Murphy's."
"Why?"
"Because men like Sean Jennings don't forget humiliation. Because Belfast's not as safe as you think it is."
He's right. I know he's right. But accepting help means accepting everything that comes with it. It means acknowledging that I can't do this alone anymore.
"This doesn't mean I trust you," I say.
