Total pages in book: 109
Estimated words: 103620 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 518(@200wpm)___ 414(@250wpm)___ 345(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 103620 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 518(@200wpm)___ 414(@250wpm)___ 345(@300wpm)
Danny keeps crouch-running straight ahead as I curl around to deal with the van. We’re way, way too exposed. This sucks. Ever since we got to Belfast, shit has been slapdash as balls. It’s partially to do with the stakes of this situation, but also partially to do with the fact that we’re involved with a bunch of other people who aren’t us.
Even though they’re not here right now, we can feel the Watsons’ anxiety. Or, at least, I can. So we’re doing dumb shit. Like running out in the open. Or, y’know, leaving an entire cache of weapons like five miles away instead of bringing long guns capable of shooting at distance with us.
It’s like we’re fuckin’ amateurs all of a sudden.
As I approach the passenger side of the van, ready to pop a bullet in the brains of the two guys sitting there, I hear something. Something familiar. Something I recognize very, very well.
The crack of a rifle piercing the air.
It pulls the attention of everyone within range. Or at least everyone within range who also knows that sound well.
Me. The guys in the van. Danny. The guys on the bridge. We all turn our heads in the direction of the shot.
I glance quickly enough that I can see the end of the barrel being withdrawn from the open window where the shot came from. And as quickly as the bullet flying through the air, my head snaps back toward the bridge.
What I see takes a moment for me to process.
For the second time today, a mop of red hair accented by white and grey explodes, sending a blossom of bloody streamers into the air.
As Brasil Lynch drops to the floor of the bridge.
Dead.
DANNY
Watching Brasil go down is confusing. Confusing because this isn’t how this was supposed to go. Confusing because I thought I would be the one to end his life. Confusing because I have no idea who it is who just took the shot.
Eliza and her family are back at the warehouse with the Lynch boys.
Christine is behind me.
Alec, as much as he likes to think of himself as a god, isn’t. He can’t be all places at once.
I don’t stop moving forward and my mind races trying to think who else it could be.
There’s no one. There’s nobody else to look after us but us.
Which leaves me to conclude only one thing: That shot was an accident. It must have been. Maybe it was intended for Alec. One of Brasil’s other guys who had some kind of loyalty to David and…
Yeah, that must be it. Brasil had always planned to get his revenge on Christine by killing Alec with a sniper shot the same way Christine killed David. Quid pro assassination. It’s the only thing that makes sense.
But, unfortunately for Brasil, whoever he picked to pull the trigger is a shitty shot.
Or, maybe, Alec is right and fortune does favor the bold.
Or the reckless and incredibly lucky.
Regardless, I can’t worry about it now. There are still two dudes with guns about five feet from Alec and as soon as they shake off the shock of what’s just happened, they’ll be on top of him. So I have to get to him before they do.
The yelling and screaming is a helpful distraction. All the workers who’ve been milling around and all the tourists and locals out for constitutionals or whatever scatter as soon as they’re able to make sense of the sound they just heard and see Brasil’s body fall to the ground.
Mayhem makes for excellent camouflage.
I’m almost to the edge of the bridge when the shorter of Brasil’s two backup henchmen comes to his senses and whips out his piece. I draw on him and am just about to peel back his unsuspecting cabbage with a blast to the back of his ginger dome when Alec outguns him, taking him down with a shot that sends his neck snapping back, and suddenly two bodies lie dead on the footbridge.
The taller of the two, seeing his buddy go down, pops into scramble mode, ducks, rolls, and pulls out his pistol all at the same time.
He’s unaware that between Alec’s gun pointing at him from the front and mine from the back he’s already dead. But before Alec or I can pull either of our triggers, something pulls both of our focuses.
Another crack piercing the air. But this one’s louder, chunkier than the rifle crack that took out Brasil. This one sounds more like a nine-millimeter parabellum round. And it snaps past my ear.
Cillian. And the other fucker with the van. I look back to see that the second guy, the passenger, has circled around the front of the van and is advancing forward, shooting as he walks.
He walks. Walking forward slowly like he thinks he’s the Terminator or some shit.