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)
The whole monologue spills out like a waterfall. Crashing into a pool of words collecting at Brasil’s feet and rising to engulf him until he drowns in them.
He vibrates in place and I see the okes behind him lay hands inside their jackets. I tilt my head at him and smile with self-satisfaction. He steps into my personal space far closer than would be my preferred proximity, so close that I can smell the single malt still on his breath from the night before. Or maybe just this morning. Who can say?
“Van den Berg,” he huffs out, “I don’t know feckin’ shite about what’s going on any more than you do right now. I really don’t. But I will tell you this…”
It’s like he’s winding up to throw a cricket pitch. I feel the energy building behind his words as he prepares to unleash them. And, being as close to me as he is and as worked up as he appears to me, he must have neglected to think about the fact that when I reach for the semi-automatic pistol I have just inside my topcoat, no one will be able to see me grab it and he’ll be too close to stop me putting a bullet in his heart.
He continues. “I hope your daughter—that’s who she is, yeah?—I hope she fuckin’ dies a slow, painful death. I hope whoever it is who has her tortures her and makes her cry out in pain. And more than that, I hope you’re somewhere near, watching, unable to do anything to help. And I hope that Danny and that bitch are there too. I hope she’s good and raped and that when Danny goes down, it’ll be with a gun in his mouth. That pretty mouth of his that he’s used all these years to suck. Your. Feckin’. Cock.”
Well. That was more impressive than I would’ve given him credit for. Good on you, Brasil Lynch. You ticked every possible box that you could to get under my suddenly very hot and itchy skin.
The things that transpire next do so in almost impossibly quick order.
— I reach into my coat to retrieve my pistol.
— Brasil sees me reaching and pushes my chest as he steps back.
— As he retreats, he withdraws his own hand cannon.
— The two brus with him withdraw their pistols as well.
— I duck to the side, extending my arm, prepared to start firing.
— But before I can pull the trigger, something catches my eye from the building off to the side.
— A glint. A flash. Sunlight sparking on something. A window. Or some kind of glass.
— No. Not a window. Too small.
— And then, like a revelation, I realize what it is.
— It’s the sight of a rifle. The eyepiece.
— And it’s pointed right at me from one of the building’s upper windows.
Well. Fok.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHRISTINE
Danny and I start moving ahead more quickly when we see Brasil step into Alec’s face. Goddamnit, I wish we had a way to hear what was happening. I mean, I can guess. Alec said some very Alec shit and got into Brasil’s head and now Brasil is going to try to do to Alec what all of us have wanted to do to Alec at one time or another.
And which I very nearly did when I shot him off a cliff. And I love the guy.
So, I get it. I know how crazy Alec can make someone become.
We’re looking left, right, forward, back. It’s a workday, so there are a number of guys wandering around, doing… whatever work they do here.
They’re looking at us. It’s hard not to notice two Americans carrying guns, sprint-sneaking toward a very public bridge which is also a tourist attraction.
Which causes me to realize: Whatever comes of this situation, we’re going to have to get the hell out of Belfast. Soon. Feels like we’re starting to run out of places around the world where we can go with impunity.
For the better part of the last ten years we’ve been globe-hopping, burning places down as we tear through them. The only reason we haven’t been picked up yet is Alec’s money. Money can be used to sponge away a shitload of sins and get people to look the other way. But there’s a limit to everything. We’re not going to be able to buy our way out of trouble if we continue making such a public spectacle out of our escapades.
Why don’t we ever wear masks? I wonder. If we make it out of this one, we should think about doing something to obscure our extremely recognizable faces.
“Keene,” Danny whisper-shouts, “deal with the fuckers in the truck. I’ll handle Brasil.”
“But—”
“It’s not up for discussion, Christine.”
Except for when we’re fucking, I don’t typically like being given orders. But there’s no time to have a lover’s spat about tone policing at the moment, so I just go with it.