Page 86 of Her Irish Savage
“Scáthach,” Patrick says.
I have to delay, until I can come up with a better plan. “Tell me what that?—”
“Later.”
There’ll be no later.
I run my fingers under the halter of my evening gown, settling the seams in place. I try to think of another way to play this. Some way that doesn’t end up with me a captive and Patrick gunned down by my uncle’s soldiers. “Patrick—” I say.
“Go.”
I climb out of the car. It’s a June night. My brain knows that the air around me must be warm, hot even, and heavy with summer humidity. But the grass feels like miniature icicles under my bare feet. Goose pimples rise on my arms, and my back feels like it’s pressed against an iceberg.
I can’t see in the dark. The Land Rover’s lights are turned off, and the front of the Cadillac faces the water hazard. I squint, trying to make out some refuge in the darkness—a line of trees, bleachers for spectators,somethingI can run to.
This is wrong. This is a mistake. Patrick doesn’t understand. He’s forgotten that the Old Colony Crew takes no prisoners.
Except for me.
I’ll be their prisoner. I’ll belong to Uncle Aran, and he’ll use me any way he wants because Patrick will be dead.
I don’t have any delusions about my uncle’s plans. We’ll marry in front of the entire clan so he can claim he’s captain by right. He’ll throw out my packets of birth control pills my first night at thedún. He’ll have me knocked up by the end of July, but if it’s a girl he won’t let me keep it. I won’t be allowed out of the house until he has his heir. Maybe not even then.
I can’t do this.
Joyce calls out, “Two!”
I don’t have a choice. I jam a rod of iron through the ice that lines my spine. I close my eyes and take my first step toward the Cadillac.
32
PATRICK
She said she trusts me.
But that can’t prepare her for what I’ve planned.
I wait until she takes her first step toward the Caddy. I’m hoping those dry shites can’t resist gawking at her tits. God knows, Kevin Joyce never met a woman he didn’t want to fuck, no matter the cost. We all learned to cover for him the mornings after big payouts, when he spent every last cent in his pocket on whores.
Eejits like that don’t change over time.
I reach up and turn off the dome light inside the Land Rover. I take a deep breath. I double-check my grip on the Magnum. The Desert Eagle lives in the glove box because it’s too big to strap on under a jacket. I’ve got twelve rounds to make my point.
Fiona takes another step.
I barrel out of the Land Rover. I don’t bother crouching,don’t try to hide. My goal is to move fast and get where they can’t hit me.
Which means I’m pressed against Fiona’s back before they have a chance to fire. I catch my arm around her chest, pulling her close to my body. I steady her head against my left shoulder as I raise my right arm. I fire past her—two quick shots through the car door on Joyce’s side, then a pair at whatever jackass thought it would be a good idea to drag out Joyce’s Cujo jibe.
The Magnum’s big enough to take down a deer or a charging wild boar. It shreds the Escalade doors like it’s tearing through paper, first on Joyce’s side, then the other.
I march forward, driving Fiona in front of me, clamping her even closer as panic makes her fight. I must have scored direct hits on both of Dowd’s trained monkeys; they aren’t offering a hint of resistance.
But I’m not taking any chances. I wait until we’re just three strides from the Cadillac, and then I push Fiona behind me, shoving her toward the ground.
“Stay down,” I order, as I advance on the enemy.
I don’t know what his name was. His own mother won’t recognize him now. The thing that used to be his face is a mass of red-splashed bone. The stink of blood and shite rises from shiny bits that have spilled onto the cool green grass.
