She was thirty-two, and it hadn’t even been a real kiss…but Aidan had kissed her, and that was going down in her small mental file drawer of Best Memories Ever.
October
Seven
“Ah, bloody hell…” Walsh muttered.
Yes,bloodybeing the operative word.
Mitch and Marcello were always hounded about being brothers, though they clearly weren’t, in a physical, genetic sense. One was lanky and blonde and rat-faced; the other was Mexican and heavyset. They worked as a team, long-standing dealers for the Lean Dogs, peddling weed and the occasional baggie of coke east of Knoxville, two of the most profitable and trustworthy dealers working under the club. They worked out of a duplex that, though sad in its age and wear, was normally tidy and clean-smelling, despite the neighborhood full of weed-choked yards and rusted heaps of old cars lining the streets.
It was a routine stop-by, to collect cash and make sure things were running smoothly. But what Mercy and Walsh found was anything but expected.
Front door ajar, swaying in the breeze. Copper scent of blood flooding their lungs as they stepped inside. That sudden burst of heat fresh death always left behind.
Mitch had fallen first, face-down on the carpet, back torn apart by a blade of some sort. Something large and sharp. Marcello had been gunning for the kitchen, but must have turned at the sound of his friend going down – he was face-up, the carnage warping his familiar face and form into something pulpy and revolting.
Walsh’s English face went white all the way up to his hairline, eyes ice-colored and glittering as he surveyed what had been done. “Jesus Christ,” he muttered. He was suffering an Afghanistan flashback or something.
Mercy was more angry than disgusted; he’d seen worse than this.Doneworse than this. It was the violation of their associates, the killing of their employees that turned his stomach.
“I gotta clear the house,” he said, stepping over Mitch, drawing his Colt.
“Right.” Walsh nodded and seemed to gather himself.
The rest of the small semidetached was tidy and uninhabited. The radio was running in one of the bedrooms, and Mercy clicked it off, the silence rushing up to assault him afterward. He’d never liked being in other people’s bedrooms. That was where people allowed themselves to be vulnerable.
This was Marcello’s room, he saw, judging by the framed photo of ‘Cello and hismadreon the dresser. A drawer was half-open, a knotted pair of socks sitting on the top. The scent of cologne hung heavy, like he’d just sprayed it, before… He’d been going out. Socks, and body spray, and one last check of his slicked back hair in the mirror.
“It’s clear,” Mercy said heavily as he rejoined Walsh in the main room.
The VP had pushed back the knitted throw that veiled the lockbox kept beneath the end table. The key had been found – probably on one of the boys’ bodies – and used. The box was empty, all the cash and stash cleaned out.
“Ah, damn it,” Mercy said.
“Just like Fisher.”
They took the box, and left out the front door; no sense hiding. The neighbor had seen them go in.
Walsh sat down heavily on the front step, and Mercy followed suit. “The knife was smart; no one will have heard anything.”
“Yeah,” Mercy agreed. “Which means we’re gonna have to do cleanup.” He gestured to their bikes. “Otherwise, we’ll be suspects one and two.”
Walsh’s hands shook as he pulled a pack of smokes from his cut pocket and lit one up, holding the smoke in his lungs a long moment before dispelling it in a rush.
“This is bothering you,” Mercy said, stating the obvious, fishing for an explanation as to the Englishman’s unusual breach in calmness.
Walsh nodded and took another drag. “Emmie wants to have kids.” He shot a sideways glance toward Mercy. “Just what I always wanted – to bring a kid into the world while someone’s trying to bring us down.”
“Bit dramatic.”
“It always starts small,” Walsh insisted. “You never expect the big explosion until the bodies are flying.”
~*~
Reaching blindly into the Fritos bag, Aidan frowned when he came up empty. He set his binoculars down and checked the bag to confirm that – yep, all gone. Damn it.
He wiped his greasy hand on his jeans and picked up the binoculars, arm twitching in protest as he fitted them to his face again.
