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 past is prologue. If you don’t know where you’re coming from, it’s hard to know where you’re going.”
“Danny Fortnight,” he sorta coos. “My little philosopher.” He goes to stroke my cheek, but I slap his hand away.
“Don’t fuckin’ patronize me.”
“All right. I won’t.”
We stand there for a moment, staring at each other. After a beat, he smiles.
“Fuck you,” I say. “I still don’t love the idea of Christine all alone on that roof.”
“It’s where she’s at her best. She’s fine.”
I know Christine has always said that the view through the lens helps her feel like she’s dialed in, in control of something in a world that can otherwise feel out of control, but, if recent events are any indication, it also keeps you from seeing the whole picture. Having eyes on what’s happening all around you.
Shit, man. I dunno.
“Are you ready?” Alec asks.
“Yeah. I guess. Let’s go over it again real quick.”
He sighs, as if I’m somehow the problem here as opposed to being the only one who bothers to fucking think anything through. “We open this door, you flank left, I flank right, we ask if anyone knows where a walking dead man called Brasil Lynch might be, if they say they don’t, we shoot them. If they say they do, we get them to tell us. And then we shoot them. It’s not terribly elegant but it’s efficient. Aces, man?”
It’s not aces. It’s not aces at all. But I want to find and hurt Brasil just as much as everyone else. I hate the fucker. Not for any of the same reasons as anyone else. It’s not my child he took and it’s not my brother he killed. But he did lie to me. He did expand our business from just selling stolen cars and goods to selling people, and the thought that I was a partner in that makes me sick to my fucking stomach even if I didn’t know it was happening at the time.
But mostly, I hate him because he represents the time I spent away from Alec and Christine. I’ll never say that aloud. I may never even think it to myself again. But, in simple terms, he is the remnant of a life I lived only because I didn’t seem to be capable of living the life I really wanted. I hate him because he is a lie and Alec and Christine are my truth.
Not really a reason to kill somebody, but when you add it together with all the other stuff… Eh. People have probably been killed for stupider reasons.
“Yeah. Aces,” I say.
Alec winks at me and places his hand on the doorknob.
When he turns it and it opens, I’m mildly surprised. But, then again, I don’t suppose Declan Lynch gives too much thought to security. I only met him once, a couple years back, but he presents very much as the kind of person who isn’t worried about a lot.
If what Brasil told me about his uncle is true, he has no reason to worry. According to his nephew, Declan sits atop the food chain of the Irish underworld, at least here in Belfast. He is, by all accounts, the biggest, baddest, most fearsome leprechaun in this whole damn town. Follow any rainbow and it will lead you to Declan. Because he is the one who’s there guarding every pot of gold you can think to try to find.
I suppose I should be glad that I’m holding a semi-automatic shotgun and not a fuckin’ shillelagh.
The door swings open and Alec pokes his head in. The sound of cutting tools, metal grinding against metal, fills the air. Alec looks back at me and holds up three fingers, waves them to the right—three guys that direction—then two fingers and waves left—which is the way I’m supposed to head. Good. I don’t wanna have to deal with more than two guys today. Honestly, I don’t wanna have to deal with any, really, but I can handle two no problem.
Alec slinks around the door frame, his long topcoat trailing behind him as he moves, almost like he’s on the runway at some kind of fashion show. The Assassin’s Spring Collection or some bullshit.
He can’t help it. It’s just who he is. He doesn’t even try. He simply possesses a kind of feline grace that I admire. I don’t envy it, exactly. I’m fine with my own thing, which is more of a “don’t poke that sleeping dog, he may not be friendly, oh, shit, here he comes!” kind of a vibe, but Alec’s way of approaching violence is… well, it’s sexy.
Not the moment to have that thought, I guess, but that’s the thought I have.
Anyway, he slides into the workshop, heading to the right, and I follow, moving to the left. The guys in Alec’s direction are the ones chopping up a car. A 1962 Bentley Continental, from the looks of it.