Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 93929 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 470(@200wpm)___ 376(@250wpm)___ 313(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 93929 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 470(@200wpm)___ 376(@250wpm)___ 313(@300wpm)
“That’s the best we could find on short notice.” I lean back and glance up at the light. Smoke swirls around the small room. We’re in the basement of a club my family owns. Malachy’s chain-smoking cigarettes like his life depends on it as he scans the pages, flipping through them with angry grunts.
“What the fuck is this?”
“Financial documents mostly. Dermot’s smart but transactions don’t change, no matter how deep you bury them. If you wanted better, you should’ve given me more than a few days.”
Mal sits back and stares. He looks drained. The poor bastard’s probably been losing his mind this whole time. I should’ve let him stew longer, but Caroline’s getting impatient.
She wants this over with, and I can’t blame her.
“Just explain this shit.” He tosses the pages down. “Plain English.”
“Guns. Lots of guns.”
Mal flinches. “Seriously? Dermot?”
“Stockpiles of guns from arms dealers across Russia and the former Soviet bloc. Good weapons too. Old stuff, hard to trace, but solid.”
“He’s got security. Why does he need guns? Dermot hates guns.”
“Private security is licensed. They’re tracked and watched. That hit he sent them on? That shit probably cost a fortune. But if he hired real shooters, serious killers, they’d need weapons that couldn’t be traced.”
“Guns.” Mal’s shoulders slump. “God, he’s really doing it. I had hoped… but no…”
I don’t say anything. It takes some serious self-control not to rub this in his face. And maybe I should. Maybe it’s suspicious that I’m not enjoying this more. Mal knows I hate him. The man isn’t stupid. He knows what he and his brothers did to me all those years ago.
But he’s so desperate he can’t see past his own impending murder.
Which really is hilarious. He’s totally right about dying soon. It’s just that the bullet isn’t coming from where he thinks it is.
“What the hell are we going to do?” Mal sounds old and tired. But he quickly starts flipping through the pages—all of them fake, cooked up by Liam with help from Seamus—before finally coming back to life. “We need to kill him. Right fucking now.”
“I’m not sure that’s reasonable.”
“You’re Whelan. You have muscle. Get your crew here. Call up a dozen men, good ones, and we’ll storm Dermot’s apartment. I don’t care how many guards he hires or how good his algorithms are. We’ll kill that motherfucker.” He crumples the pages and throws them on the floor with a snarl.
I smirk at him. Good boy. Now roll over.
“You really want Whelan muscle?”
“Fuck, yes, I do. Come on, Finn, don’t act like you can’t get it. We’ll do it off the books. I’ll pay for the whole operation if that’s what you need. But you have the guns and the men to pull the triggers. That’s all I need.”
I pretend to consider it. He smokes furiously, puffing away like a chimney. Poor, pathetic, weak fucking Malachy.
This is the problem with bullies. When they’re on top, they feel invincible. Nothing can touch them.
But once they realize how small they really are?
They fall apart like paper soaked in water.
I get to my feet. “No.”
He flinches away. “What? What do you mean no?”
“We’re not doing that.”
“What the fuck, Finn?! You said you’d help me.”
“You’re right, which is why we’re doing it my way. I don’t rush into operations without a plan. I’ll gather intelligence, handpick some fighters—”
“Fuck that!” Mal stabs the cigarette at me. “By the time you get off your ass, I’ll be dead. We do it now.”
I stare at him, all good humor fading away. I take a step in his direction and he cringes back.
“Understand something, Mal. I’m not the kid I used to be. You don’t order me around. You don’t command me to do shit. You are nothing compared to me. You never were. That’s why you hated me so much back then, isn’t it? You were jealous because I was a Whelan and you were a Flanagan. You were never going to be on my level.”
His eyelid twitches. “We were kids.”
“You were a rotten, vindictive prick. I have half a mind to let Dermot murder you here and now.” I let him stew in that before I give him my best smile. “But you’re useful so I’ll keep you alive. Just remember, I fucking own you, Malachy. I always have.”
He gapes at me, face drained of color, and he doesn’t say a word. Even if his pride is broken, he’s too pathetic to stand up for himself and risk losing my help.
That’s how I know he’s still the rat he’s always been.
I leave him in the basement.
I’m feeling pretty good. Malachy’s losing his mind. He’s suffering like Shane and Redmond never did. Dermot’s probably the same. It wasn’t just the physical abuse they put me through that really fucked me up, but all the mind games they played too. They were constantly acting like I was weak and soft, and if I just toughed it out and acted like a man, all the beatings, the scars, the broken bones, they’d somehow fade away into the background.