Player - A Deadliest Lies Novel - Michele Mannon Page 0,85
air. Far too many for my liking.
Far too close to her.
I race toward Clarissa’s hiding place, shooting another unlucky gobshite who’d just turned the corner. Another of O’Brien’s men.
But when I set eyes on the crate, I’m prepared to murder every one of these motherfeckers.
Bullet holes.
Everywhere.
Pieces of splintered wood now hold the crate together. Fragments of silk lay on the warehouse floor and form a rainbow-colored pathway leading away from the wreckage. A brown fur coat shot up by bullets hangs off a slated side. Feathers fill the air like someone’s plucked a country goose. Gold and diamond jewelry sparkle brightly from inside the holes . . . so many holes . . . too many holes.
No one could survive that. Not even the stubborn beour God placed on this earth just for me.
I see red: my anger, her blood.
I can’t look, not yet. Not until they pay.
I hear the clatter of running feet, interrupting me, from getting to her.
Pistol in one hand and semi-automatic in the other, I charge forward, catching the retreating South Africans off guard as they turn the corner.
A bullet nicks my arm, but the pain doesn’t process. How could it when the woman I love lies dying nearby? Because, yeah, I love her.
But I never told her.
I may never have the chance to.
I fire and keep firing, on and on, until there’s no one left to shoot but the last of O’Brien’s men.
It’s the job that stops me.
The knowledge that their turn on earth is short-lived.
I force my arm down, lowering my weapon, before turning and sprinting back the way I’d come.
“Holy motherfeckin’ shite. Did you see Rambo over there? Marched straight into the lot of them like he’s the star of a Spaghetti Western.”
“One moment he’s running from these arseholes and the next he’s charging into the lot of them.”
I block them out as I begin to pray. God, please forgive me. I’ll go to church, light a million feckin’ candles, and pray for the souls of every man I’ve killed, no matter if they deserved it or not.
Please allow me another chance to say the things I should have said, mostly that I’m sorry.
And I love her.
I reach the crate, push away what remains of the lid, and peer inside.
Bits and pieces of fur are everywhere. Feathers. Scraps of silk. Gold and diamond jewelry.
But. No. Minx.
Hayden arrives at twelve fifteen, wearing a business suit and aviator sunglasses. Looking GQ-worthy. Dressed like a boardroom executive instead of the deadliest of killers. It’s a subtle yet effective change in appearance, still it’s hard to guess what’s going on behind those sunglasses.
I don’t acknowledge him. And I’ve got to say, I admire his professionalism and for not reacting to my appearance—to the madman standing before him with two field dressed flesh wounds and a feral look in his eyes.
Now, with the end game in play, they’ll be no chance of finding Clarissa. Is she okay? Is she hurt? Has she even stuck around after escaping a hailstorm of bullets?
Focus, Finn, or you may not survive whatever Hayden demands you do.
The boss brought three men I recognize. TORC men. Posing as buyers number twenty-one to twenty-three. The last of the lot, then.
I search for sign of the Latin Lover, Diego, wondering if Hayden’s brought him in to help finish up. But he’s absent.
“Rambo,” I hear O’Brien bark, “Get over yerself and start loading those lorries.”
I move into action and begin helping two other fellas load the first of the lorries. Listening to Hayden calmly, yet oh, so feckin’ brilliantly work over O’Brien.
“We haven’t reached a complete agreement.”
“What bollocks is this?” O’Brien bellows, waving his pistol around like he believes he has a chance battling Hayden and living to tell about it. The boss stands before him, arms folded across his chest and completely unaffected by the man’s shenanigans. My TORC colleagues linger casual-like nearby and give away no signs of being a threat.
“We need to settle on a fair price.”
“Would you get a load of him?” O’Brien says to no one in particular as he struts around, agitated. “A fair price, he says?”
“You heard me.”
O’Brien snorts in disbelief. “See these men?” He kicks the lifeless body of one of the South Africans. “You might want to think long and hard before running yer mouth about prices. That goes for the lot of you,” he adds in a loud voice, addressing my colleagues.
No one reacts, everyone waiting for Hayden to signal.