Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 87695 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 438(@200wpm)___ 351(@250wpm)___ 292(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87695 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 438(@200wpm)___ 351(@250wpm)___ 292(@300wpm)
“Wait, Seamus,” I say, struggling against him. “What are you doing?”
He seems to realize what’s happening. He stops and turns to me, leaning in close, voice like a bone saw grinding through my ribs.
“Someone’s been murdered.”
Chapter 9
Seamus
People are always astounded by how much blood’s in a person. I don’t even know why. We’re essentially giant bags of meat and liquid wandering around making stupid choices and humping things.
There’s just so much of it, though. Blood all over the sidewalk. Blood in the cracks, blood pooling against the back of the building. The alleyway reeks like trash and copper and shit. The corpse is cooking down at my feet.
My shoes are going to be ruined after this.
But I don’t fucking care.
“God damn Michael.” The dead man’s arms are placed at his side, almost like he fell asleep on the ground. His throat’s cut open, just like Fergus’s was. A good, clean kill.
“What a fucking mess,” Finn murmurs from over at the edge of the bloody pool. He doesn’t want to come any closer. Can’t really blame him. He’s wearing his good shoes. “Did anyone see anything?”
“Nothing,” Sean Murphy says. He’s a stocky Irishman with sandy hair, freckles, and a neck thicker than a tree trunk. He’s the captain of our personal family guards and was in charge of the wedding’s security detail. “Michael was out here just to make sure nothing went wrong. I figured it was a boring assignment.”
“Killed in an alley.” I reach out and gently touch the dead man’s cheek. He was barely twenty-four. Just a fucking kid. “And what about the eyes?”
Finn and Sean only stare, neither saying much.
Michael’s eyes are closed. Two knife slashes were cut through the lids. Two bloody X marks ripped into his face, crossing him out, like the caricature of a killed videogame character.
Except way more gruesome.
“Fergus wasn’t like that,” Finn comments helpfully.
“Anyone know why Michael?” I look back at Sean. “Was he liked?”
“Had plenty of friends in the family.” Sean shrugs, shaking his head, clearly at a loss. “I doubt he had any serious enemies.”
“Another random killing then.” My hand curls into a fist. “On my fucking wedding day.”
“What do you want us to do?” Sean asks, shifting on his feet. He’s damn well aware that this killing is at least partially on him. I don’t plan on holding it against him, but a less forgiving fucking asshole might.
“I want you to assign everyone in pairs from now on. High goddamn alert.” I stand, glaring at the body. “I want every single camera in a mile radius checked a dozen times. I want a dozen men fanning out ten minutes ago to search the area for any hints of who might’ve done this. And I want Michael’s body taken away. His family doesn’t need to see this.”
“I’ll make it happen.” Sean marches off, out of the alley, already barking orders to his soldiers waiting nearby.
I step out of the pool of blood. My shoes leave sticky red prints as I wander a few feet away, scraping my soles against the pavement.
“Someone’s targeting us.” Finn looks grim as he glances over his shoulder. “Think we need to warn everyone?”
“Not yet. It’ll only panic the clan, and things are precarious enough already.”
“But it might save lives?”
“Scaring everyone won’t help. Until we know what we’re dealing with, we tell everyone this was just another freak mugging gone wrong.”
Finn doesn’t like it, but he doesn’t have to. I’m in charge of street operations, and this technically falls under my control.
I know how the family can get. Rumors turn into bigger rumors, and soon people are whispering about some Irish-hating serial killer on the loose. Then we get guys panicking, wandering around armed to the teeth, twitching at shadows, and trigger happy. There will be more deaths unless we manage to contain this quickly.
As we’re leaving together, my father comes walking toward us with Taras Morozov at his elbow. Dad gives me a tight nod as he shows Taras the body. The Russian brigadier stares down at the corpse, jaw twitching slightly. His face seems too pale, and it’s clear he’s freaked out.
Which makes me pause. What the hell is bothering that guy so much?
It’s not like he’s some new recruit seeing a dead body for the first time.
Taras Morozov is in his late thirties. He’s a veteran of the underground, and I know for a fact he’s made corpses worse than this one. The crossed-out eyes are nasty, but not particularly terrible.
“What’s bothering you?” I ask him as my brother and father watch on.
Taras starts slightly and looks back at me. “Nothing. It’s nothing. You knew this man?”
“He was a good soldier. No reason why anyone would want to kill him.”
“Trouble with any Russians, perhaps?” Taras seems very disturbed. He steps back from the pool of blood, staring at Michael’s ruined face.