Thy Kingdom Come (Deliver Us From Evil Trilogy Book One)

by Monica James

  “Whatcha want with him?”

  I don’t get a chance to reply because the devil himself speaks for me. “Mike, it’s been donkey’s years,” Liam says with cheek.

  Reining in the need to headbutt him, I turn to my right and offer him my hand. “You don’t call, you don’t write. I thought we shared a moment when I kicked your brother’s ass.”

  Liam shakes my hand, bursting into laughter. “I like ya, bucko. Hugh is still pissing blood after ya clocked him good.”

  I shrug, unmoved.

  “I’ve been meaning to call ya. ’Ave a pint with me.”

  Erin slams our drinks onto the bar, making it clear she doesn’t approve. Liam ignores her however and gestures I’m to follow him. I leave Cian and Rory to milk any information out of Erin and casually walk to where Liam and Aidan are sitting.

  As Aidan raises his glass in salute and his tattoo shines under the light, I decide then and there that I’m going to kill him. Liam and Hugh share the same ink as him, but they’re too young to be the man who attacked my ma.

  This has me guessing that this tattoo is a rite of passage as such; I just need to find out what that rite of passage is.

  “Sup, boys,” I say, taking a seat at the table.

  “Y’ve got some bollocks on ya, lad,” Aidan says, slapping me on the back as though we’re friends.

  “What can I say, I missed y’all,” I reply with a grin.

  Liam clicks his glass against mine. “Cheers, mate.”

  I drink my stout, waiting for Liam to make the first move. Me being here is enough of a hint that I want in on whatever he’s offering. And he takes the bait.

  “Glad that yer here. I have a proposition for ya.”

  Nodding, I gesture that he’s to go on.

  “Someone didn’t pay my family for a service we provided,” he explains, deliberately leaving out what that service is. “I’d take care of it myself, but—”

  “Say no more,” I interrupt, wanting him to know no further explanation is needed. A good dog doesn’t ask questions.

  Aidan is pleased with my loyalty. “Are ye busy now?”

  Throwing back my drink, I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand. “Nope.”

  “Grand. Ye animal, let us go then.”

  Aidan and Liam exchange a look between them. I don’t know what it means, but I’ll take my chances.

  “Thanks, Mike. I won’t forget it. Aidan will make sure ya get paid for yer troubles. I’ll call ya tomorrow.” And I know that he will.

  He’ll want to know if I had the balls to do whatever it is they want me to do. But little does he know, I’m about to go rogue. We shake hands, and I follow Aidan through the crowd.

  Cian and Rory are sitting by the window, and when they see me, I nod subtly. They know to give it a couple of minutes before they follow.

  Aidan exits the pub, and the lights on a red Audi parked out front flash, hinting this is our ride. We get in, not saying a word. He starts the engine and takes off into the night. The GPS on my phone is synced with Cian and Rory’s phones, so they can track where we’re going.

  “How ya liking Ireland?” he asks, making small talk.

  “Love it,” I reply, mentally taking note of landmarks in case I need to retrace my steps. “The boys and I were thinking of going to Belfast next week.”

  Aidan laughs, but it’s not in happiness. “That place is a dead loss. Y’d be better off going to Scotland,” he sarcastically says as both options in his opinion are as bad as the other.

  “Oh, you’ve been?” I ask, playing dumb.

  “Ack, not for a very long time.”

  “Why not?” Mike from America asks, while Punky from Northern Ireland sits back and waits for this fucker to sign his own execution order.

  “’Cause I wouldn’t take a slash on thon place if it were on fire. It’s filled with nothing but maggots. Good fer nothin’ Protestants.”

  Sitting on my fists to stop myself from connecting his forehead with the steering wheel, I coax him to elaborate. “Oh, so this is a religious thing? You’re Catholic?”

  “Aye, that I am. But naw, religion is just an ounce of why I hate that place. There is a certain family there that think they’re the quality. But they’re nothin’ but ignorant culchies. Not a word of a lie. It’s easy thinkin’ yer a dab hand at selling the gear in a city the size of Belfast.

  “There’s no competition, well, so they think not.”

  I mentally count to three before I reply. “Competition? Is that where we’re going tonight?”

  Aidan turns to look at me briefly, smirking. “Ye cute hoor. That’s the element. Too bad yer leaving so soon. We could really use someone like yerself.

  “My family value honesty and loyalty, somethin’ the Kellys know nothing about.”

  He mistakes my silence as me lost in translation, but in reality, I can’t speak in fear I’m going to kill this fucker with my bare hands. My family, meaning the Doyles. So which Doyle is he?

  “The Kellys are our rival family. The Protestant fuckers who think they’re better than us. But they have no idea shit’s about to hit the fan.”

  Adrenaline courses through me because it seems I’ve hit the jackpot. Pushing my murderous urges aside, I need to focus because this is the start of something good.

  “Good luck to them then,” I reply, and the ballbag falls for it as he grins smugly.

  We drive for about thirty minutes, and there is definitely a change in scenery. The city life is long gone. Everyone is locked away safely in their houses, and the only ones remaining out here in the darkness are monsters like us.

  “All y’ll see are bogtrotters out here,” Aidan says as we pass a sign saying Ratoath. I catalogue it, along with everything else I’ve learned tonight.

  “Where do you live?” I ask casually.

  “Dalkey. All mi family’s there. My brother, Brody, owns a property on one and a half acres. I live not too far away,” he brags, but all I hear is the word brother.

  So, Aidan is Liam’s uncle, Brody’s brother. The tattoo hidden below my shirt sleeve itches—a psychological response to what tonight holds. I never anticipated this. This really is too good to be true.

  Aidan turns down a dark street, and instantly, the quaint village vibe is replaced with desolation, and when I see an abandoned house up ahead, I know the tour is over. Shite is about to get real.

  He parks the car and turns to me. “This wee fucker deserves no mercy. Let us see what yer made of then.”

  He’ll be experiencing that firsthand soon enough, but I nod coolly. I know better than to ask questions and reach for the backpack I packed “just in case.”

  We exit the car, the closing doors echoing out here in the silence. There are no houses nearby, but still, this is hardly ideal. Sloppy work on the Doyles’ behalf, but then I have a thought; maybe they don’t care who sees or hears them, and that’s because they own this fucking town.

  That makes what I plan on doing wild craic.

  I follow Aidan who unlocks the front door. When he turns on a light, I’m surprised there’s electricity, but focus on my surroundings because if this is a kill house, then I need to memorize every nook and cranny.

  I’m not an eejit. I know this is a test to see if they can trust me. I’m here to do their dirty work, and if I prove valuable, they just may not kill me. But I’m disposable, so I need to make my mark.

  Aidan turns over his shoulder, eyes animated when we walk down the hallway and hear the unmistakable sound of someone’s gagged cries for help. I have no idea what I’m walking into. Aidan opens the door, and the person I see bound to a chair in the middle of the bedroom—which resembles a squatter’s den—clarifies what shite hitting the fan really means.

  A black T-shirt serves as a blindfold, and a dirty rag is shoved into his mouth, gagging him, but without a doubt in that chair is Ronan Murray—one of my men. A fucking traitor.

  Connor thought Nolen Ryan was the only traitor among us; he thought
wrong.

  This isn’t good. This is a reflection on our leadership. If two men had no issues consorting with the enemy, then this means they don’t respect us. They don’t fear the consequences of what happens when doing business with a Doyle.

  Something needs to change because I fear Nolen and Ronan are just the start of many.

  But now, I need to deal with this shitshow because Mike from America isn’t supposed to know who this man is.

  “Hello, Ronan,” Aidan happily says, announcing our arrival.

  Ronan’s cries are muffled around the gag, so Aidan reaches out and roughly removes it. Ronan moves his jaw from side to side, while I’m seconds away from tearing out his traitorous tongue.

  “I don’t know anything!” Ronan pleads, which sickens me more than I already am.

  “Ach, don’t lie to me. We’re past this. Yer job was easy—deliver us the Kelly gear.”

  So Ronan was the man Connor wanted me to “talk” to. I didn’t get a chance to ask who because I had other pressing matters to deal with, like finding out that I may not be a Kelly. But regardless of who I am, Ronan betrayed me.

  He betrayed Cian, Rory, and I, and that cannot go unpunished.

  “I tried mi best, but Connor knew I was a couple of kilos short. I can’t keep comin’ up short.”

  “Not my problem,” Aidan replies, unmoved. “Ya said ya could do this.”

  He did? Why did he seek the Doyles out in the first place? More money? I don’t understand any of this.

  “Ya don’t know Connor. Ya don’t know his son, Pu—”

  Before he has a chance to say another word, I leap forward and connect with his jaw. His head jars back with the force.

  Aidan’s eyes are wide, surprised by my sudden need for violence, but Ronan cannot say my name. I have no doubt the Doyles know who I am, but the less they know, the better.

  Aidan’s shock soon turns to delight as he claps happily. “Ronan, meet Mike.”

  Ronan frantically shifts his head from left to right, attempting to gauge where Mike is. I make that clear when I punch him again—in the nose this time.

  “Janey Mack!” Aidan shouts, elated, stepping out of the way as he doesn’t want to get blood on his white shirt.

  I need to know what Ronan has told the Doyles.

  “Think you can run with the big boys?” I say, knowing he won’t recognize my voice, thanks to my flawless American accent. “I don’t know who these Kelly people are, but—”

  “That’s right,” Ronan interrupts, taking the bait like I knew he would. “They’re the biggest drug dealers, among other things, in all of Northern Ireland.”

  “Then why are you double-crossing them?”

  Aidan allows the interrogation, appearing just as interested in his response as I am.

  “’Cause things are about to change. The Doyles are going to change that.”

  Holy fuck.

  “Aye,” Aidan agrees, nodding happily. “Ya chose the right side, Ronan. Even though yer a Protestant. But that doesn’t seem to matter much.”

  Of course, it fucking matters. What the fuck is going on here?

  “I’m sorry, Aidan. Let me make it up to ya. Connor’s twins…I’ll bring them to ya. He loves them wains.”

  The walls close in on me, and my darkness snaps its jaws, demanding bloodshed.

  “All right then,” Aidan says with a grin. “Seems fair. Brody can decide what to do with them. Use them as collateral. Raise them as Doyles. Or sell them. The possibilities are endless.”

  These people he speaks so flippantly about are my siblings—whether they’re flesh and blood or not, it doesn’t matter. They are innocent in all of this, just as I once was.

  But innocence escaped me long ago.

  Aidan appears happy with their compromise and removes Ronan’s blindfold. He blinks rapidly, attempting to adjust to the lighting and when he does, a gasp leaves him because all he sees is me—the Kelly he fucking betrayed.

  “Naw, it can’t be,” he wheezes, and when Aidan turns slowly, not understanding why it appears Ronan knows me, I know it’s time.

  It doesn’t matter if I’m a Kelly or a Doyle. In the end, I’m one fucking pissed off human being who is about to deliver revenge to all who betrayed me.

  Aidan quickly reaches into his pocket, but it’s too late and I kick him in the throat. He staggers back, clutching at his neck because the blow has compromised his windpipe. Ronan frantically tugs at the ropes around his wrists, fruitlessly attempting to break free.

  “I’m sorry!” he pleads, knowing what his fate is. “It was a trap.”

  “Shut up,” I demand, curling my lip, disgusted with his lies. “Yer trap involved negotiating with my siblings? Are ye jokin’? I’m not fucking thick.”

  Aidan’s wheezes stop when he hears what I just revealed. “Yer Irish?”

  “Naw, I’m Northern Irish,” I declare, standing tall. “And I’m a fucking Kelly. My name’s Puck Kelly. What’s the craic?”

  Aidan, who is still struggling to breathe, knows it’s now or never and makes a wild dash for the door, but no one is leaving this room. Blocking the exit, I raise my elbow and strike him in the nose, breaking it. He tumbles back, blood gushing through his fingers as he cups his nose and attempts to gulp in mouthfuls of air.

  Opening my backpack, I reach for my knife, shove Aidan against the wall, and twist his arm high above his head. He launches forward, but he’s not going anywhere, and I make that clear when I drive my knife into his palm, crucifying him to the wall.

  His howls are music to my soul.

  One arm is still free, so he swings out, trying to grab me, but I step back, laughing. “Take the knife out,” I dare him. “That’s the only way yer comin’ off that wall.”

  When he attempts to do so, I seize his free hand and bend it backward until bone snaps. It flops lifelessly as his wrist is broken.

  “Shh, shh,” I hush him, slamming my palm over his mouth as I level him with an amused stare. “I just wanna talk with ya.”

  His cries are muffled beneath my hand.

  Yanking back the cuff of his sleeve, I glare at his tattoo. “What does this mean?”

  His eyes dart to his tattoo, and I suddenly realize the symbolism behind this is even bigger than I thought.

  Removing my hand carefully, warning him not to scream, I wait for him to answer my question. Instead, he spits in my face. “Fuck ya, Kelly.”

  Tonguing my cheek, I lift my face to the ceiling and exhale. “Is that right?” I ask, unsure why he believes that question was optional.

  Maybe he needs further encouragement.

  Opening my bag, I reach for my face paints and brass knuckles. I don’t need a mirror because each stroke, I know by heart, thanks to him and the two other cunts who robbed me of my life. Placing the brass knuckles into my pocket, I unscrew the lid on the white paint and circle my fingers in the container.

  Once they’re coated, I slather my face with no real method to my madness and paint my face white. Aidan stares, horrified, as I open the black paint container and draw a sinister grin from cheek to cheek. I use my middle finger to slash downward across my mouth, before blowing him a kiss with it.

  My blue eyes are shadowed in black as I angrily rub circles around them. I repeat the same action down my nose.

  My face is now painted to how it was when I saw him as a wee chile.

  “Yer not the full shilling. Yer a molly, is it? No wonder, yer a Kelly, after all.”

  I don’t bother addressing his slander, nor do I correct him that I actually don’t know who I am.

  “Yer tattoo, I want to know what it means.”

  “Why? Ye want one of yer own?”

  With a smirk, I tug back my sleeve. “I already have one.”

  Aidan’s confusion is clear when he sees our matching tattoos. “How’d ya know?”

  It’s time to reclaim what he stole from me.

  “When I was five years old, I saw ya. I saw whatcha did to my ma�
�Cara Kelly. Remember her?”

  “Naw, I don’t. No Kelly is worth remembering.”

  Regardless of his denial, I continue with my story because even if he wasn’t there, he has answers I want.

  Shaking my head, I begin to whistle the song that was playing on the radio when he raped my mum. When I take a breath, I see it—recognition. He remembers. He was the fucker who was there that night.

  Reaching for the black paint, I dip my finger into the container and draw a single line down my forehead. I’ve waited for this moment for what feels like an eternity.

  As I stand in front of Aidan, he doesn’t cower when I tilt my head, examining him closely. This is my bogeyman, the fella who took something which can never be replaced—my soul.

  He tries to fight me as I dig into his pockets until I find what I’m looking for—his wallet and phone.

  The leather is soft as I open the wallet, immediately finding what I’m looking for. “These yer kids?” I ask, running a black painted finger over their photograph.

  Two boys and one girl. The wee dote is wearing a T-shirt with the words Four Leaf on the front of it.

  My attention focuses on his license. Now that I have his address, he realizes he’s royally fucked. “All right. Thon tattoo, ya stupid gobshite, is what every Doyle gets when they kill one of ye! A fuckin’ Protestant. Almost all Doyles ’ave one ’cause ye Kellys are weak as piss.”

  Tsking him, I keep my cool—only just. “Who were the other two fuckers with ya that night?”

  Aidan laughs angrily. “Dunno what yer talkin’ ’bout.”

  “Ach, maybe ya need remindin’ then?”

  Taking out my phone, I do a quick search, and it doesn’t take me long to find out that Four Leaf is a preschool. “Yer wain looks to be the star pupil,” I say, turning my screen around so he can see what I’ve found.

  His daughter is on the website, her fingers dipped in paints.

  “I’ll fucking kill ya!” he threatens, lunging for me.

  “Go on then,” I challenge, folding my arms across my chest. “All ye gotta do is pull that knife out.”

  He roars in frustration because with one hand broken, that only leaves the hand pinned to the wall as functional. “Everything we do, we’re taking the piss outta ya. Just like stealin’ one of yer men. Ye have no idea who yer up against.”