by Fox, Nicole
Then he walks towards the door. I turn my attention to the window.
Tristan’s no longer looking up here. His focus is on the door straight ahead.
He’s got two guns in his hands, but for the moment, they’re both aimed at the ground.
A moment later, Cillian strides forward into my line of sight.
He’s out in front, of course, refusing to hide behind anyone. His men are arranged in a loose triangle formation on either side of him. Everyone looks well-armed and well-protected, but the same can be said about Tristan and his men.
Kian comes up to stand beside me.
Slowly, he pulls the window open all the way and settles himself right in front of it.
I notice he’s got two guns in either hand and a few back-ups right behind him.
I’d been determined to help this morning, but now, staring at the gun in my hand, I can’t help feeling that it was naïve on my part.
Could I pull the trigger if it mattered? Could I kill for the man I love?
What if I miss? What if I fail? What if I hurt someone innocent?
I know what that did to Sean when he hit my father all those years ago. It ruined him from the inside out.
Could I survive the guilt?
Could I—
“Hey,” Kian interrupts, resting his fingertips on my forearm. “Relax. You’ve got to stay calm.”
“You’re not even looking at me.”
“I don’t need to,” he replies. “I can sense your nerves from here. It’s distracting.”
“How are you so calm?”
“Practice.” He doesn’t take his eyes off the men down in the courtyard.
I glance around, realizing that there are only two other men on the opposite side of the wall. Both are hunched over the window in the same way Kian is. Both have already taken aim.
That means that Cillian is out there with ten men.
I do a quick count of the Kinahans. There’s twelve in total, including Tristan.
“We can win this, can’t we, Kian?” I ask.
“Fuck yeah, we can,” he says. “Preferably before the rest of the cavalry shows up.”
“Ours or theirs?” I ask, realizing belatedly that I’ve already started assimilating myself with the O’Sullivan clan.
“Either. Both.”
I watch as Tristan’s mouth moves. But this time, he’s talking to Cillian alone. I have no idea what he’s saying and it’s driving me crazy.
I lean in a little closer as if that’ll help. Maybe that’s why I miss the gunshot that rings through the air.
I gasp and jump back as though someone has fired straight at me.
When I look back down to the courtyard, it’s clear that chaos has unleashed.
With my heart in my throat, I search for Cillian.
The men are all embroiled in little pockets of fighting. And now that their formations have broken and they’re all mixed in together, it looks as though their number has doubled.
Where is Cillian?
And then I see him, embroiled in a fight with Tristan.
My free hand clutches at the window pane and my nails dig into the aged wood.
Cillian is taller, learner, younger.
Tristan is broader, bulkier, older.
One has the advantage of speed. The other has the advantage of strength.
I’ve taken a few of Tristan’s punches. I know how powerful they are. I know that he can make your eye swell up to twice its size with just one hit.
I had to take two weeks of leave from work that month. And even at the end of those two weeks, the swelling and discoloration remained obvious. Or at least, obvious to everyone except those who would have been inconvenienced by the truth.
Tristan lunges forward and I shriek, but Cillian manages to sidestep the hit. He pivots around and lands a punch to Tristan’s stomach.
My husband’s face seems to deflate for a moment. The wrinkles from years of hard drinking ripple across his forehead. The skin along his jaw sags just a little, and his eyes are two tiny slits of fury.
He’s a forty-eight-year old man now, and it shows.
Cillian’s fighting style is lithe, quick, graceful. Once I’ve calmed down slightly, I realize that he actually looks like he’s having fun.
It’s enough to make me hopeful.
More gunshots go off down below. But the only ones I’m paying attention to are the ones being fired from up here, inside the castle.
Kian’s taken down two of the Kinahan men with expert marksmanship. The other sharpshooters have bagged one each.
“Saoirse.”
I don’t take my eyes off Cillian.
“Saoirse!”
I startle and turn to Kian.
“You know that gun’s not just for show, right?” he prods.
I look down at my right hand and realize I’m still holding it. It’s odd that it now feels lighter somehow.
“I… I… what if I shoot the wrong person?” I ask.
“My advice would be, don’t.”
He misses the annoyed glare I send his way.
He shoots again. Another Kinahan man falls to the ground.
Down below us, Cillian throws another punch and Tristan falls back onto the hard stone of the courtyard. He’s bleeding from his nose and mouth now.
And he looks absolutely fucking furious.
The ranks have dwindled thanks to Kian’s sniping and the other O’Sullivan men on the ground.
It’s just Tristan now and his two remaining men.
They make a lonely trio against Cillian and the seven of his troops still standing.
BANG.
BANG.
The last two Kinahans go down.
It all feels so easy that I can’t believe it’s really happening. Tristan is on his back, looking up at Cillian, who rises above him like an angel of death.
I hold my breath.
Even from here, I can see Tristan clear as day. His face drenched in blood. Eyes bright with rage and fear.
Cillian raises his gun to finish things off. It catches the light and flashes once, like the world winking.
Finger on the trigger. Almost there. My nightmare is almost over.
But before he can fire, several large jeeps roar into the courtyard. Armed men stick out of the windows, spraying bullets indiscriminately.
“No,” Kian breathes. “No!”
The cavalry is here.
It’s not the cavalry we’ve been hoping for.
56
Saoirse
I will myself to breathe as I weigh the odds in my head.
Cillian stands there with seven men at his back.
Seven tired men, some of whom have sustained injuries in the last fight.
And now Tristan has a small army in support as the jeeps grind to a halt, dust rising around them in swirling columns.
How many men in total?
Twenty? Thirty?
Oh God… This can’t be how it ends.
Kian stands up and turns to me. He’s resigned to what comes next. Determined to stare it down.
“I’ve got to go out there, Saoirse.”
I shake my head, but he cuts me off before I can even speak. “Cillian is gonna need every man,” he tells me. “I’m not leaving him out there alone.”
“I’ll come with you.”
“No,” he says firmly. “I’m sorry, Saoirse. You don’t have the experience. And you don’t want Cillian distracted, either. Please stay. Do what you can from here.”
He walks down the short staircase. I’m impressed how quickly he manages it. I know his leg must be killing him, but he gives no indication that it does.
The two men on the opposite window join Kian at the main doors. Just before he disappears through it, the youngest O’Sullivan brother looks up at me.
“Saoirse,” he says, “you’ve got to save yourself. That’s what Cillian would want. There’s a back entrance into the castle through the kitchens. Go there and get the fuck away
from this place as quickly as possible.”
“Kian—”
“Do it for Cillian,” he interrupts.
And then he’s gone.
I stand there, trying to come to terms with the decision he’s just handed to me. Do I stay or do I run?
My feet feel like they’ve fused with the stone under my feet. I can’t hear anything from the courtyard, but I know it’s only a matter of time before the gunfire starts up again.
I close my eyes for a moment, trying to shut down the conflict raging in my head.
Is it even possible for me to leave?
Can I live with that choice?
I turn slowly to the window and stare at the massive group of Kinahan men amassing around Tristan. He’s bleeding badly, soaking his shirt in crimson.
He limps back slowly, taking cover between the fresh crop of reinforcements that have just arrived.
A part of me—the part that’s not completely terrified for Cillian—feels a twinge of satisfaction to see him try to back away from the thick of the oncoming fight.
He was and is a coward.
His strength, his power, his control... It was all imagined. All a farce that he constructed when I was young enough to believe I had no choice other than the devil’s deal he offered me.
The Kinahan men form a long line in front of Cillian. A shiver runs through me at the sight of them. They look like a firing squad.
I realize that the moment they open fire, that’s exactly what they’ll be.
They’re armed with automatic weapons and emotionless expressions. They’re not interested in hand-to-hand combat.
Tristan had a point to prove.
He wanted to assert dominance. He wanted to beat Cillian. He wanted to force me back to him.
But these men? They’re not looking for a fight.
They’re here to exterminate.
I watch as Kian limps out to stand beside his brother. Despite his obvious injury, he cuts an impressive figure. Both of them do.
Cillian’s neck twitches to the side when Kian takes up his position. I can tell from the tense line of his spine that he’s not happy.
He glances back over his shoulder to the window I’m standing in front of.
It’s only for a moment, but I know he’s searching for me.
I also know that he hasn’t seen me. The angry hunch of his shoulders screams “frustration” when he turns back to the enemy.
I’m relieved that the Kinahan haven’t attacked yet. But I can’t help wondering why.
They’ve got Cillian and his men outnumbered. Why are they—
And then I get my answer.
The line of black-clad Kinahan soldiers parts slightly. A man emerges from between them.
It takes a moment for me to place him. He has a face I know I’ve seen before, but can’t immediately recognize.
The way he walks is odd. Like a robot trying to mimic human movement.
The eyes aren’t anything close to human, though—they’re fucking murderous. Devoid of anything but bloodlust and wrath.
And then it hits me.
There’s only one man who could nurse a grudge so deep that he’d rise from the dead to exact revenge for it.
“Brody Murtagh,” I breathe, feeling some of the life leave my body.
My fingers tighten around the gun. I’m not powerless here. My choices aren’t limited to running away or staying here and hiding.
I have one more choice.
I can fight.
I might die. Hell, I probably will. But if I can help Cillian live a few minutes longer, maybe I can count that as a victory.
The thought is macabre, but I feel a sense of peace now that I’ve made up my mind. It feels good to make a decision that’s completely my own.
And instinctively, I know it’s the right one.
I watch as they talk, but unlike with Tristan, I don’t care what they’re saying to one another.
It doesn’t matter in the grand scheme of things.
I crouch low against the windowsill so that only my forehead can be seen if someone looks really closely.
Then I raise my gun and take aim.
The fact that I’ve never held or shot a gun before seems unimportant now. I’m so calm that it’s almost unsettling. But it’s also making me feel like I can do this.
I have a clean shot at Murtagh.
I only need to pull the trigger.
One bullet and he’ll be gone. Cillian will be a little safer and maybe, just maybe, that will buy us enough time to think of a way out of here.
I open both eyes and keep my finger poised over the trigger.
I take a deep breath.
Point. Aim. Shoot.
I can hear my own heartbeat. It pounds in my ears, making me conscious of the fact that I’m about to condemn another human being to death.
He’s a monster. He deserves to die.
But even I’m aware this is not about Brody Murtagh.
This is about me. And the lengths I’m willing to go to protect Cillian.
That’s all the answer I need. That’s all that I care about anymore.
I’m about to squeeze the trigger when Kian shifts his weight to the side. It creates a sort of domino effect that ends with Cillian taking a step to the left…
Blocking my line of sight to Murtagh.
Disappointment pools in my gut as I lower the gun.
The five seconds it took me to steel my resolve has cost me the kill shot.
Fuck.
Fuck.
Fu—
“Saoirse.”
I gasp, whirl around, and freeze.
Before I can recover, the man who came up right behind me plucks the gun from my hand and switches the safety on.
I stare at him with my heart beating erratically.
I’ve never seen him before.
Dark hair. Dark eyes. Tall and broad-shouldered. Features that are dusky, dangerous, brooding.
He looks scary as fuck.
And yet, his eyes aren’t as threatening as the rest of him.
He’s looking at me as though he means me no harm, but I don’t believe that shit for a fucking second.
“How did you get in?” I whisper.
“We took a secret passage through the kitchen,” he tells me.
We?
I look past him at the massive group of men filling up the space in front of the closed doors.
My heart sinks all over again.
How many now?
There looks to be at least another thirty or so men. Whatever chance we might’ve had of survival has gone up in a puff of smoke.
“Kill me,” I say, looking back at the dark stranger.
He raises his eyebrows. “Excuse me?” he asks, almost politely.
“I’m serious,” I say. “If you’re here to take me back to Tristan, I’d rather be dead.”
He smiles.
Sick fucking bastard. He’s enjoying this shit.
“If you don’t, I’ll find a way to do it myself,” I threaten him. As though he even cares how I die.
“I don’t want you dead, Saoirse,” he laughs.
I frown. “Wait—ow do you know my name?”
“Cillian talks about you a lot.”
“I… What?”
He smiles, twists the gun around butt-first, and hands it back to me.
“I’m Artem Kovalyov,” he says by way of introduction. “It’s nice to finally meet you.”
57
Cillian
I was so close.
So fucking close.
Two minutes ago, I had Tristan Rearden on the ground with my gun in his face. Seconds away from ending the miserable bastard’s life the way he deserved—dying in the dirt like a worm.
But the sound of tires halted me in my tracks.
And everything after that happened so fast.
The trucks came rolling in. Gunfire forcing my men and me back against the courtyard wall.
The outpouring
of Kinahan soldiers from within the vehicles. Line after line of them.
Whatever slim advantage we might’ve had vanished in an instant.
We’re impossibly outnumbered now. Hemmed in with nowhere to run and no chance at blasting our way out of here.
Tristan looks smug as he clambers to his feet and lumbers backwards. Blood, spit, and sweat drip from his busted lips and broken nose. The ranks of newly arriving soldiers swallow him up.
I growl and tighten my grip on my gun. He’s starting to realize that he severely underestimated me.
Honestly, I’d be insulted if I weren’t so amused.
He must have thought his bulkier form was an advantage. But not the way I fight. Not the way I move.
I step back slowly, keeping my shoulders squared to the horde of Kinahans. My men flank me on either side. They have no fear—they’ve been trained better than that.
But I’m sure they know that things don’t look good.
I wait for someone to step forward and say something—Tristan or whichever asshole is leading this merry band of fuckers.
Fifty or more guns stare right at us.
No one says a word, though.
Dread settles over me. Not for myself.
For my men.
For Kian.
For Saoirse.
“Doesn’t look good, don,” one of the men says from behind me.
“I won’t blame any of you for surrendering or leaving,” I announce. I’m not going to ask them to fight a battle I know we can’t win.
“Come on, boss. No one’s going anywhere.”
I look around at my men and I actually find myself smiling. “Today’s as good a day as any to die, eh?”
They nod, their answering smiles dark and resigned. Not a single man flinches.
This is why an O’Sullivan man is worth twenty of the bastards across from us. Because my men have always been brave and loyal to a fault.
Sure, there’ve been a couple of bad apples along the way. Like Rory, for example. A truth that still stings.
But our track record is damn near perfect.
“If this is it,” I say, “I’m honored to die alongside you lot.”
A collective murmur of agreement rises in the air. I turn back to the death squad standing in front of us.
