His Captive

by Zahra Girard

  “Lochlan, Eoghan, Liam, Davin, all them will have heard about what happened to Riley. They’re going to be out for blood and they’ll be checking anywhere even remotely associated with either of us. Which is why we’re here — because I’ve never been here in my life. Though I drove past this place once on a way to pull a job in Hingham. I saw it and I thought ‘man, that place looks like a total piece of shit’.”

  I just look at him. Stare, actually.

  Even though everything is going to hell in a hand basket and we have half of Boston’s underworld in an uproar, he looks calm and in control. I see the man that I saw days ago in The Angel’s Share. The one that looks like he’s in total command. The man that just oozes confidence and power.

  He guides his car around back of the warehouse, parking behind a dumpster.

  “Come on,” he says, almost jumping out as soon as we come to a stop.

  I do my best to keep up.

  Inside the warehouse, somehow, it looks even worse.

  It smells like mold and rust and months-old fish guts and it makes my eyes start to water and my nose stuff itself up to keep out the stench.

  He shuts the door behind us.

  “We should be safe here for a while. Try and get some rest, ok? You look exhausted.”

  “Thank you,” I say.

  “For what? This isn’t over yet, lass. Not by a long shot.”

  “You didn’t have to do this. You could’ve left me. I know I hurt you by sending out that story. I know I hurt a lot of people you care about.”

  Connor comes close, putting his hand underneath my chin, lifting it up so I’m looking right into his eyes. Even though I’m exhausted, excitement still ripples through me just being this close to him.

  “Don’t apologize,” he says. “You make me a better man. You help me see what’s really important. I love you.”

  His lips brush mine. It’s gentle. Tender, yet heated. My pulse races, my nerves tingle as excitement and happiness and raw desire surge through me.

  “I love you, too,” I whisper.

  Just saying that takes so much out of me.

  I’m starting to realize how utterly spent I am.

  A night of zero sleep and a morning of being chased around by killers will do that to you.

  My eyes start to shut involuntarily and I yawn.

  Connor guides me gently into a sitting position. He wraps his arms around me and I lean back, resting my head against his shoulder.

  “Get some sleep, love. I’ll keep watch.”

  My body relaxes and I feel safe in his arms. I’m out even before he finishes speaking.

  * * * * *

  It sucks getting pulled out of a dream.

  Especially a good one.

  To go from safety and happiness and being someplace warm with Connor, to this.

  To a nightmare of violence. Fear. Filth.

  I’m in a beyond-dirty wreck of a warehouse, and Connor is gently shaking me awake. There’s urgency in his voice.

  “You need to get up, Evelyn. Now.”

  I cast my eyes around. The sunlight streaming in through the busted windows has a red-orange tint. It’s late in the day.

  “What’s wrong?”

  I can hear it before he answers.

  Voices outside coming from the front of the warehouse. Car doors slamming. A lot of car doors. A lot of voices. Six, seven, maybe.

  Connor puts his hands on my shoulders and looks into my eyes.

  “I’m going to get us out of this, but we do not have much time. I need you to do exactly what I tell you. Ok?”

  “Anything.”

  I don’t hesitate. I trust Connor with my life. With my heart.

  He presses something small, cold, and metal into my hands. Car keys.

  “I’ve done a lot of very bad things in my life, but I must’ve done something right to be lucky enough to meet a woman like you. I love you, Evelyn Thomson. I’m going to end this.”

  “What are you going to do, Connor?”

  It sounds too much like goodbye.

  “No questions, ok? I’m going to draw their attention, and when it starts, I need you to run for the car and drive. Don’t stop driving until you’re long out of town.”

  I grab his hand. I don’t want to let go. I don’t want this to be happening.

  “What about you?”

  He smiles. I can tell it’s forced.

  “Look, this is going to end one of two ways. Either I’ll get out of here and end this, or…”

  He shrugs.

  I kiss him. Long. Deep.

  If this is going to be the last time I see him, I don’t want him to have any doubts about how I feel. I hurt him before, and he’s come through all the pain to become the kind of man I knew I saw inside him.

  “I love you, Connor.”

  “I love you, too, Evelyn. Get ready, ok?”

  Guns out, Connor leaves me for the front of the warehouse. I huddle near the back door, tears welling in my eyes and my heart feeling like it’s about to explode.

  I can’t watch.

  There’s two loud pops. Gunfire.

  Connor’s voice rings out loud and clear and confident. “I see you, Liam. You ready to get fucked sideways, you worthless whore?”

  Bullets rip through the corrugated steel walls of the warehouse in reply.

  I look back. Connor motions for me to run, and then starts at a full sprint for one of the side windows to the warehouse.

  I turn. I run.

  Behind me, glass shatters, more bullets fly, and one whizzes right by my ear, but I barely notice it.

  All I think about is running.

  I have tunnel vision, zeroed right in on the door to Connor’s car.

  It slams behind me.

  The car screams to life. Tires smoke and screech as they grab into the pavement. Hundreds of horses thunder beneath the hood and I fly forward, down back alleys, around corners, leaving behind me a hail of gunfire and the man I love fighting for both our lives.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Connor

  I have to buy her time.

  All that matters is that she’s safe.

  Glass shatters as I jump through it. I fire blind at where I think Liam and his men are.

  Fortunately, even when I’m not aiming, I’m a damn fine shot. There’s a reason I’ve got my job and it’s not my good looks.

  One down.

  Keep going.

  Keep firing.

  I run for the next warehouse, for cover, while still firing.

  My only thought is to draw their full attention, all their firepower, just to give Evelyn time to get out of here.

  Whatever happens to me, happens. I knew there were plenty of risks when I chose this life, so if I die, well, I’ll share a pint in hell with Bernie McLaughlin and James McLean. Shouldn’t be too bad.

  I crash through another window and roll flat onto the concrete floor as bullets rip apart the air six inches above me.

  I wait. One. Two. Three.

  There’s a break, a suspension in the shooting, and I get running again. I fire blindly behind my back a few times.

  Gotta keep his attention.

  “You and your boys can’t shoot for shit, Liam,” I yell. “No wonder your daddy hasn’t given over the family to you. Can’t even catch a girl and a piece of shit like me.”

  Oh boy, does that get him.

  Pushing Liam’s buttons is always a good time. The guy is so defensive and insecure about his position. The way he acts, he’s probably got the smallest cock in the world.

  It’s nearly a half-minute of constant gunfire. But I’m patient. Sometimes. And this is one of those times.

  This is almost turning out to be fun.

  In a weird, I-will-probably-die sort of way.

  Another break, another sprint to another building, another hiding spot.

  This new warehouse ain’t to shabby. It’s like a hedge-maze. Only everything’s metal, decaying, and it’s a warehouse i
nstead of a hedge.

  I climb a half-broken ladder to this rickety loft and scramble up into the maze of rusted rafters. I kinda feel like spider man. Except more handsome.

  Liam’s voice comes blasting in from outside. “You know it’s only a matter of time before we catch that bitch, right? There’s nowhere she can run that Eoghan and Dad won’t catch her.”

  I fire a few bullets back, then reply: “Honestly, Liam, they should’ve just sent Lily to come get me. She’s way more threatening than a dickbag like you.”

  Two windows shatter and the front door to the warehouse comes falling in as Liam and the others burst in.

  God damn, he’s got a short fuse.

  I fire.

  One good shot catches him in the shoulder and sends him spinning.

  Fuck, I’m good.

  That felt good, too. Liam is an asshole.

  I start moving again, dodging bullets and heading back to the loft. There’s an upstairs window and I’m going to jump it.

  This is going to hurt.

  Crash.

  Glass shatters and I crash-land in a dumpster, mostly fine except for a six-inch gash in my left forearm from the wrecked remains of some metal shelving.

  Doesn’t slow me down, though.

  I’m half a block away when I hear another crash as one of Liam’s goons busts a window and climbs through it. I look over my shoulder just long enough to aim and pick him off with one perfect shot.

  Fuck, I just killed Seamus.

  I liked him. He was a good guy. Told the filthiest jokes I’ve ever heard.

  Beating feet out of the warehouse area, I make it back towards a main road with Liam’s guys at least a block behind me.

  Some poor, hapless guy comes driving by in a beat-up Miata and I bring him to a stop with a bullet through the windshield.

  “Wait, what the fuck am I doing?” I say to myself.

  I wave for him to keep on driving.

  A Miata? Fuck no. I’d rather die.

  I’ve got dignity.

  I keep sprinting down the road, running full-bore until I see a guy coming towards me in a respectable vehicle: an early 2000’s Porsche. Nothing fancy, but a few waves of my pistol later and it’s mine.

  It does what I need it to: haul ass and get me the fuck out of here. And I look damn good driving it, wind blowing through my hair and shit.

  The way I see it, I have to end this thing. But I don’t have the firepower, manpower, or any kind of power that I’d need to make that happen. I’m good, but I can’t take down all the MacCailins.

  At some point, sooner or later, some shithead will get in a lucky shot. Then they’ll catch up to Evelyn.

  I can’t let that happen.

  One way or another, I have to end this. Permanently.

  To make that happen, I’ll need to bring in the only players in town that can put Lochlan and his boys away.

  Not that I’m looking forward to it. I hate these guys. I’ve tangled with them before.

  Speeding like nobody’s business, I tear onto the freeway and start heading north towards Chelsea.

  I take out my cell phone and dial Evelyn.

  She doesn’t pick up. Hell, she’s probably too worked up to even hear it.

  I ring through to her voicemail.

  “Hey lass, it’s me. I think I’ve figured this whole thing out. Just keep driving and keep your eyes on the news. You’ll find out soon enough if it’s worked. Either way, I love you. Don’t ever forget that.”

  Weaving through traffic, I take an off-ramp, navigate some side-streets, and park my car between two black SUV’s.

  I stand at the base of some concrete steps heading up to an office building. Pausing just to smooth out my clothes and fix my hair — appearances matter, even now — I realize this might either be the dumbest thing I’ve ever done or the bravest.

  Either way, this all ends today.

  Whatever it takes, I’m making sure the pretty lass who holds my heart gets through this. She’s all that matters.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Evelyn

  I go south. South and south and south.

  I leave Massachusetts behind.

  Miles fly by and I slog through the rush hour traffic in Providence.

  Still going, I hit the border between Rhode Island and Connecticut. The Connecticut River rapids rush and roil beneath me as I cross the bridge between Old Lyme and Old Saybrook. White-capped peaks in the distance and deep, slow-moving channels below me. Off in the distance, I see the gaping maw of the river as it spills into the Atlantic.

  I’ve come a long way, but still I keep driving. On past little towns like Westbrook and Guilford, little collections of two-storey buildings and homes in the middle of the thick forest.

  I cut through East Haven, New Haven, and West Haven.

  Yale flies by in my passenger side window.

  I come to a stop in Stratford, just outside of Bridgeport. Not by choice. I need gas.

  I get out of Connor’s car, hand what little cash I have left to the man behind the dingy counter right next to the glowing cabinet selling irradiated hot dogs and nachos covered with too-yellow gooey cheese.

  Standing in front of the gas tank, I watch the numbers climb on the pump as I fill my car. They don’t go very high.

  I know it’s not enough. Death is hot on my heels.

  What the hell am I going to do?

  Connor bought me some time, but he did it by leaving me.

  He might be dead, now, for all I know. He took a huge risk just to get me out of there.

  But where do I go, now?

  I’m alone again, hundreds of miles away from anyone I know, being pursued by god knows how many criminals.

  Everything feels so big, so vast, so empty, and like the whole world is all crushing down on me.

  I’m scared.

  The gas pump ‘thuds’ to tell me I’m out of money and the sound is so jarring I rip the handle out of the tank. A fine mist of petrol arcs through the air and wets my shirt, my pants, and the back windshield of Connor’s car.

  Stay calm. You’ll get through this. Trust Connor.

  I get back in my car, rest the key in the ignition, and just stare forward.

  The gas station lot is empty and the open interstate unfolds in front of me.

  Do I keep driving and use up what little gas I have left? What then? Do I hide out somewhere?

  What about Connor? Is he alive?

  Did I kill the man I love because I got rash and published a story I shouldn’t have?

  Did my words kill Connor Halloran?

  I’m crying. Full-on embarrassing, snot-nosed, puffy-eyed crying.

  Time goes by and eventually the guy behind the counter comes out and taps on my window.

  “Ma’am, are you ok?”

  I shake my head no, but tell him: “Yes, I’m fine.”

  “Well, you might want to go find a different spot to park, ok? That space right in front of the pump is for, well, people who need gas.”

  “Sorry.”

  Drying my eyes so I can see, I pull forward a bit and park right in front of the service station. Then, I pull a deep breath and try to get a grip.

  It takes me a while.

  I’ve messed things up real bad. I know it.

  I look at myself in the rear view mirror.

  God, I’m a mess.

  Behind me, two dark SUV’s cruising slow and deliberate pull into the gas station.

  Dark windows, dark suits, dark intentions.

  Gun bulges plain under their jackets.

  Coming towards me.

  The key turns in the ignition and the engine and my heart both race as I fly out of the parking lot and down the highway.

  I’m scared. Too scared to die, as it turns out.

  We weave through traffic, swerving and speeding, my eyes darting, looking for openings to speed through.

  I dent Connor’s car. Twice. Each time, it makes this spine-scraping squeal as metal and pa
int peel and the wheel shudders in my grip and I worry that I’m going to lose control and then they’ll catch me.

  Then I’ll die.

  Even panicking, that thought makes me panic more. Somehow, my heart beats faster.

  I drive, one eye on the road and one eye glued to my rear-view mirror.

  Those men are keeping pace with me. Following every turn, matching my speed. Always behind me, always reminding me that I am so close to death.

  Ahead of me, there’s a roadsign. Norwalk, five miles. Ahead of me, as I crest a hill, I look down and see the sinuous line of deadlocked traffic and the scarlet lights of brakes.

  I swerve.

  There’s an exit — I take it.

  I can’t stop.

  They follow.

  They accelerate.

  On this little old side road just off the turnpike, one of them pulls up beside me.

  I can see one of them through the window. A shadow of an angry man. He looks over. Motions for me to pull over.

  All I can do is shake my head.

  But what choice do I have? They’ve got me.

  I wish Connor were here.

  I start to slow and they match my speed. Finding space on the shoulder, I come to a stop.

  It’s over.

  I’m going to die half a mile of the Connecticut turnpike, next to a drainage ditch and a sign advertising a yard sale this weekend.

  Trying to fight down the nerves that are roiling my body and making my stomach want to empty every meal I’ve ever eaten onto the blacktop, I get out of the car.

  If I’m going to die, at least I’ll go out with a little dignity. Like I’m sure Connor did.

  Three sets of black-shoed feet exit the SUVs and steadily walk towards me. I hold my ground, though my lips start to quiver and I get this weird tic in my left eye and taste a little bit of vomit starting to fight its way up my throat.

  I’m going to have a messy death in the backwoods of Connecticut.

  Taking up positions around me — one to my left, one to my right, one right in front of me — they stop.

  None of them make a move for their guns, which has me even more worried. I’d rather they just shoot me. But it looks like they’re going to take their time and my gut heaves and that bit of bile and vomit in my throat exits and spills itself all over the pavement and one of the guys shoes.