Not My Heart to Break (Merciless World Book 3)

by W. Winters

  I’m eerily calm watching it play out. It’s only been two minutes, maybe five since we’ve pulled up. We don’t have a lot of time before more of Mathews’s men get here.

  Everything’s quiet, save one shepherd barking, hovering over the other dog and hollering as if he’s the one in pain. The men don’t look back toward the dogs or toward us, instead they stare down the road, searching for the location of the gunmen coming after them.

  “Now!” I can barely hear the one man yell, the one who seems to be leading things. The one who may be high. I expect them to go down the street toward the shots, slowly making their way to gauge the threat. That’s what I’d do.

  He fires a few shots aimlessly, as does his partner, but they both run to the parking lot. That’s when I relax slightly, feeling a smirk pull up my lips into an asymmetric grin. They’re running.

  “Again,” I speak into the walkie, and the night fills with smoke as more fireworks go off. The second man is barely in the vehicle when they take off, still shooting behind him. With the squealing of their tires, we turn on the vans, revealing ourselves for the first time.

  The fear in the eyes of the man shutting his door is palpable. “Go!” he screams even as their getaway car is in gear.

  “Connor, once more and then back it up.” I give the command. The rockets go off again and both Derrick and I hold our guns out of the window as Connor turns his van around, firing at the car as they fire recklessly at us. A bullet hits the side of the van. And then another as they drive by. The pings make my chest tighten and my blood turn ice cold each time.

  With my jaw clenched tight, we keep firing as the car disappears. My gun empties first, and it only takes half a second to reload. Connor’s van has already flattened the chain-link fence as he slams the van into the building, the roof of it crumbling down onto the hood. When he drives forward, it falls to the ground, but more of it collapses when he reverses again, slamming into the building and opening it wide up.

  The lone German shepherd lets out a territorial bark from back in the corner of the place. Poor thing won’t move away from the other. Derrick’s already got the tranq and he pulls back to load it the second he steps out of the van.

  “Leave them,” I call out before Derrick can lift the gun. I shouldn’t have said shit. But my voice was deep and I tried to disguise it.

  He looks at me, standing beside the van and then back at the dogs. One’s lying helpless; I don’t know if he’s dead or unconscious. The other isn’t leaving his side.

  I can see Derrick swallow, tense and uncertain before shoving the tranquilizer gun into the waist of his jeans at his back.

  If he were to shoot, it’d be evidence left behind. The less we leave, the better.

  Connor’s already opened the back of his van and Derrick does the same to ours as I pull back the bent steel door and make my way over the rubble to see what’s inside.

  It’s dark in the building, but the brake lights from the van give me everything we need. In the ten-by-ten-foot space, there are eight crates and nothing else.

  Setup. I think the word as I walk around them. I don’t trust Wright, but so far, he told the truth. He was paid off with cash, plenty of it.

  It takes a moment to pry the top off of one with my pocketknife. They’re a light wood and look like something fishermen would use. Or at least that’s what I imagine they’re going for. I’ve never touched a fishing pole in my life.

  Without hesitation, I crack open the one in front of me, knowing the clock is ticking away and Mathews’s crew will be here soon.

  Under a bed of straw is at least a dozen bricks of snow.

  I heave the crate into Derrick’s chest as he makes his way to me, feeling the anger consume me. It’s so close. He’s five miles from my turf. Setting up storage here is unacceptable.

  As we haul the crates into the vans, all I can think is how I wish I’d brought gasoline, so I could light this place on fire when we’re done.

  Next time.

  It takes only minutes with the three of us. Less than ten minutes in all to load, to get back in and take off. I keep looking in the rearview, but no one’s there. When we get back to Linel Centers, we switch the plates on the vans, then park them inside to hide the one with the bullet in it. Roman will take care of that on Monday.

  Moving the bricks out from the crates, we dump every last one of them down the drain. The plastic wrap cuts easily with a knife. The white powder, hundreds of thousands of dollars of it, disappears in a swirl down a filthy drain.

  The large room is silent as we do it. At least at first. I’ve learned from each hit we do, that it takes time to cool down. It takes time to let it all turn still again.

  No one says a word until we’re opening up the last crate.

  “First round’s on me, gentlemen,” Connor speaks up, breaking the silence, and takes out a flask from his car. Derrick chuckles, helping me with the last of it and takes a swig when Connor offers it. I follow suit.

  Another five and we’re done. It’s over.

  “Damn good night,” Derrick comments and I nod in agreement.

  Looking at the clock on the wall, an hour has passed; I broke my promise to Laura. She’s definitely on her second drink by now. Fuck, I hope she didn’t wait for me.

  Laura

  Laura

  Picking up the twenty off the polished wooden counter, I turn on my heels to face the register. My sneakers slip easily on the worn linoleum floor as I tick my blunt nails against the metal buttons until I hear the ping and the cash register opens.

  How much shit could he have possibly gotten into in just an hour and a half last night? Every time I know he’s out there, doing something—something that could get him killed—I watch the clock like it’s going to have answers for me.

  Like last night. I glance at the clock that never has anything for me but how long he’s been gone. I stared at it for an hour and a half, making small talk in between and drinking with Roman while he watched the clock on his phone like he was waiting for something too.

  I was sitting there feeling every tick of the clock squeeze my heart harder and harder when Seth sat down next to me on the leather bench in the back of the Clubhouse, put his arm over my shoulder and kissed my jaw. He was happy and relaxed, like there’s not a worry in the world.

  Before I could even speak, he was making me want to thank him. “I know I’m late, but I grabbed you the vodka you like,” he said.

  It’s Grey Goose Citron and the bar was out of it. So yeah, I wanted to thank him.

  Touching me, kissing me, giving me gifts and acting like he got stuck in traffic on the way down here.

  One shot and thirty minutes later, I was laughing along with everyone else. Feeling the ease of being among friends. Even if half of them knew what Seth was doing last night and I still don’t.

  “Thanks for the beer,” Mickey says from the far end of the bar. “Keep the change.” The wrinkles around his eyes deepen when he gives me a wave and heads for the door. He’s a regular. Well, a regular during the day. At night things are different; busier, louder, more… intense. Technically we’re closed then and it’s just a hangout. The crew—and us—aren’t charged. We kick out anyone who isn’t one of us due to the “private party.” It’s always intense, and a good time if I’m being honest, when the crew is here.

  The “private parties” are what got me through so much shit.

  During the day, it’s just a slow old Irish bar. Lunchtime always picks up though, right about now.

  “Thanks, Mick,” I call out to my regular before he can make it through the exit. The front door is old wood, dark brown except for a little black on the outside of it. Where the fire from next door caught it a few years back. The bar is in need of updating, but Seth and the guys say they like to see the memories. I get that. I like to see the memories too.

  “Good luck on the test,” Mick calls back to me and I flash him a smile. His bill was only twelve bucks, so I scoop eight bucks
from the register and slip the cash in the back of my anatomy book that’s open next to the register. I keep my finger wedged in the pages I’m reading though. I can’t lose my place.

  With the pen in my hand, tapping it against the notebook, I take tabs on the three remaining guests. Two are women, whispering over large pours of red wine in the back corner at a high top table. The picture frames above their heads are of the old times. Black-and-white prints from when Connor’s family first came here from Ireland. Those are my favorite pictures in the bar.

  The women’s glasses are still relatively full, although twenty minutes ago, they were sucking the wine down like I’d given them water. The look on the brunette’s face combined with a few whispers I heard tells me she most likely dumped someone, or got dumped.

  Either way, they’re good for another chapter of notes.

  The other patron is another regular, staring up at the TV above the leather bench I sat on practically all last night. An old soccer game is on. Or a new one. I don’t know and I don’t care; sports aren’t my thing. I assume it’s an old one though, judging by how Cormac doesn’t yell, “Oh, come on!” every five to ten minutes.

  So, back to studying I go.

  I only get two lines written in my notebook when I hear the front door open. “Welcome to the Club,” I say and greet the new guest with a smile. It’s automatic but it drops nearly instantly. Just like the lump that sinks down my throat before it gets stuck.

  “Officer Jackson, what can I do for you?” I keep my voice upbeat and barely catch sight of Cormac taking another swig of his beer while looking over his shoulder at the cop in full uniform who just walked in. The old man eyes him, but then turns back to the television.

  The officer’s slick boots don’t seem right in here. They look brand new with the way they’re shining. Putting down the pen, I watch as he walks to the bar.

  I like Jackson just fine. I always have. But I don’t like him coming around because he’s not one of us, and that badge on his chest could lead to problems I can’t have.

  I instantly wish I hadn’t told Roman it was fine to take off for lunch. He hangs out here, just in case. That’s what the guys tell me when I say I can manage being on shift alone when it’s so slow. Just in case.

  I’m pretty sure this is a just in case moment.

  With both forearms on the bar, holding his sunglasses in one hand and releasing a deep exhale, Officer Jackson hesitates. He still hasn’t said a word. I wait on pins and needles while he drags the barstool closer to him and takes a seat. He’s got to be close to thirty now. He’s nice enough looking, average height although he does have a good build on him. Young for a cop, but damn did this job age him.

  He’s come in here before, usually to escort the drunken barflies out. A few of the older women in town don’t know their limits. A couple of those few have tempers. Jackson is always the one who comes. Seth said he likes Jackson well enough. I doubt he’d like him if he knew he was here right now though.

  “Everything all right?” I ask him. “Looks like you’ve been working out.”

  He huffs a quick laugh and then thanks me.

  “You want a beer?” I ask him. The corners of my mouth even lift a little, thinking he’s just on his lunch break. But again, the smile drops when he shakes his head. Any hope I had of this drop-in being about grabbing a bite to eat or a drink vanishes.

  “You have any idea where Seth King is? I believe he’s your boyfriend?”

  “He is my boyfriend, you’ve got that right,” I say and nod then take a step back to put down the pen in my hand. He knows damn well Seth’s my boyfriend, but he asks me every time like maybe that status has changed. My back is to him as I bend down, open the small fridge and grab a cold bottle of IPA. “I think Seth said he had some errands to run today.” I talk loud enough so Jackson can hear me, pop the top of the beer and turn back around to face him. “He should be here tonight, though. You need him for something?”

  Taking my eyes off Jackson, I slide the beer down to Cormac who thanks me, pushing his mostly empty bottle forward.

  “You’re on top of it here, aren’t you?” Jackson asks me.

  “I can keep count of four, five… Hell, on a good day, six,” I joke with him.

  He laughs and leans back although his hands stay on the bar top. “You don’t have any idea where he is?” he asks again, and I feel a vise grip my heart. This vise is special though; it’s made of cast iron and feels like it’s been sitting in the freezer the way it gives me chills and makes everything inside of me sink.

  “Sorry, I don’t,” I answer Jackson. I’m saved by another customer walking in. I recognize her as someone who’s been coming around more often lately. What the hell is her name… Cindy, maybe? She usually comes in later in the day and eyes up the guys when they first get here. She always leaves before it gets dark. Part of me thinks she wants to play with fire and she just doesn’t have the balls to stay and do exactly that.

  “We only have a few things available on the lunch menu,” I tell her as she sidles up to a spot right between Cormac and the officer. There are two seats between her and either of the guys. “Short-staffed at the moment,” I explain and pass her the paper lunch menu for the day. “We’ve basically got anything that can be deep-fried, but not the usual burgers.”

  She nods and gives a polite smile. The kind that doesn’t show any teeth. She glances at the officer too. Even with her menu lifted as if she’s reading it.

  “Sorry about that,” I tell Officer Jackson and wait for anyone other than me to do any sort of talking.

  “You’re a good girl, Laura.” Jackson catches me off guard with the way he says it.

  Swallowing thickly, I nervously peek at Cormac, who’s staring at us just like the nosy woman at the bar.

  “Thank you?” I try to keep my voice even, but it shows my anxiousness.

  Officer Jackson gets off his stool and talks while rapping his sunglasses on the bar. “The guys they’re dealing with aren’t going to let them get away with it. Get out while you can.”

  “I don’t know—”

  “I’m sure you don’t,” he says, cutting me off and then he tells me to have a good day before walking out.

  Cormac sucking his teeth is the only thing that rips my eyes away from the closed front door.

  I don’t know how long I stand there staring. Hearing his last words on repeat in my head.

  “He’s got one thing right,” Cormac tells me as I focus on stopping my hands from shaking. My back’s to everyone as I pretend to be writing something down in my little notebook.

  “What’s that?” I manage to ask Cormac, turning to face him and leaning the small of my back against the counter.

  “You are a good girl,” he tells me even though he’s already watching the television again.

  I don’t know what to say to him, so I don’t respond.

  “You know what you want?” I ask the woman who’s still holding a menu with only five things listed on it. Cindy, or whatever the hell her name is, is frowning for the first time since she walked in.

  “Not yet,” she answers, and I have to try hard not to roll my eyes.

  I know why Cormac thinks I’m a “good girl.” It’s the same reason the crew trusts me. That night is just as vivid right now as it was back then. I imagine it is for everyone who was there. That night changed everything.

  I remember every detail of it as I stand with my arms across my chest, looking back at the door, and replaying that night three years ago, over in my head.

  Good girl.

  Cormac was there, plus everyone in Seth’s crew now was there and then some. It wasn’t his crew then though. And the event didn’t take place here; it was a different bar. This place was empty. Connor’s father had died a few weeks before. A lot of people I knew died back then. Men my father used to hang around.

  It all happened at a place called Hammers. Stupid name for a bar, but it’d been around for as long as the town’s exist
ed. A little more than three years ago I was sitting at a table at that bar. I had just turned sixteen. I knew I shouldn’t have been there, but when my father had to run an errand for the boss, I was supposed to wait for him at that table. My grandma rented out the spare bedroom in the house and with the new tenants upstairs, Dad didn’t like me to be alone there. He was reckless with himself but a protective father. In many ways he was a shit dad, but I always knew he loved me and this was a way to show me that. Even if it was fucked up and I didn’t want to be there.

  I’d have a car soon. It’s all I kept thinking. I hated Hammers. I hated it because if I was there, it meant my dad was out doing something he shouldn’t be. For men who scared me.

  The guys in the bar always told me what a good girl I was, and some of them, like Cormac, I even liked.

  It didn’t mean I wanted to be there though. Just the thought of that place makes my skin crawl.

  Hammers was owned by the boss, Michael Vito. I knew all about him and his family. He took over when his dad died and he stirred things up. At least that’s what my dad told me when I asked why so many people were getting killed. The first memories I have are of my family and friends, who used to be fine with the Vitos, acting like they were scared. Michael wanted to be feared, whereas his father was respected.

  They all worked for him. I didn’t want to be anywhere near that table or in that bar. But my dad told me to stay seated while he was gone, just like he had so many times before.

  Vito walked in while I was sitting at my spot. It got quiet; it always did when he walked in. Another thing I hated. I had my seat and I was to keep my butt planted right where it was and do my schoolwork. My father told me that every time he left. For years, that’s what I was supposed to do. I knew Grandma would be done at the diner soon, so if he didn’t get back soon, she’d find out he dropped me off at the bar again. She’d come and get me. She didn’t like this place at all. She never did though.