“Shit,” he grunts, whirling towards Collin. “You alright boy-o?”
Collin grunts, gritting his teeth and nodding. “Through the shoulder. I’ll be fine.”
Eamon nods, grabbing the two guns from the two guys I clipped. He checks one and keeps it, and hands the other one to Collin, But Collin grimaces.
“I’m a lefty.”
Eamon swears as my eyes land on Collin’s left shoulder. Yeah, he’s not shooting shit with that thing right now.
“I’ll take it.”
My brow furrows as I turn, a brow arched at the sound of Phoebe’s voice.
“You can shoot?”
She nods, but Eamon shakes his head.
“It doesn’t matter if she shoots,” he growls at me. “You’re not letting her put herself in a position where she could get—”
“I’ll be fine.”
I turn again, frowning. There’s something edged to Phoebe’s voice. Something hardened. And before I can try and figure it out, she’s marching over, plucking the third gun out of Eamon’s hands and doing a full check from mag to sights.
Eamon’s brow perks up.
“Okay, you know how to shoot apparently. But you’re not—”
The wall next to us explodes in a hail of broken bricks and metal. Phoebe screams, and I grunt, pulling her to the ground and covering her as the automatic machine gun fire tears through the room. Glass, mortar, and plaster shower us as we scramble for cover, before it finally ceases.
“You still in there you dumb Irish fucks!”
Terry.
I growl, raising my head just enough to peer through one of the new holes in the wall. And my jaw clenches at what I see.
There’s easily twenty men outside, and I’m betting there’s another twenty at the front, securing the bar in case we try and head out that way. And there, front and center in his goddamn track suit like some kind of wannabe Goodfellas gangers, is Terry.
He looks deranged—mad as hell for one, but also like he’s hasn’t left his hotel room in a month. And something tells me that’s not the far from the truth. A cigarette dangles from his lips, and even as I watch—even with what’s going on—I see him tap a little bump of coke out of a vial onto his hand before snorting it up.
“Figured out why you boys came all the way over here, you assholes!” He yells. “You think you can take me out, huh? Well guess what, motherfuckers! This is my fucking town!”
He taps out another bump of cocaine, making a whooping sound and waving his gun in the air like a complete fucking lunatic before he continues.
“You come out now, and I’ll just shoot you. You make me and my boys come in there, and we’ll do it the long way.” He frowns. “Oh, and send that whore bitch out too who my nephew likes to call fiancée.”
I glance at Eamon. Both of us turn to look at Phoebe. But damn if she doesn’t look cool as a cucumber, gun at the ready. Shit even the way she’s standing is like perfect defensive form.
“What’s our move?” Collin grunts.
…It’s a pretty good fucking question.
We’ve got three guns, limited bullets, and no backup coming. All against forty-some-odd mob boys who want us dead. I grit my jaw, shaking my head.
“We fight, and we protect—”
“You don’t have to protect me.”
We all turn to look at Phoebe, who’s shaking her head. There’s a look on her face I can’t quite place—something between sadness and apprehension. She moves towards us, and before I know it, she’s standing up on her tip-toes, touching her hand to Eamon’s cheek, and kissing him softly. She turns and does the same to me before pulling away, her face cramping.
“I’m sorry,” she says quietly.
I frown, shaking my head. “Sweetness, what would you possible need to be sorry for—”
“For this.”
She plucks one of her earrings out, twists the little thing in her hand, and suddenly, my jaw drops as sound crackles through it.
It’s a fucking radio.
But nothing prepares either of us for what happens next.
“Code red, code red.” Phoebe’s eyes look away from us, a tear running down her cheek.
“This is special agent undercover Carter, and I repeat, this is a code red shut down. Requesting immediate back up. Operation terminating rapidly. I repeat, requesting immediate intervention.”
Something inside of me turns icy and cold. It’s like I’m numb—like this isn’t fucking real. I stare at her in… I don’t even know what. Shock? Pain? Anger? I don’t know, but I know Eamon’s looking at her the same way too.
“Triangulate my position and engage immediately. Except heavy armed resistance from probably forty hostiles. Please be advices that operational target is present and needs to be taken alive. Be advised that I am with three armed friendlies. I repeat, three friendlies.”
Something squawks into her ear from the tiny radio before she lowers it.
The room is silent.
“Phoebe…” Eamon breathes.
“I—” her voice breaks. “I wanted to tell you! I just…”