“Jesus, okay.” I lifted my hands up slowly.
Brock leaned into my space, opened the glove compartment, took out a syringe with his free hand, bit off the cap with his teeth and slammed the needle hard into my thigh. I screamed, reaching for his hand, but he smacked my arm with the gun. Then he did it again with my other leg.
I stared in horror at the needles sticking out of both thighs. “What the hell did you do to me?”
He waved me off, tucking his gun between his thighs. The fact that he was less guarded now frightened me even more.
“A small dose of anesthesia.” He kneaded the area around the needles. “You have to make sure it distributes well. It will keep your legs numb during the ride. Don’t want you trying to hop out and run. When Connor picked up his last check, he mentioned your little stunt with him. I thought it best to be prepared. But don’t worry, you’ll be completely alert.”
He started the car, one hand on the wheel and the other squeezing my leg. “Get comfortable, we’ll be driving for a while.”
We left the city, taking side streets, and soon enough the car rolled onto a deserted two-lane road, heading west. With every mile and minute away from Boston, I became more and more paralyzed, and not just from the dead weight of my legs.
Why did I get out of bed so early? Why did I insist on jogging at unreasonable hours? Why did I always take the small, empty pavements, searching for those hidden Boston gems, the places no one knew or walked in? Why had I insisted on getting rid of my bodyguard? Why do I never carry mace on something else that could scare away potential attackers?
Why? Why? Why?
I was in trouble. Something that was much bigger than marrying the wrong person or being left by your stupid parent or a drunk dad. Brock might be crazy, perhaps even the psychopath I ironically believed my own husband to be, but he wasn’t stupid. If Troy found out he’d kidnapped me, he was a dead man.
Which meant Brock couldn’t let Troy find out. Whatever else Brock had planned for me, I wouldn’t be making the drive back to Boston with him.
Still, it was worth reminding him of the consequences, in case Brock had second thoughts.
“You can still take me back, you know,” I said, staring ahead at the front window. I couldn’t feel my legs at all at this point. My mind, though, was as sharp as ever—and I wish it wasn’t, because knowing what was about to happen was nothing short of devastating.
We were driving deep into the woods, dim morning light filtering through the tall pine trees. I was so far from crowded, hectic Boston, it almost felt like I was on another planet. “Don’t do something you’ll regret. Troy won’t stop looking for me. Once he finds me, he’ll kill you.”
Brock just stared ahead too, smiling and rubbing his stubble with the gun.
“Not if I kill him first.”
TROY
PATRICK ROWAN WAS dead.
It was my duty—and pleasure—to pay him a final visit and attend his mass. Paddy was being buried in Weymouth, where he was born and raised, just outside the city. His body had been flown in from Miami. Jensen had alerted me yesterday.
The funeral had attracted all kinds of old-schoolers. People my father and Rowan left behind, survivors of the chaotic mess they created with their own hands. Abe Raynes was there, looking high as a kite and just as incapable of forming a sentence as he usually was. He was deteriorating, despite the extra cash I’d streamed into his bank account since I married Sparrow.
I exchanged a brief hello with him, and only because I thought highly of his daughter.
Ignoring the other mourners, I walked straight to Rowan’s open casket, peeking inside to make sure the fucker was really dead. A part of me wanted Red to see this, but I knew I needed to shield her from that sort of shit. It wouldn’t do her any good, anyway. She wasn’t a monster like us, wasn’t high on revenge and drunk on power like we were. She was strong, but also innocent. And she wasn’t for me to corrupt.
I, however, planned to enjoy the event to its fullest.
I took a seat in the first row, next to two elderly men I didn’t recognize. I glanced sideways, scanning them. From their attire, mannerisms and the faint scent of mothballs, I gathered the geezers were not ex-mob. They were ancient looking, with snow-white hair and gray flannel suits, and although probably Irish, they didn’t mix with the rest. Outsiders.
Good. I wasn’t in the mood to suffer the usual crowd.
The priest started talking and I tuned him out. Tara and her mother, the only relatives Paddy had left, sat on the other side of the church. Tara cried and sniffed, clutching torn, damp pieces of tissue in her fist, and although I felt a little sorry for her loss, knowing she’d inherit nothing from her deadbeat dad, I stood my ground. Sparrow deserved whatever Paddy had more than she did. It wasn’t Tara he had hurt.