This was just her way of honoring the men and women who’d put their lives at risk for her. They’d served; she hadn’t. But she would serve them now. She owed the people she worked with more than she’d ever owed Nash or her old man, and she meant to keep Jameson alive. He deserved a better hand than what life had dealt him. She meant for him to have a chance at that better future and more. Just not with her. She was no good for him. A loser like her would only hold him back.
But now that he was here, and marching straight at her as if he’d scented her like bloodhounds scented criminals… Good grief, he looked good. And hot. His chin was set in grim determination, his eyes hidden behind those dark glasses. His head was up, his stride powerful and confident. To look at him, no one would ever know he was blind. He was a soldier in charge, and he moved without his cane or a lick of hesitation. As if somehow, he knew there were no obstacles in his way. As if there wouldn’t dare be anything between him and her. He was a hard man, ready for war. Somehow the mountainous stacks of shipping containers behind him only made him look more fierce. Larger than life.
Harley and Eric cut imposing sights, but Jameson had them beat. Her heart squeezed out a dozen sets of jumping jacks that pounded like thunder beneath her breastbone. “What the heck am I doing here,” she murmured to herself. “He’s the warrior. He’s trained. I’m just…” Just what? So in love with that man that it hurt to see him looking so mean? So focused? So ready to kill in order to protect her?
And now I’ve put him in danger.
She forced herself not to wave at him and give herself away. She was nothing, but Jameson Tenney was someone. The world would miss him.
Not if she could help it.
Chapter Twenty-Five
“Keep up!” Alex ordered the old man slacking behind him. Until they’d run between the two-mile-wide stacks of shipping containers along the dock at Conley Terminal, Mel had been lucid and actively engaged. But now he was tired. His pace had slowed and was looking around like he didn’t know where he was. Despite his good intentions, if that was truly what he’d had back at the house, he looked bewildered now.
“Son of a bitch,” Alex hissed at himself. Eric, Harley, and Jameson were just up ahead, and here he was, dragging his sickly, deadbeat father behind him, like some idiot nine-year-old who wasn’t smart enough to give up on the old fart. Or admit that Mel might not be helpful anymore.
Alex slowed, still moving forward but with more measured steps.
Mel was panting and sweating, obviously suffering from his age and the disease. “It’s here. We’re close, I can tell,” he wheezed. “I can find it. Just give me a minute, will ya?”
That, at least, sounded semi-coherent. “It’s okay,” Alex replied evenly. “Catch your breath. My men are just up ahead. We’ll connect with them and take it from there. You can rest then.”
“Damn it. I don’t wanna rest, but nothing around here looks familiar, boy,” Mel grumbled, scanning the docks ahead and behind himself, as if he’d misplaced the Black Irish Rose Tavern, the alleged home base for Delaney’s gang, and all those supposed promotions and demotions Mel had bragged about.
“When was the last time you were here?”
“Umm…”
“You’ve been here before, right?” Alex shook his head, annoyed that he might’ve fallen for yet another of Mel’s cons.
By then, Eric and the guys were walking toward him. Jameson Tenney lagged behind, then came to an abrupt stop. As if he’d heard something, he turned to his right and cocked his head. Must’ve been the long row of containers grinding along a railway track at Alex’s left.
Mel sputtered and pointed. “There! See? Told you it was here.”
Sure enough. The Black Irish Rose Tavern sat between two massive warehouses, tucked between their wide-open concrete docks, nearly hidden from view. The simple red-brick building sported a lattice-work, Kelly-green awning over neon signs that invited the hardworking dockworkers in for a pint of Guinness and Harp, or a bottle of Jameson, Teeling, or Bushmills.
Jameson took off running toward the tavern just as—
Son of a bitch! Was Maddie holding a pistol, her arms extended in a proper firing position, just outside the warehouse corner nearest Jameson? Could he get to her in time to stop her?
“Maddie! Stop!” he yelled.
She’d just turned and looked over her shoulder when—
BA-BOOM! A mighty ball of fire and heat ripped sideways through the tavern, sending a hail of bricks, burning debris, and shrapnel, out toward the Harbor and up into the sky.
Holy shit! The ground shuddered, knocking Alex to his knees. If that wasn’t enough, the rat-a-tat rapid fire of machine guns peppered the air, coming from the warehouse Maddie had been aiming into.
Scrambling to his feet, Alex told his father to stay put, then took off running. By then, Jameson already had Maddie covered. She lay prostrate beneath him. Was he hit? Was she hurt? Alex couldn’t see through the dense billowing smoke that now obscured the entire dock.
He cast a quick glance back at Mel. God, no. Mel was bleeding and—what the hell? He had a pistol in his right hand. Alex ran back to his dad.
“She shot me, boy. That little bitch shot me. It’s over,” he whispered as if he were breathing his last. “Don’t cry for me.”
“Shut up and stay down,” Alex growled as he assessed the tiny trace of blood on the outside of Mel’s upper thigh. It was nothing more than a graze the length of a pinkie finger. Lexie’s pinkie finger! This damned situation was out of
