I slip out of the hospital room and walk through the hospital, keeping my head low so that I don’t have to meet anyone’s eyes.
I walk calmly out of the hospital with my heart beating fast.
Only once I’ve cleared the area do I allow myself to pick up the pace.
Phoenix stirs in my arms. His eyes flutter open and then he lets out a loud and angry wail.
A harsh wind tears at our faces. I tuck my son as close to my body as I can, but I’m still clumsy after the surgery and I can barely balance him and the duffel bag at the same time.
I’ve only walked about a block when I feel someone tailing me. I glance behind and see a shitty black car trailing behind me.
Oh, God. Oh, God. Who has come for me?
Who did that doctor tell? I knew I shouldn’t have trusted him. Shouldn’t have trusted anyone. They know my name, my real name…
I try to tell myself that I’m paranoid, my fear is getting away from me.
But then I hear the window roll down.
“Esme.”
I freeze.
They’ve come for me.
“Esme.”
I turn slowly to face my pursuer.
And then relief floods me with warmth.
“Geoffrey.”
He parks and steps out of his car. He limps around to me slowly, his eyes glancing down at Phoenix.
“Congratulations.”
“How did you find me?” I ask. It’s embarrassing how the sight of a friendly face has me near tears.
“I was driving by to see you,” he explains. “I wanted to make sure you were okay. And then I saw you walking away from the hospital like you had ghosts on your tail.”
I give him a forced smile. “That’s kind of you,” I reply. “But I was just discharged.”
“Discharged?” he asks. “So soon.”
“I, um… I insisted,” I stammer. “I have to leave town.”
I hear another police siren in the distance. My head turns in its direction before I can stop myself.
It feels as though the walls are closing in on me.
“Esme?”
I force my eyes to turn back to Geoffrey. “I have to…”
“You have to leave,” he nods. “I know.”
I just stare at him.
“Get in the car,” he tells me. “I’ll drive you to the bus station.”
Some days, it feels like I’m living on kindness.
21
Artem
Dublin, Ireland
The moment the plane touches ground in Dublin, I grab my duffel bag, hoist it over my shoulder and prepare to disembark. The curvy Irish stewardess who’s been sniffing around me the whole flight gives me a smile.
“Hope you enjoyed your flight, sir,” she says, honey coating her tone.
I nod brusquely and keep it moving.
I’m on edge. Have been since I boarded this flight.
Some might call it a suicide mission or a fool’s errand. Whatever fits, I guess. True, it’s a fucking long shot.
But it’s the only shot I’ve got left.
It takes me an hour to clear customs. When I step out of the airport, the fresh Irish wind hits me smack in the face. Green hills roll in the distance beneath a cerulean sky.
I feel Cillian’s absence more keenly than I’ve ever felt it before.
He should be here with me.
But even as I think it, I know that Cillian would never have stepped foot back in this country. It wasn’t a refutation of the land itself.
It was a refutation of the family that exiled him from it.
I bite back the anger for my best friend’s sake and unclench my fists. This is not the time for doubts. It’s not the time for old grudges, either.
It’s time for war.
I didn’t bother with booking myself into a hotel ahead of time. For all I know, I’ll be dead by nightfall.
Besides, my purpose is clear. Things must be done in their proper order.
I take a cab from the airport and drive out about an hour from the main city to an address that I’ve picked out from one of my old portfolios.
I feel strangely naked. Since I’d taken a commercial flight out here, I couldn’t travel with the usual arsenal of weapons that I would usually have with me. I was already flying under a fake identity I purchased in Mexico City, so the added scrutiny of a gun in my luggage would’ve been unnerving.
But it does mean that I’d be showing up on the devil’s doorstep without so much as a pocketknife to defend myself.
That won’t do.
I need to rectify the situation.
The cab stops outside an old warehouse-like building in the middle of nowhere.
“This is the place?”
“Aye,” the cabbie replies. He looks back at me. “You sure you know what you’re doing, son?”
I hand him the cash and get out without saying a word.
At the front entrance of the warehouse, I find two men smoking by the front façade. They straighten up when they see me. One stamps out his cigarette.
“You lost?” the older man asks. He’s got blue eyes that reminds me of Cillian and a sports cap that supports some team I’m not familiar with.
“I hear you sell quality caviar,” I enunciate clearly.
At the code phrase, both men raise their eyebrows. Their faces shift from suspicious to courteous at once.
“Come right on in, sir,” the younger man welcomes, jumping to his feet.
I follow him into the warehouse, which carries a distinct and unpleasant scent. The other men walks behind me. Together in that single file line, we go to the very back of the building.
The younger man fiddles with a lock. When the bolt slides free, he pulls it open and steps aside to usher me in.
I nod my thanks and enter.
The moment I walk in, the smell of oil and metal fills my nostrils.
Sleek, shiny guns stare back at me from every nook and cranny. I’m spoiled for choice.
“We’ve got a variety of caviar for you,” the older man says pridefully as he slips in the room behind me. “Only the finest.”
“I can see that,” I rumble. “Good thing I came hungry.”
By the time I walk out of the warehouse, I’m armed and most definitely dangerous. My duffel bag rattles with fresh weaponry as
