The young security guard from the restaurant hovers near the main entrance.
Three of Declan’s men skulk back and forth through the lobby. No Shout.
My phone pings with a text from Rory.
He just left the hotel.
A buzz begins in my ears, surging down through my blood to every limb.
The rage from the stairwell resurfaces tenfold.
Time for a little walk.
Outside, I weave my way to the pier, a baseball cap tugged low over my eyes. Head down, collar popped up against the evening’s chill, hands stuffed in my pockets.
Just another average Joe going home after a late night with the boys. No one spares me a second glance.
I veer off the main road and settle in to wait under the pier.
I keep tabs on every one of Declan’s guys at the Cypress. Shout lives in the same rundown studio he’s rented for two decades, since before this hotel was even a thought in Maeve’s beautiful head. He walks the beach to get home, like clockwork, every single night.
I see his big, dumb, bulky form up ahead, his feet plowing their way through the sand.
Though his shoulder appears to be back in the socket, he’s favoring his left side.
Good.
After he passes the dock I’m hiding under, I fall in line with his shadow.
His head swivels, and his hand reaches behind his back for his gun.
Too late.
I jump him, prying the gun from his hand and tossing it into the sand.
Roaring, he swings wildly with his right fist.
I duck, and he loses his balance. When his right hand finds purchase in the dense wet earth, he rises, kicking.
I bat his foot away, causing him to stumble again.
It’s like fighting a drunken toddler.
“Need a little help?” I catch him on his way down and wrap my arm around his thick neck, squeezing the air from his throat.
If he had a knife on him, he would have brandished it by now.
I could slit his throat, but knives are messy. And I want to feel his life drain beneath my hands.
He gasps. “What…” He struggles to inhale enough air to speak in a full sentence. “Who the…fuck…are you?”
The stench of defeat is unmistakable.
I tighten my grip around his neck and whisper in his ear. “I’m the last person you’ll see before you die.”
He claws at my arms with renewed vigor in a last ditch effort to escape but only manages a wheeze and a few scratch marks.
Above us, on the pier, tourists and locals wander home, stumbling out of bars, squealing in delight at the theme park.
