“I won’t be long,” he mutters, turning back to the girl, giving her one last lingering kiss before he finally pulls himself away from her.
I’m glad he’s being optimistic here. Three dead bodies, reckless driving, and refusing to pull over for the gardaí when they tried to flag him down. He’s going away for a few years, at least. Though how long is still foggy. Katie is adamant that she was the one that killed the two men in the warehouse; AJ is saying it was him. Both sets of prints have been lifted from the knife, along with the victim, whose eyes ruptured from being forced into the back of his head.
It’s anyone’s guess who did it. Both stories work with the evidence found. Both prints coincide with their respective stories; one of them is clearly lying to save the other. I’m convinced Katie is the one telling porky pies to protect her fiancé.
“About time,” I grumble, leading AJ out of the ward, where almost every staff member wishes him luck. I think they forget this man is a dangerous predator—a suspected serial killer—but why should that matter when his wedding feast went to the staff looking after Katie during her recovery.
I caught over eighty members of staff leaving with bottles of expensive champagne and gift bags that I can only assume were supposed to be wedding favours. Who cares if they’re gifts from Hannibal Lecter? Well… I might be exaggerating there, I hope I’m exaggerating, the fact that the bodies rarely turn up is cause for concern.
“Best of luck,” a porter slaps AJ on the shoulder as he passes us in the corridors. Quinn gives the man a nod and a cocky smirk as I guide him through the revolving doors and out to the car waiting for us.
“In you get.” Opening the door for AJ, I wait for him to slide into the backseat and then take my place behind the wheel.
Two unmarked Garda cars pull up alongside us; one slipsahead, and the other follows closely behind us. I’m not taking any chances where Aiden Quinn is concerned.
“Relax, Moore,” he says, leaning back in his seat with a smug grin. “Take this opportunity to breathe before my solicitor meets us at the Joy.”
“She’s not getting you out of this one,” I warn, glancing in the rearview mirror to be met by his steely grey eyes staring back at me.
“The bike is a new one,” I admit. I’ve seen a lot of shit in my years as a detective, and even more when I was a simple traffic cop. But the body pinned to the driver’s seat of a car and shredded by a still moving motorbike wheel is definitely a first.
“That was unfortunate; I lost control of the bike,” he says as casually as he would order a Sunday roast at a carvery.
“Uh-huh,” I signal, taking the next left towards the prison. “The round of bullets emptied into a car of Walsh’s men; I take it you lost control there too.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he replies, his eyes fixed on the road ahead.
“The bodies of Katie’s assailants?”
“Self-defence,” he shrugs. “They were coming at me with knives. I had to protect myself and Katie.”
“You’re not even the slightest bit sorry, are you?” I don’t know why I’m even surprised. Glancing back in the rear view mirror, I meet his gaze once more.
“When Billy was in trouble and Walsh took that hit out on him,” he pauses, waiting to see if I squirm. I almost do. My son is a sensitive topic. He was a good kid who got in with the wrong crowd and almost paid for it with his life. As much as I detest AJ and everything he stands for, the man did play a rolein getting him out of that mess. “Did you feel sympathetic to the men who would have carved your son up like a Christmas turkey?”
I don’t answer. I can’t. We both know the answer.
I turn the wheel, guiding the car around a roundabout just as my head bounces off the window. The car spins, tires screeching, we hit the curb, and then come to a stop.
“Christ!” Something warm trickles down my forehead, I try to regain my composure and assess the damage. I turn to check on AJ just to see several men in balaclavas and guns approaching the car.
“Out of the car!” They demand in unison; four of the six guns are aimed at the unarmed officers on either side of us.
I see AJ clawing himself from the backseat, blood streaming down his face from a gash somewhere in his hairline.
“Whoever taught you pricks how to drive needs their arses lashed,” he mutters under his breath, struggling to stand. He turns to me, glassy-eyed, “special forces, really?”
“They’re not—”
I’m cut short by a sharp jab to my ribs from one of the masked men.
“Shit,” AJ mutters, hands raised in the air, as two gunmen grab him roughly and pull him towards the waiting van.
“The boss wants a word,” one of them growls, shoving AJ into the vehicle.
“Katie!” AJ shouts at me before the doors are slammed shut.
As they speed away, one of the gardaí calls in the reg plate, and the others scramble to get their bearings. The car that was following behind us takes off after the van. All I can hear is AJ’s plea still ringing in myears.Katie.
