I move to his leg. Fran sobs openly.
He’s blinded by agony and doesn’t know I’m there until I grab him fully, prepared to break his kneecap.
“Okay, okay! Interpol! Fucking Interpol. I sent everything I knew to them. They fucking paid me, paid my father.” I grab him by the shirt front, but he slumps to the side, passed out.
Ice pulses through my veins.
Interpol.
Jesus.
I have to talk to Leith and the Irish head Keenan, and now.
William picks up immediately.
“Behind the tavern.”
“Body or injured?”
He’s ready to pick up whatever I’ve left him, dead or alive.
“Wish it was his fucking body.” I blow out a breath. “Injured.”
“We’re on it.”
My Glock’s in my hand, pointed at Fergus’s temple. It would be too easy to pull the trigger, to punish him for what he’s done. For touching her. Betraying her. Putting her in danger.
“No, Tate,” Fran says, her hand on my arm. I don’t miss the tremble in her voice. “He isn’t bloody worth it.”
She’s right, I fucking know she’s right, but I still give him a hard kick for good measure. She winces, and it’s the first time I wonder if I’ve gone too far. A cold, bitter wind kicks up, and she shivers. I reach for her, but she steps away, wrapping her arms around herself to warm her, when someone comes around the corner. A tall bloke, arms raised. The light’s crap here and I can’t see who it is. I click my Glock.
“Put yer fuckin’ gun away, you wanker,” Mac says, stepping into a pool of yellow light. “William warned me, I came straight away.” He looks down at Fergus’s mangled body. “Jaysus, you fucked him up good, didn’t you?” He scowls but there’s pride in his voice. “Bloody deserved it.”
Fran shivers again.
“Go, Tate,” Mac says, already bending to deal with Fergus. “I’ll bring him back. Leith and I’ll question him tonight. Fill you in later. Get to Dublin, that’s where you’re needed now.”
I take Fran’s arm, and she pulls away slightly. I don’t have time to see what the bloody hell’s going on with her, so I tug her more firmly. “Got to bloody go, lassie.”
Her feet seem to unglue from the pavement, and she steps alongside me, but there’s none of the familiarity of before. She keeps herself at a distance.
She may be hurt, she may be in shock. I’ll have to see to her on the way to Ireland.
A car waits at the exit, Clyde in the driver’s seat, sent by William. Our bags are in the back. My brothers have sorted damn near everything.
Everything but Fran.
“Y’alright, lassie?” I ask, resting my hand on her knee as we pull quickly away from the pub and head to where our private jet awaits us.
She nods, but her teeth chatter. She doesn’t speak for long minutes, and for now I don’t push it since my own head’s bloody preoccupied with everything that has to happen next.
“Need anything, brother?” Clyde asks from the front.
“Need that son of a bitch alive when I get back, Clyde. Question him, but keep him alive.”
“Absolutely.”
Fran sits stiffly beside me as we get to the large clearing with our jet waiting for takeoff. Clyde parks, grabs our bags, and slings them into the waiting jet. The pilot and our private flight attendant wait for us. Fran watches everything with wide, frightened eyes.
