Page 1 of Stolen Rebel

Chapter 1

LIAM

There’s something incredibly satisfying about plucking out a man’s eye and forcing his brother to eat it, while their gnarly, old bastard of a father is forced to watch because I sliced off his eyelids.

By now, word will have gotten around London’s East End that attempting to steal Mahoney turf is a bad idea. Should keep the business on an even keel for a few months or so. Until the next eejit decides they’d like to have a crack.

I can’t fucking wait.

It’s days like this that I love my job. I didn’t earn the nickname “Mad Dog” Mahoney by kissing babies and planting trees.

“Fancy a drink before you head back to Ireland?”

Shifting the sleeve on my jacket, I check my watch. Three hours before I have to be at the airport. I give Kai a curt nod. “I’ve got time for a swift one.”

Kai, one of our captains and an old friend from my school days, grins and beelines for the pub across the road. The smell of stale beer crawls up my nose the second we enter. Inside, it’s a typical old-fashioned English pub with pint glasses hanging over the bar and horse brasses nailed to the stone walls.

It’s pretty busy considering the time of day, the bar propped up by men stinking of cigarettes and regret. Considering we’re in a run-down part of London, it isn’t all that surprising. The last job most of these guys probably had was a paper round.

I shoulder my way between two men, one of whom glares at me until he cops the vicious scar running from my temple to my lip and the daring in my eyes. Muttering something under his breath, he swipes his pint and shuffles off to a table in the corner next to two men playing draughts.

“What’ll you have?” A bartender wipes beer spillage from the weathered wooden bar.

“Pint of lager for me,” Kai says. “Guinness?”

I shake my head. “It’s fucking shite outside of Ireland. I’ll have a whiskey.”

The bartender arches a brow. “Would that be a Scottish whisky?” His lips quirk up but fall pretty quickly when I glare at him.

“Sure, if you want to have the fat end of the bottle rammed up your fat arse.”

Kai snickers. The bartender ducks his head, avoiding my gaze, and pours a whiskey from a bottle of Irish single malt. I toss some money on the bar, pick up my glass, and head for a table away from the door. After wiping crisp crumbs onto the threadbare carpet, I sit.

“You enjoy that, don’t you?”

I sip my drink, appreciating the warmth from the liquid that slides down my throat. “You know how to pick ’em.”

He chuckles. “Better a traditional pub than one of those shite modern venues that are taking over London faster than a plague of locusts hoovers up a field of wheat.”

I grunt my agreement. London isn’t what it once was. Some call it progress. I call it a damn fucking shame. For me, it’s lost its heart, sold its soul to big business and glossy skyscrapers.

“Today went well,” Kai says.

“Well enough. Don’t think we’ll have anymore trouble from our little friend.”

My brother, Patrick, had sent me over to England to redraw a line in the sand that shouldn’t have needed drawing in the first place. Part of the problem of expanding our territory is the growth of idiots who think we’re spread too thin. Chancers who figure we’ll have taken our eye off the ball and decide to shave off a slice of the pie for themselves.

The prick from the meeting I just left will have to get used to shaving his fucking face with only one eye.

“Nothing like sending a message.”

“Yep.” I knock back the rest of my drink.

“Another?”

“Why not.”

Kai returns with another round, then disappears to the bathroom. I slide my phone from my pocket and send Patrick an encrypted text. He doesn’t answer, and I didn’t expect him to, but a check-in is a normal part of our procedures.