I reached out and placed a hand on the marker, feeling the chill from the stone sink into my skin. But unlike Deirdre’s Ice magic, this cold didn’t bother me. If anything, it grounded me and cleared my mind. Maybe even my heart a little too. I traced my fingers over his name, then got to my feet.
“I’ll come back one day soon, and we’ll talk some more,” I said. “But right now, I’ve got a hot date with a dangerous giant.”
I tipped my head at his marker one more time before sliding my hands into my coat pockets and walking away.
6
I went back to my car and opened the trunk, getting ready to face off against Bart the Butcher.
The first thing I did was strip off my coat and suit, despite the fact that it was only about thirty degrees outside. I knew that any confrontation with Bart would end only one way—bloody—and I didn’t want to ruin my threads, even if they weren’t as nice as the giant’s. Shivering, I unzipped a duffel bag and quickly put on a black turtleneck sweater, along with some black corduroy pants and heavy-duty boots. A black leather jacket added some more much-needed warmth, along with a black wool cap.
I checked my gun, making sure that it was still ready to fire, screwed a silencer onto the end of the barrel, and stuck it into my coat pocket. Isabelle might not have close neighbors, but I still wanted to minimize any noise I might make during my confrontation with Bart. Once that was done, I slid some extra clips of ammo into my other coat pocket, along with a set of brass knuckles. Bart had his fancy gold rings, and I wanted something to level the playing field.
Although if it came to fisticuffs, Bart would most likely beat me to death, given his far greater giant strength. Not the most cheerful thought, but I was too committed to back down now. So I closed the trunk, got into the car, and drove back over to the Vargas place.
It was just after six o’clock when I parked at the far end of the street, well away from the house. Most of the lights were on, although the cars that had lined the street earlier had all vanished. The mourners had gone home, back to their own lives, leaving Isabelle alone with her son and her grief. Every once in a while, I would see Isabelle through the windows at the front of the house, slowly moving from room to room, throwing away dirty cups and plates, straightening chairs and other furniture, and putting away all the casseroles, pasta salads, and other food the mourners had left behind.
I’d never understood why people brought over food when someone died. Sure, it was a nice gesture, but I’d never felt like eating anything after I’d lost someone I loved, especially not the day of the actual burial. But I supposed it was a tradition and a way for people to feel they were doing something helpful for you, instead of just standing around and pitying you.
Even though it was still early, the sun had set, and darkness had crept over the land. The only streetlights were the two in front of the Vargas house, but their golden glow wasn’t nearly enough to drive back the night.
I sat in my car and waited. Bart had said that he would be back at the end of the day for his money, and I was betting it wouldn’t be much longer before he showed up. Even though he knew that Isabelle didn’t have his money, the giant would be eager to come back and intimidate her—or worse. To him, beating people, hurting them, crippling them, was almost as good as getting his money. It would certainly be more fun for a sick bastard like him.
My phone beeped with a few more texts from Gin and Bria and one from Stuart Mosley wondering where I was, since I hadn’t shown up at the bank yet. I grimaced and texted Mosley back first, saying that I had car trouble and would be there as soon as possible. It was a totally lame excuse, and I knew he would see right through it, but if he finally fired me, so be it. Protecting Isabelle and her son was more important than anything else right now, including my job.
I also texted Gin and Bria, telling them that everything was fine and that I was heading over to the bank to help Mosley. I could have told them where I was and what I was doing, and they would have both offered to come and back me up. Maybe I should have asked for their help, given how dangerous Bart was. But I decided not to. They’d both been through enough the past few weeks, especially Gin, who’d almost died twice because of me.
Besides, this was my mess, my responsibility, and I wanted—needed—to take care of it myself. I needed to do something right for a change, after doing so many things wrong with Deirdre.
I’d just put my phone away when a pair of headlights appeared in my rearview mirror, and a familiar black SUV cruised past my car, pulled over to the curb in front of the house, and stopped. The doors opened, and Bart Wilcox got out of the vehicle, along with the two men who’d been with him earlier.
Unlike me, Bart was still dressed in his fancy gray suit, with those gold rings still glinting on his fingers. His goons were both carrying baseball bats, but Bart’s hands were empty. He didn’t have any weapons, but then again, he didn’t need them. His giant strength would be more than enough to deal with most problems.
However, Finnegan Lane wasn’t most problems.
I made sure that my gun was ready and got out of my car, slamming the door shut loudly enough to draw the attention of Bart and his goons. The three of them watched me as I walked down the street and stopped in front of them.
Bart looked me up and down, recognition flashing in his eyes. “You again. Three times in one day.”
“Yeah.” I grinned. “I’m like a bad penny. I just keep turning up.”
He studied me a little more closely, his face twisting into a mocking sneer. “What’s with the black ninja clothes? Did you finally get rid of that cheap-ass suit?”
“Nah,” I said. “I just didn’t want to get your blood all over it.”
His black eyebrows shot up in his face at my casual threat, and the other two giants clutched their baseball bats a little tighter, looking back and forth from me to their boss, waiting for him to give the order to attack me.
Bart’s eyes narrowed. “Do you have any idea who I am?”
“I know exactly who you are. Bart the Butcher, Ashland’s most sadistic bookie.”
He nodded. “Then you know why I’m here—and that nothing stops me from collecting on a debt.”
I shook my head. “Isabelle doesn’t owe you anything. You want to beat the shit out of someone, go talk to Paul.”
“Ah, but you see, Paulie doesn’t have two nickels to rub together, whereas Mrs. Vargas is about to come into a very hefty life-insurance settlement.” Bart grinned, baring his teeth at me. “But then, you know all about that, since you’re the reason her husband is dead. Right, Finn?”
I froze at the sound of my name.
“Oh, yeah.” Bart sneered at me again. “I know exactly who you are. Finnegan Lane, one of Gin Blanco’s little lapdogs. And you know what else? Word’s gotten around about that attempted robbery at First Trust and how you opened the front doors and let those thieves walk right in. How does it feel, being played for such a fool? And by your own mama, no less?”
He threw his head back and laughed, and his two goons joined in with loud, hearty chuckles.
Red-hot rage scorched through me, along with the familiar bitter waves of guilt and shame, and my cheeks burned with embarrassment, despite the cold air. But I forced myself to remain calm in the face of the giant’s cruel taunts.
“Get in your car, leave, and never come back here again,” I said through gritted teeth. “And I’ll let you live.”
“You? Will let me live?” Bart’s low, sinister laughter echoed through the night like dark, ominous thunder. “Oh, that’s cute.”
“Leave right now,” I warned. “Or you won’t like what happens next.”
He quit laughing and eyed me again. “You know what? I would maybe be a little bit intimidated by you, except for one small thing.”
“What’s that?”
The giant slowly turned around in a circle
and made a big show of looking up and down the empty street before throwing his hands out wide. “The fact that Blanco’s not here to back up your petty threats.”
“I—”
I started to say that I didn’t need Gin to fight my battles, but Bart had already turned back toward his goons.
He waved his hand in my direction. “Kill him. Then come on up to the house, and we’ll have some fun with the grieving widow.”
Bart laughed again and started striding up the lawn toward the porch.
Isabelle must have heard us talking, because she was standing in front of one of the picture windows. The giant grinned again, raised his hand, and blew her a loud, smacking kiss. Isabelle’s eyes widened, and she darted away from the window, probably to lock the front door, although that wouldn’t slow Bart down for more than a few seconds. I needed to stop the giant before he smashed his way into the house and hurt her.
I headed after him, but the two goons stepped in front of me, blocking my path. The men grinned and slapped their baseball bats in their hands, trying to intimidate me. They thought those bats and their inherent giant strength made them tougher than me.
Maybe. But all that certainly didn’t make them smarter.
Even as the first giant raised his weapon and stepped toward me, I pulled my gun out of my coat pocket and shot him in the knee.
Pfft!
The silenced gun barely made a whisper, but the same couldn’t be said for the giant, who yelped in pain, dropped his bat, and tumbled to the asphalt. It would have been easier to shoot him again, but more rage surged through me, and I decided to let it out. So I darted forward, dug my fingers into his greased hair, and slammed his head up against the side of the SUV repeatedly, putting as much force behind each blow as I could.
Thwack-thwack-thwack.
Three good, solid whacks later, I let go. The giant’s moans abruptly cut off, and he slumped to the street, blood gushing out of the ugly dents I’d just put in his skull. They matched the ones in the SUV.
He wouldn’t be getting up from those wounds—ever—so I whirled around to the second guy, who was already cursing, dropping his bat, and going for the gun tucked into his waistband. He yanked the weapon free and raised it up at me—
Pfft!
But I was faster, and I shot him in the chest before he could fire. He dropped to the ground without a sound, already dead from the bullet I’d put through his heart.
I whirled around and stepped forward, ready to sprint up the lawn and kill Bart before he broke into the house—
Crack!
Too late, I spotted the giant out of the corner of my eye, and he slammed his fist into the side of my face.
Pain exploded in my jaw and radiated up into my temples, before wrapping around my entire skull, squeezing tighter than a vise. White stars exploded in front of my eyes like fireworks, and I staggered back, feeling like I’d just been hit upside the head by a sledgehammer. Bart had realized that I’d dealt with his men, and he’d come back down the lawn to kill me himself. Lucky me.
“You think you can take me out?” the giant snarled. “No fucking way.”
Even though I was still drunkenly staggering, I blinked the white stars away as best as I could and raised my gun. Bart growled, stepped up, and slapped the weapon out of my hand before I could pull the trigger. I tried to track the gun’s progress as it sailed across the lawn, but it was dark, and the weapon vanished into the grass.
Bart, though, was easy to see, since the bastard was right in front of me. And very, very large.
The giant let out another growl, put his head down, and charged at me like a raging bull. But I was no matador, and I wasn’t able to slide to the side in time. My head was still spinning so badly that I couldn’t even lurch out of the way. Bart easily grabbed me around the waist, hoisted me up into the air, and body-slammed me back down onto the ground like an NFL linebacker. I was the poor, unfortunate football he was spiking. Touchdown, Bart.
My head snapped back against the ground, causing more pain to shoot through my skull and another cascade of white stars to explode in front of my eyes. Before I could even think about scrambling away, Bart positioned himself on top of me, grinned, and drew back his fists.
Thud-thud-thud.
Bart the Butcher slammed his fists into my chest over and over again. His giant strength was bad enough, but those damn gold rings on his fingers made the blows more painful. It was like being beaten with brass knuckles, just as I’d thought, but worse, since all those mounds of diamonds on his rings dug into my ribs with their sharp, shiny edges, adding to my misery.
Each one of the giant’s punches sent a jolt of pain through my entire chest, telling me that he’d already cracked at least a couple of my ribs. It wouldn’t be long before he shattered the bones outright. Once that happened, all it would take would be a broken bone stabbing into one of my lungs, and I’d wheeze to death right here on the lawn, choking on my own blood.
I was in serious danger of never getting up from this fight, but instead of being scared, more red-hot rage roared through me.
He wanted to play dirty? Well, so could I.
I snapped up my thumbs, trying to gouge the bastard’s eyes out, but Bart just chuckled, slapped my hands away, and raised his rings and his fists for another round—
Crack!
A baseball bat slammed into Bart’s shoulder before he could start whaling on me again, and suddenly, Isabelle was there, standing over the giant and drawing the bat back for a second swing.
“Leave him alone!” she yelled.
But Bart was quicker, and he reached out and grabbed the end of the bat, pulling it and her in close to his body. “I’ll deal with you soon enough,” he growled into her face, then shoved her away.
Isabelle let out a muffled cry, staggered back, and tumbled to the ground, the baseball bat flying out of her hands.
While Bart was distracted, I combed the ground with my hands, shoving my fingers through the dirt and the grass, desperately trying to find my gun. I didn’t locate the weapon, but my fingers wrapped around something heavy and metal, with odd edges that dug into my palm. For a moment, I couldn’t figure out what it was, but then I realized that it was Leo’s fire truck, the toy I’d tripped over earlier today.
“And now, back to our main event,” Bart said as he drew his fists back to hit me again.
Crack!
I snatched up the fire truck and slammed it into the side of his head. The toy didn’t do any real damage, but it was enough to get the giant to grunt in surprise and fall over onto his side. I dropped the toy and scrambled up and away from him, even though the quick motions made my chest ache even worse and caused more white stars to flash before my eyes.
Bart growled again and started to get up, but I gritted my teeth, pushed my pain away, and kicked him square in the face, making him fall back and tumble ass over teakettle down the lawn. All the while, my head shot back and forth, back and forth, still scanning the lawn for my gun. A small glint of metal caught my eye.
There.
“You little punk!” Bart hissed. “You ruined my suit! You’ll pay for that!”
The giant rolled over, got up onto his knees, and threw himself forward, trying to drive me back down to the ground so he could finish beating me to death. I sidestepped his lunge and threw myself forward, doing my best quarterback slide and stretching my hand out, desperately trying to snatch my gun out of the grass before he latched onto me again.
“You’re not getting away that easy,” he snarled.
My fingers closed over the cold metal. Bart grabbed my arm and hauled me to my feet, drawing his fist back for another strike.
I whipped around, shoved my gun up against his body, and fired.
Pfft! Pfft! Pfft!
I shot the bastard three times in the gut.
Blood spurte
d all over both of us, the drops stinging my hand like hot candle wax. Bart staggered back, a shocked expression on his face. He looked down, watching as more blood stained his shirt, along with the rest of his fancy gray suit.
“I told you I didn’t want to get your blood on my suit,” I hissed.
The giant’s head nodded, almost like he was agreeing with me, and then he crumpled to the ground and was still.
7
Once I was sure that Bart the Butcher had been, well, butchered, I put my hands on my knees, blinking away the last of the white stars. Every breath I drew in through my sore, bruised, battered ribs hurt, but the pain was better than not breathing at all.
Isabelle slowly pushed herself up into a sitting position. She blinked a few times, shaking off her own rough fall, and looked over at Bart’s body, which was now decorating her lawn like an overgrown garden gnome.
“You . . . you killed him,” she whispered.
“Yeah. And his friends too.”
She glanced at the two giants lying by the SUV, as dead as their boss. Her face paled a little more, and she raised a shaking hand to her heart. “What—what am I going to do? There are three dead giants at my house!”
I shuffled over and crouched down in front of her, staring into her hazel eyes. “You’re not going to do anything. As far as you know, nothing happened here. On the off chance that someone does come around asking questions, you were inside with Leo the whole night, and you didn’t see or hear anything. Okay?”
She kept looking at me with wide, panicked eyes, so I made my voice even gentler.
“Don’t worry,” I said. “I’m going to take care of everything. This won’t come back on you, I promise. Do you trust me?”
Isabelle stared at me, then at the gun in my hand, then at the three dead giants. She blanched, as though she was going to be sick, but she managed to push down her fear and anxiety. “I guess I don’t have a choice.”