Callous

Colin Mitchell was built like

A brick shithouse.

That description came from his corps commander.

Big and truly angry, he had the look of the actor Tom Hardy, on steroids.

He loved to fight, wade in there, no rules, and walloping freely. It freed him from the simmering rage he carried like a fever.

His younger brother, Patrick, had Down syndrome and was the target for school bullies, until...

Until

Colin showed up.

Mayhem ensued.

Later, when Patrick died, Colin enlisted in the marines and they were glad to have him. The perfect soldier.

Smart, loyal and above all, ferocious.

His commander told him,

“You got brains, kid, you could go to the Naval Academy, be an officer.”

Nope.

Not happening.

Colin wanted to be with the grunts, not the brass. But the Marine Corps. Serious intent, baby.

Semper Fi, fucking believe it.

He had a talent for leadership and strategy. Saved his unit from scores of IEDs, uncannily knew how to avoid ambush and had an almost supernatural knack of not only locating snipers but tearing them apart.

You want to be loved by your guys, get the snipers.

He did, every time.

Then, a sniper got him.

His Kevlar vest saved his life, but the shot knocked him on his ass. As he lay, there, he realized the worst had happened.

He got shot.

And he stood up, to the amazement of his crew, he said,

“Bring me that fucker’s head!”

And they did.

Literally.

He had been assigned to black ops shortly after and did/saw some shit that no amount of booze was going to erase.

He deployed three times and then Kate asked him to come to Ireland. She told him of the killings around her so he packed his duffel, flew to her.

   The first evening, Kate built a fire. They sat on a raggedy old sofa and made hot toddies, getting nice and slowly drunk, no biggie, just slide on to a better place.

Kate told him everything.

He told her nothing.

He asked,

“You want me to go see this Dio dude?”

She explained about Mason and their scheme to put Kate close to Dio. He mulled that over, said,

“I could kill them all.”

He said it lightly

But

He wasn’t kidding, not a bit.

Keegan was sitting in the lounge of the G Hotel. Famed as the hotel frequented by Iain Glen from Game of Thrones. Dio’s acute paranoia had him constantly on the move,

From apartment

To flat

To sundry hotels.

He certainly had the money.

He had called Keegan, told him,

“Get your ass to the G Hotel.”

Keegan had.

It was said the hotel had rooms with a color décor to suit a mood.

Keegan would love to see the room they gave to Dio.

Something black with lurid red splashes, perhaps.

A waitress approached, smile trailing, asked,

“May I get you something?”

Keegan used all his charm, said,

“An Americano would go a treat.”

She agreed and hustled to get it.

Keegan was dressed in clean chinos, white shirt, and an Orvis suede jacket. He figured it suggested quiet wealth. He admired the soft leather mocs he’d had since Mexico, not his brawling gear. No, for that he used steel-tipped boots.

Dio emerged from an elevator, dressed in his customary black suit, his brown skin adding to the appearance of trendy undertaker. He strode over to Keegan, slid into the opposite chair as the woman arrived with the coffee. She placed it carefully down, asked Dio,

“Something for you, sir?”

He shook her away.

Keegan felt a slight annoyance, as he had taken a small shine to her but, as with most things Dio, he let it slide. He owed Dio, owed him big.

But...

Dio’s increasing crazy shit was wearing thin. And the plan to flood the west of Ireland with meth, well, that was just batshit loco. Keegan took a sip of his coffee, bitter, after kick, perfect.

Dio intoned,

“Her brother has arrived.”

Keegan wanted so bad to fuck with him, asked,

“The waitress has a brother?”

But Dio was not of a humorous bent, ever.

Keegan said, trying not to let his scorn leak all over his words,

“Two.”

Threw Dio, as was the intention. He frowned, anger flaring, snarled,

“Two? Two the fuck? What do you mean?”

Keegan kept it lean and simple, said,

“Two brothers, one a failed priest, the other one, ex-marine, maybe special ops.”

Dio stood, near shouted,

“Why are we still sitting? We need to get on this.”

Keegan nearly said,

I haven’t finished my coffee.

But again.

Not quite the right time.

Keegan decided to act fast, take out one brother, let the other storm around, crying vengeance and other shit, then he’d be ripe for the picking.

Keegan loved the game.

Fuck with the prey for a bit, else it was just business and, in truth, biz sucked.

Keegan followed Colin for two days, established the guy liked to get a coffee, sit on the rocks at the water’s edge, dreaming of hot deserts, perhaps.

On the second day, Keegan decided to just go for it.

Dio would have liked for the marine to be brought to the warehouse, use the water and crucifix on him.

Keegan felt that was getting old.

And fuck, slow.

He came up behind the marine, who was staring at the bay, his hands deep in his army jacket, Keegan thought,

Die in his work gear.

He took out the Glock, ratcheted it easily. The marine whirled around, stared at Keegan. If he was surprised, he hid it well. In fact, he seemed to have a small smile.

Too late, Keegan clocked a small boy with a fishing rod, coming along the rocks.

The marine said,

“You didn’t do the reconnaissance.”

Keegan shot him twice, the marine lifted off the rocks, fell heavily in the water.

Keegan turned to the boy, said,

“Life sucks.”

Shot him the face.

Twice.

He liked the number.