Private Dublin

Chapter 27

“Thanks,” I whispered.

She nodded, placed the pan carefully on the kitchen counter, and stepped nearer.

“You okay?” she asked quietly.

I touched my temple gingerly, and the spinning world came into sharper focus as the feeling I might black out receded.

“I’ll be fine,” I told her. “Let’s go.”

I heard voices coming from somewhere in the house, muffled and unclear words being spoken by two men, their deep voices with the distinctive Dublin accent, tone hostile.

“Take the gun,” I whispered.

Andi leaned down and grabbed the pistol from the man she’d knocked out. Meanwhile I searched the jacket of the guy I’d incapacitated. He’d been reaching for a telescopic metal baton, the kind riot police use for crowd control.

I took it and flicked it to full extension. It locked with a satisfying click. I lifted the masks off both the unconscious men and saw faces I didn’t recognize. Joe McGee was still somewhere inside the house.

I moved through the kitchen doorway into a large entrance hall. To my left was the formal dining room I’d seen from outside, and to my right a double-door front entrance. Ahead lay a sitting room, furnished with sagging but comfortable-looking old sofas and chairs and fine mahogany heirloom pieces.

Andi drew alongside me and pointed upstairs. I nodded. The men’s voices were clearer now, and I could also hear a child sobbing and a woman muttering soothing words.

I moved to the stairs and started up them. When I glanced over my shoulder, I saw Andi behind me, gun raised in the ready stance. Her face was stern, her eyes hard, her whole demeanor at odds with the easy banter of earlier. I could see why Emily had hired her. I felt confident I had someone capable as my back-up.

We paused on the wraparound landing to listen to what was clearly a confrontation.

“Don’t you dare hurt them,” I heard a man say.

“Then give us what we want,” a second man replied.

The voices were coming from a doorway across the landing.

“Do it,” the second man said.

I heard a thud and then a child screamed.

“Mummy!” a boy cried. “Leave her alone.”

“Stop!” the first man yelled. “Leave them be or I’ll kill you all.”

There was another blow, and then more screaming and pleading from a woman and children.

I looked at Andi, who nodded. We crept across the landing to the open doorway. I peered inside and saw a large bedroom. One of the masked men was standing by a seating area, holding a gun on an indignant middle-aged man in jeans and T-shirt.

The last home invader was by the bed, where a woman and two children, a boy who couldn’t have been more than ten and a girl who looked about twelve, had been bound with cord at ankles and wrists and were lying face-down on the mattress. Their masked tormentor was holding a telescopic baton and used it to strike the woman hard on the back.

I gave Andi a furious glance and she signaled to the man by the couch and pointed at herself. I nodded. Together we rushed into the room, startling the home invaders, who had been confidently in command.

“Joe!” the man by the couch said as he turned his gun on Andi.

So the guy beating the woman was our target, the member of the Dark Fates Conor Roche had identified.

My fury rose as he turned to face me. I ducked as he swung at me with his baton. I glanced back to see Andi dodge the gunman’s aim. His bullet went harmlessly by her, but the sound was deafening and my ears rang in the aftermath of the gunshot.

I struck Joe McGee on the shins with my baton, two sharp blows with the weighted bulb, one on each leg. He jumped back and yelped.

Andi aimed her pistol at the gunman, but before she could shoot, the male captive jumped up and grabbed his assailant, making it impossible for her to find a safe target.

Joe recovered and came at me, but I parried his flailing blow with my baton and drove my shoulder into his chest, pushing him away from the bed and slamming him against the wall beside a grand fireplace. There was the clatter and smash of ceramic as his hand floundered around the mantel, searching for purchase, knocking figurines of horses onto the slate hearth.

Behind me, I heard another ear-splitting gunshot and looked round to see the masked assailant knock down the homeowner, dazing him. He spun quickly and caught Andi on the side of her head with the butt of his gun, sending her flying.

Her pistol tumbled from her hand and spun across the rug toward the bed. I dived for it and shots rang out as I wrapped my fingers around it. There was more gunfire while I scrabbled for cover behind the bed.

I heard a rush of movement and risked breaking cover to see both masked invaders fleeing through the doorway.

I ran after them but was forced to a halt by more gunfire. Bullets splintered the door frame where I had been standing a split second before.

Downstairs, there was further movement and someone shouted orders.

“Jack,” Andi said, and I turned to see her struggling to stand.

I ran over and helped her up.

“You okay?” I asked.

“I will be,” she said. “Go.”

I hesitated, but she nodded and pushed me toward the door.

I ran through it, across the landing and down the stairs. The first floor was deserted, the men we’d knocked out were both gone, and now the front door was hanging open.

I should have been grateful to be alive. Instead I was frustrated to have lost a potential lead to the man who’d shot Justine.