Savage Hearts

26

And by obstacles, he means enemies.

The man who tried to rescue me from a life of prostitution and gently cupped my face in his hand like it was made of porcelain is a Russian assassin of such terrifying reputation, he makes “regular” killers like Spider quake in their boots.

I bury my face into my hands and moan. It makes Spider freak out.

He shouts, “What is it?”

Oh, nothing. I just realized I’m attracted to a killer who walks through locked doors and makes the Terminator look like Britney Spears. This sort of thing happens to me every day. Nothing to see here. No big deal.

“Lass!”

“Please stop shouting at me. I’m having a minor breakdown is all. Last week, I was living my nice quiet life in my nice quiet apartment in San Francisco. Since then, I’ve discovered that my sister is getting married to the head of the Irish Mob, and that I caught the eye of a notorious Russian assassin whose hobbies include stalking, appearing out of thin air, making wildly incorrect assumptions about people based on their wardrobes, and handing out large quantities of cash to strangers in restrooms. He’s also on a mission to kill my future brother-in-law. It’s been an eventful few days.”

Spider blows out a hard breath. He mutters a series of colorful curses. Then he takes a sharp turn off the two-lane road we’re speeding down onto a larger highway.

He’s not headed back to the house.

“Where are we going?”

“The airport.”

“Why?”

He glances at me. His jaw is as hard as his eyes. “When the Hangman discovers where you live, you disappear before he can pay you a visit.” With an oath, he corrects himself. “Another visit.”

He stomps his foot onto the accelerator. We rocket down the highway. He picks up his cell and makes a series of calls, speaking tersely in Gaelic through each one.

While I sit slumped in the passenger seat, replaying everything in my head.

Especially Malek’s nickname: the Hangman.

I try hard not to imagine how he got it.

14

Mal

T

hey arrive at the airport burning rubber and screech to a stop outside a hangar.

The blond guard with the spiderweb neck tattoo pulls Riley out of the SUV and drags her across the tarmac by the hand.

They disappear inside the hangar.

Ten minutes later, the hangar doors open. A large white private jet sits inside. The jet’s engines roar to life.

It doesn’t surprise me they found a pilot on such short notice. The head of the Irish Mob is a powerful man.

Not that his power will be able to protect him.

Nothing on earth can protect him now.

Grinding my teeth, I watch from a distance as the jet pulls out onto the tarmac, turning to head down the main runway and wait for clearance to take off.

I watch it lift into the sky, glinting under the sun as it rises.

I watch it shrink until it’s nothing more than a tiny white dot against a vast sea of blue.

All the while, I force myself to breathe deeply to control the raging wildfire of fury burning inside my chest.

The last time I was this enraged was when I learned of Mikhail’s death.

This is almost worse. This shock comes with a deep sense of betrayal.

The waif I wanted to help is Declan’s sister-in-law.

Not a prostitute.

Not his victim.

His sister-in-law.

Family.

Thinking of what I’m going to do next, I feel better.

I suppose it could be called poetic justice. Or serendipity, a word I’ve always liked. Whatever the name, the result will be identical.

Declan O’Donnell took something from me.

It’s my turn to take something from him.

By the time the jet starts to taxi down the runway, I’ve already memorized the tail number and turned away.

15

Riley

W

hen we arrive in Boston, it’s pouring rain. The weather is so bad, the jet has to circle the airport for an hour before we get clearance to land. When we do finally land, it’s with a violent jolt that makes me bite my lip so hard, it bleeds.

I try not to take that as a bad omen.

But suddenly, everything feels like a bad omen. From the moment we lifted off in Bermuda, I’ve had an unshakeable feeling of doom.

The brutal turbulence during the flight didn’t help. Neither did the flock of geese we murdered on our descent into Boston. I looked out the window and saw a blizzard of feathers and bloody bird parts flying past, and white-knuckled the arms of my seat until we landed.

Now we’re here, and Spider’s hustling me down the aisle toward the opening cockpit door with such impatience, it would probably be easier if he picked me up and carried me instead.

“Hurry, lass,” he urges from behind me, propelling me forward with a hand between my shoulder blades.

“I can’t hurry any faster than I already am.”

He gives me a gentle shove. “Try.”

That he’s so nervous makes me more nervous. He’s the one with the gun!

Outside, another black SUV awaits on the tarmac, engine running. Spider throws his suit jacket over my head to shield me from the downpour, then follows me down the airstairs, right on my heels.

He whisks me into the car, climbs in behind me, and slams shut the door, all with the speed of a tornado.

“Kieran. Good to see you, mate.” He nods at the big brute in the driver’s seat, wearing a black suit identical to his own.

The brute sends him a chin lift in return. “Spider. Bout ye?”

“Minus craic. You up to date?”

“Aye.” He shakes his head. “Declan had a quare gunk when he got yer call.”

Spider mutters, “And no wonder. It’s bloody ogeous handlin’.”