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Montrell looked at him. Somehow, even in the fluorescent lighting of the garage, the man was blending in as if he were a shadow. This was partly because of his full black outfit, including gloves. Instead of gleaming, his shaved head was covered in tattoos that trailed down into his shirt. He was also slight of body, much smaller than Montrell would ever be.
“Like we trust you,” Vespa said with a snort.
Montrell wasn’t so hung up on semantics. He wanted Beatrice to live. He wanted them all to. “You really think you can?” he asked, trying to catch the hitman’s eyes.
Luka nodded without hesitation.
“For fuck’s sake, how?” Vespa asked. “This place is vertical. No way you can sneak in.”
Luka hesitated this time. He licked his lips before they parted, pressed together again, and then words slipped out. More than Montrell had heard him say yet.
As the assassin kept talking, Montrell felt a small glimmer of hope and clung to it.
Maeve’s giggling could only be heard between gunshots, but Beatrice hated the joy in the sound as she huddled on the floor, praying the couch would act as a solid barrier against bullets.
Montrell’s mother was insane.
Beatrice wanted to scream at the Irish mob that they were being idiotic. Crawling to try to find something a bit more substantial to hide behind seemed like a better use of her time.
From her vantage point, she could see Liam O’Connell’s eyes, wide with surprise below the hole in his head.
The couch above her creaked as Maeve peered down at her over the back. “She’s over here!” the madwoman called before laughing again, her laughter filling the sudden pause in the hail of bullets. When Beatrice stood with the gun pointed at her face, she squealed and then ducked.
Beatrice squeezed off enough rounds toward the door to make the soldiers jerk back. Then she grabbed a fistful of Maeve’s hair, satisfied by the shriek of outrage the woman released as her laughter died. Beatrice pressed the gun to her temple.
“Say it again!” she screamed in the woman’s face. “Admit what a piece of shit you are that you got off on torturing a defenseless child!”
There was no fear in Maeve’s expression. Her smile slowly spread again. “You’re just jealous. I’ll always be a part of him. He’ll remember me long after his soul has forgotten about you.”
Everything within Beatrice was screaming to pull the trigger. If she was going to die, she was damn well going to take this psycho with her.
She’d positioned herself behind the woman, and as she held her gun to her head, the room remained silent. There were no renewed shots.
Beatrice risked a glance at the doorway. The soldier there, or, hell, maybe one of the new reigning grandsons, stared back nervously.
It was her turn to laugh. The high-pitched noise sounded too much like Montrell’s mother in her frantic state. “Are you really worried I’ll kill her?” she asked the O’Connell. “She shot the head of your family on a whim! And you protect her!”
“They won’t believe your lies,” Maeve said. She was facing Beatrice, so the others couldn’t see her smile. “They know I loved my father.”
“You’ve never loved anyone but yourself.” Beatrice shifted along the couch, dragging Montrell’s mother with her for cover.
The soldier in the doorway’s face firmed. “Oh, we believe you.” He raised his gun. “Now hold still while I kill both of you crazy cunts.”
Beatrice dove behind the couch again. The bullets plowed into the curtains behind her, shattering through the wall of glass beyond and raining shards all around her. They cut into Beatrice’s palms as she scrambled for a new position.
Maeve screamed, though not in pain. No, the woman sounded furious as she rose to her feet with another gun and started firing.
The O’Connells must not have been expecting that. The one in the doorway was shot multiple times in the chest, and Beatrice watched other soldiers in the hallway fall as the woman kept firing while walking toward the door. When she reached it, she kicked the sprawled legs of a dead body out of the way before slamming the door shut and locking it.
Bullets plowed into the door from the other side, but unlike the glass, whatever the door was made of didn’t shatter or splinter or get pierced at all.
“My father always did like this room,” Maeve said. She paused next to Liam O’Connell’s body, her eyes glaring down at him. Then she spat on him.
Beatrice rose to her feet, lifting the gun she held as Maeve pointed her own.
“You ruined everything,” Maeve said, but her tone didn’t sound angry. Her eyes were cold as she pulled the trigger.
Her gun clicked, empty and useless.
