Page 31 of The Circle

I scan the area, looking first for Alec and then for anything else that appears out of the ordinary. There’s a huge, brick building on this side of the bridge. It’s not tall, maybe only about the height of the bridge itself, but it’s long, running parallel to the river the bridge traverses. Other than that, just cars, trucks, various tourist types meandering about and wandering on and off of the bridge itself.

And then I see him.

Brasil.

Brasil the fuck Lynch.

He’s gotten even more grey than the last time I saw him. The night we had it out in his office when he showed me the tape of Christine and told me we were cocksucking human traffickers all of a sudden. He looks more like his uncle than he did before. I wonder if that’s what the boys, Rory and Angus, will grow to look like one day, if that make it that far.

Something shoots through me when I spy him. Some kind of primal rage. This feeling that if I can just be done with him, put him away, extinguish him from the world, that he will be extinguished from my memory, my past, as well. Here’s hoping.

I also notice he’s not alone. There are two people with him. One tall, one short.

But neither of them are Andra. Or Theo.

They’re just two thugs. Two grubby henchman who look like they’re from different branches of the same extended family tree as everyone else we’ve encountered.

I’m not shocked. Of course he wouldn’t come alone. I should’ve told him to bring an army with him and then, maybe, he would’ve shown up by himself. Fuckin’ guy always does the opposite of what you tell him to do. Goddamn contrarian Irish fuck.

What concerns me more is that if I know Brasil, and I do—to a greater or lesser degree—these aren’t the only two assholes he brought with him. If he showed up alone, as requested, we’d know for certain that he had backup hiding in the bushes somewhere. By arriving with these two, he’s trying to give off the impression that he’s ignoring my demand that he arrive alone and still parking some other gunmen somewhere else.

Jesus fuck, this shit is exhausting.

“Keep your head on a swivel,” I tell Christine. She nods, literally swiveling her head around. Give me a choice of a hundred people I could have at my side when shit goes down and unless one of them is Christine, I’ll take a pass.

“There,” she says, pointing at an unmarked, black van parked just off to the side of the bridge. It’s not that it looks out of place here that tips her off. It’s that it looks too inplace. Like, it’s exactly the kind of thing you’d expect to see parked on this side of the bridge. And the two guys sitting inside look exactly like the kind of guys who would be sitting inside this van.

Except that it’s idling.

And the rear door is slightly ajar.

And the two guys look jumpy and keep glancing at the group on the bridge.

And, oh, yeah, the guy in the driver’s seat is called Cillian and he’s worked for Brasil since before I met him and he and I once got into a fight with a couple of drunk college bros outside of a bar back home when he was over from Ireland on a job. We tuned them the fuck up. The bros. Beat the shit out of them. I actually had to pull Cillian off one of the assholes before he did more than just send him to the hospital.

And if you held a gun to my head, I couldn’t tell you now what the fight was about. I just remember that this Cillian dude has a fuckin’ rocket for a fist.

Great.

Somehow it’s worse when you know how tough the people you’re going to have to tangle with are. I mean, I could still take him if we mix it up, but it would hurt. I hope we all just shoot at each other instead, like civilized people.

I wonder… are Andra and Theo in the back of the van? Did Brasil actually bring them? Is he expecting that a trade of some kind is really on the table?

That would be amazing. But there’s no way. There’s no way he plans to make this easy. After all the shit he’s done to exact his revenge or whatever he thinks he’s doing? No fucking way.

And then I realize that van may well be one that he’s used to traffic people. I never had the chance to get deep enough to know precisely what, who, when, how, and where, but seeing the van sitting there idling, rear door ajar, it’s all I can think of.

If given the chance today? I’m going to fucking kill him.

“Danny,” Christine says, nudging me and lifting her chin in the direction she’s looking.

Alec. He’s coming from the other side. The pretty side. The side with the park and all the greenery and shit. Walking out from behind a patch of trees, coat blowing behind him in the wind. He’s strolling, like he’s just out for his daily constitutional on the green, topcoat trailing after him in the breeze.

It’s so very Alec that I half-expect a flock of doves to come flying out from behind him in slow motion.

I suppose there’s some kind of poetry to the whole thing. Alec, looking all elegant and unbothered, hanging out in the beauty of nature, about to confront some horribly evil shit, and me and Christine waiting for him on the other side. The dirty, ugly, industrial side.

I once saw this thing. This kitchen magnet or something. It read, “In the great mystery of life, we met. Lucky are we.”

We are lucky. The three of us. We are. But shit, bro. What it didn’t say was, “Lucky are we. But also it’s gonna be bloody and violent and people will be hurt and people will die and, very probably, it’s all going to end in a torrent of hellfire and shattered hope. But still… lucky.”

Eh. Probably wouldn’t have all fit on the magnet.

I draw my gun out, holding it down the length of my thigh. Christine does the same.

“Stay ready,” I say.

“Copy,” she responds.

“And if you have to shoot?” I pause, thinking about everything that’s led us to this moment.

“Yeah?” she chimes in. “Danny? If I have to shoot, what?”

“Don’t miss,” I sigh as we move forward toward the bridge.