Page 83 of Irish Vice

I feel scooped out, like I’m a dented tin can kicked to the side of the road. It’s hard for me to draw a full breath; something’s crushing my sternum. My fingers tingle, and I wonder how I’ve kept from dropping my phone.

But Asher’s still talking. “…ninety-two miles per hour. Under Delaware law, that’s an automatic reckless.”

“I’m sorry,” I say. “Whowas driving reckless?”

“Madden Kelly. Your brother-in-law, right?”

I dig my fingernails into my palms, trying to make myself concentrate. “Madden was here? In Delaware?”

Asher harrumphs. He doesn’t like repeating himself. “The ticket was issued at 5:17 p.m. on March 24. Madden Kelly. Driving a green McLaren, Pennsylvania license plate…”

I don’t listen to the numbers and letters. March 24 was the night of the Diamond Ring event. The night Terrence King tried to kill me.

“I didn’t make the connection,” Asher says. “Until I read that article in yesterday’s paper.”

I’m still confused. “You’re saying Madden Kelly was here, in Delaware, the night King tried to kill me.”

“And that’s not all.” He’s a professional, but he can’t keep from gloating.

“Go on.” I do my best to sound professional too.

“I’ve still got contacts with the Philly PD so I called in some debts. They keep plenty of surveillance on your friend Russo.”

“He’s not my friend,” I say automatically, when Iwantto tell Asher to cut the crap and get to the real news.

“I’m sending you pictures now,” Asher says, and my computer chimes a few seconds later. My fingers move out of habit, double-clicking on an attached file.

“What am I looking at?” I ask, even though some part of my brain already knows.

“That’s Madden Kelly’s McLaren at the gate of Antonio Russo’s East Falls compound in Philadelphia. The time-stamp on this one says March 24. I’ve got a dozen more from the past four months, going in and out. Seven in the last week. And the most recent one is from this afternoon. Madden Kelly and Antonio Russo are working together.”

35

BRAIDEN

Ingram calls at five sharp, as if he’s got me working on a factory line. I let the call go to voicemail.

He calls at 5:01.

5:02.

5:03.

I know exactly how this technique works. And I know it failed spectacularly when I tried to get Samantha home from Boston. Next up?—

Sure enough, he texts.

Ingram

Pick up or I send my own man to do the job

Then:

He’ll do twofor one

So I’m in the crosshairs too.

I calculate how long it’ll take me to get to Boston. My plane can be in the air in less than an hour. Ninety minutes to Hanscom, northwest of the city. I can hire someone to meet me at the airfield with a car, and I can be in Southie an hour after that.