Page 139 of Player

“Until we meet again. May God hold you in the palm of his hand,” I offer then fire a clean shot into his heart. Tit for tat, from one fighter to another.

Someone screams. I push off Vidal, grab his rifle, and hurry forward. Feck, every second counts, and I’ve wasted a few.

As I turn the corner, I aim and fire at five men in my way. Three South Africans and two of O’Brien’s. Five wankers battling it out and sending too many bullets into the air. Far too many for my liking.

Far too close toher.

I race toward Clarissa’s hiding place, shooting another unlucky gobshite who’d just turned the corner. Another of O’Brien’s men.

But when I set eyes on the crate, I’m prepared to murder every one of these motherfeckers.

Bullet holes.

Everywhere.

Pieces of splintered wood now hold the crate together. Fragments of silk lay on the warehouse floor and form a rainbow-colored pathway leading away from the wreckage. A brown fur coat shot up by bullets hangs off a slated side. Feathers fill the air like someone’s plucked a country goose. Gold and diamond jewelry sparkle brightly from inside the holes ... so many holes ... too many holes.

No one could survive that. Not even the stubborn beour God placed on this earth just for me.

I see red: my anger, her blood.

I can’t look, not yet. Not until they pay.

I hear the clatter of running feet, interrupting me, from getting to her.

Pistol in one hand and semi-automatic in the other, I charge forward, catching the retreating South Africans off guard as they turn the corner.

A bullet nicks my arm, but the pain doesn’t process. How could it when the woman I love lies dying nearby? Because, yeah, I love her.

But I never told her.

I may never have the chance to.

I fire and keep firing, on and on, until there’s no one left to shoot but the last of O’Brien’s men.

It’s the job that stops me.

The knowledge that their turn on earth is short-lived.

I force my arm down, lowering my weapon, before turning and sprinting back the way I’d come.

“Holy motherfeckin’ shite. Did you see Rambo over there? Marched straight into the lot of them like he’s the star of a Spaghetti Western.”

“One moment he’s running from these arseholes and the next he’s charging into the lot of them.”

I block them out as I begin to pray.God, please forgive me. I’ll go to church, light a million feckin’ candles, and pray for the souls of every man I’ve killed, no matter if they deserved it or not.

Please allow me another chance to say the things I should have said, mostly that I’m sorry.

And I love her.

I reach the crate, push away what remains of the lid, and peer inside.

Bits and pieces of fur are everywhere. Feathers. Scraps of silk. Gold and diamond jewelry.

But. No. Minx.

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