Page 93 of Dirty Legacy

Instead, it’s Colm.

Panic fills me when I answer.

“Sir, it’s me.” His voice is strained and something loud is happening in the background.

I sit forward and grip the seat in front of me so tight my fingers turn white. “Is that gunfire?”

“There’s an attack. We’re doing our best to repel them⁠—“

“An attack?” I snarl the words and look at Marcus. He’s gaping at me in alarm. “What the fuck is happening?”

“They’re through the gates already. We’ll hold them off, sir, but we need more—“ Gunfire erupts. Close this time. There’s a scream and the line goes dead.

Fuck. FUCK.

“What the hell?” Marcus asks.

“Driver, break every fucking law you can. Get us home immediately.”

The driver nods grimly and slams down the gas.

I start making calls. Angie first, Rowan, Dad, even Danielle. None answer. I’m losing my fucking mind as I try Deck, but I go straight to voicemail.

“I’m not getting anything either,” Marcus says, taking out his gun and checking to make sure it’s loaded. “Any idea how bad?”

“Didn’t sound good.”

“We headed into a firefight?”

I dig my fingers into my scalp. “I don’t know and that’s the problem. Angie’s there. My wife. My fucking baby—my whole family⁠—“

“Connor, listen to me.” Marcus leans over, grabbing onto my shoulder. “I already called all the lieutenants. At least three crews are speeding to your place now. We’ll beat them there by a couple minutes at most.”

“They might not have that much time.”

“They will, brother. You have to stay calm for them.”

I breathe in through my nose. He’s right, I know he’s right, but the thought of Angie lying sprawled in her own blood is like a knife in my skull.

How is this happening? How the fuck did the Gallaghers get in?

If Colm called, that means they’re already at the home.

Oh, God. Oh, fucking God.

“We got this, brother,” Marcus says again and I focus on that. My best friend is a businessman. He’s the legitimate side of the operations. But we came up together, and I know he’s always been good in a crisis.

There’s nobody in the world I’d rather have watching my back.

“Almost there,” the driver says as we roar down the street.

Ahead, half the wall is blown to pieces, the front gate smashed and twisted.

Bodies are scattered on the drive. Blood splattered on the trees.

The driver slams to a halt. A truck’s overturned ahead of us, a corpse hanging from the front window.

“We go on foot.” I leap from the car. Marcus goes with me. When the driver tries to follow, I tell him to stay behind and to direct whoever else shows up.