Page 95 of Dirty Legacy

“Run, Angie!” He ushers me forward urgently. “Go! Hurry!”

We sprint to the end of the hall and through another set of doors. This room is similar to the master I share with Connor. He leads me to the closet and I’m shocked to find the whole back wall is open, a room lined with steel beyond it. Danielle is holding a sobbing Rowan in the back corner, stroking her hair.

“Inside.” Cathal grunts and places Mom down on the floor beside a rack filled with food and several pallets of bottled water. He groans, knuckling his spine. “Angie, hurry. We need to close the doors.”

I look back over my shoulder. “Connor’s not here.”

“He’ll be fine. If anyone can handle this, it’s my son.”

“But, what if he doesn’t know⁠—“

“He’ll know.” Cathal gently steers me. “Please, Angie. He’d be angry if I let something bad happen to his pregnant wife. My fool daughter already disobeyed me once.”

I catch my lip between my teeth, so afraid, so deeply, deeply afraid of going into that room, worried I might never see my husband again. What if we come back out and the world’s changed? What if we never come back out at all?

But there’s nothing I can do. Cathal drags me into the safe room, punches a code into an electronic pad, and the doors bang shut with a deep clang as a lock engages, and we’re alone.

Connor

I take point with Marcus behind. He sweeps our flanks while I keep my eyes locked ahead.

We don’t meet any resistance. Only a single body in the bushes. One of the house guards, his throat cut as if someone snuck up on him.

But how the hell did that happen? If they blew a fucking hole in the fence?

I’m disturbed but don’t have time to interrogate it. There’s still sporadic shooting coming from the house, but it’s slowing down, which isn’t a good sign. Either Colm and the defenders won or the Gallaghers are cleaning the place up. I fix my hold on my gun as we crest the hill and crouch in the brush fifty yards from the front doors.

Two trucks are parked out front. I count six men total lurking around. I don’t recognize any of them and I realize with a cold hate that they must be Gallaghers. I hold Marcus back a moment, plotting our move, thinking we’ll enter the mansion through the side and use the tight hallways to our advantage, find what’s left of the defense, and rally a counter attack to save my family⁠—

When a man steps from the lead truck.

He’s wearing a fine black suit. His hair’s slicked back and he flips off a pair of sunglasses, tucking them neatly into his chest pocket. He taps at a phone as if he were at a business meeting. The others around him watch reverently.

Fergus Gallagher.

The eldest of the three brothers.

His broad chest shakes as he laughs at something. Hate boils in my guts. He takes a cigar from his back pocket and lights it, chewing the end, puffing away.

“What are you doing?” Marcus asks urgently.

I didn’t realize I was drifting toward him, but now my feet are moving, and I can’t stop it. “Stay here.”

“Connor, stop,” he hisses. “You’re outnumbered seven to one. You’re dead if you keep going.”

“He hurt my family.” Rage guides me. A strange calmness descends, a clarity I’ve rarely felt in my life. “And now I have to hurt him.”

It’s odd, these moments, how they seem to happen from a distance. I’ve been in fights before. Been in life-or-death struggles. And always it’s like I saw everything play out from fifty feet above my head, like I was working a doll in a vast theater. My body is flooded with purpose, a righteous, cold hate, and there are only two thoughts in my head.

Kill Fergus.

Save Angie.

I raise my gun and fire.

A guard’s head explodes. He drops, spraying blood. I fire again, hit another guard, two more times, another guard, two more, another. That’s four dead, three standing, but now they’re reacting. Fergus remains rooted, cigar dangling from his teeth comically, as his men raise their weapons at me.

Marcus squeezes off several rounds. He hits the guard on the left, spinning him sideways, knocking his ally off balance. I kill the wounded man as he falls, leaving one more. I aim, squeeze, but my gun’s out of ammo.