Chapter 2

Tag

"Please, don't kill me, Mr. Quinn. I'll do anything. I'm sorry. It was a mistake."

The man's jeans are stained dark, and the air in the staff area of the club is tainted with the stench of piss and fear.

I look into the blown-wide pupils of the piece of shit drug dealer hanging from his wrists and exhale a long sigh. "Aye, it was a mistake, Owen. And a big one at that."

He swallows, his gaze skittering around the private storage room. He's locked in here with two of the infamous Quinn brothers and the right hand of the Quinn family organization, Aiden Kelly.

He knows damn well what that means.

The deep, Celtic rhythm of the club's music is pounding at the front of the house.

No one will hear him scream.

And by the panic flashing in his glassy gaze, he knows what that means, too.

"I'll make it up to you," he begs. "I know things. I see things on the other side of the river, and I can tell you what's going on."

Having informants from the other side of the river is an important part of doing business when sharing a city with a rival family, but I won't put my trust in a low-level poison peddler.

I grip the handle of my knife where it's sticking out of his side and use it as a handle as I swing him around to see my little brother, Sean.

He's standing quietly at the small table in the corner, setting out the baggies Owen was carrying when we picked him up.

My little brother—who technically has four inches and thirty pounds on me—is fresh off the street and wearing his Dublin Devils MC cut.

All five of the Quinn boys are the spit of our da—black hair, green eyes, and tanned complexion—but Sean also has a brutal and broken vibe about him.

He's lethal.

One look at his ink and scars and the ladies cream their panties while the men wet theirs. And when he's in his Dublin Devils leathers, that effect is magnified tenfold.

With the seized product laid out, Sean adds a rubber tie-off, a lighter, and a spoon to the mix.

Owen lets out a strangled groan, finally getting the picture that he's at the end of his journey. "Mr. McGuire said it was just business. I owed him. If I didn't do what he said, he would've killed me."

I meet the kid's gaze. "So, you gambled on the devil you knew over the one you didn't. I get it. You were in a pinch."

He nods, grasping at the hope that I understand his predicament. "Right. I had no choice."

"Och, Owen, there's always a choice."

"It was nothing personal."

I strike forward and smack the hilt of my knife with my palm. A burst of blood sprays free from his side and Owen lets out an anguished wail. When he sags, I grip his chin and slap his cheeks to keep him from passing out.

The pussy.

"Nothing personal?" My hand closes around his throat, and I squeeze until his air is cut off and his face goes red. "People died, Owen. People who trust my family to keep the dangers and violence of our world away from the ones they love."

Aiden moves in beside me and I step back to give him space. He's a brute of a man with endless muscle stretched over his six-foot-six frame and fists like concrete blocks. He's known as the Viking, and feared in the streets, but he's also got an intellect and a knack for strategic thinking that few realize.

Owen gasps for breath as my best friend wraps his arms around his waist and hoists him up to free his hands from the ceiling hook. Gripping the back of the metal chair, I position it to catch the whimpering street rat.

"Grow some balls, man," Aiden scoffs, shifting to stand at the back of the chair. With a firm grip on both the guy's shoulders, he keeps him pinned in the chair. "You knew this would happen when you broke the Quinn Laws."

"I didn't know," Owen sputters. "I swear I didn't."

Sean grunts and hands me the piece of rubber hose. "Everyone in Dublin knows the Quinn Laws."

With Aiden holding him in his seat, I wrap the tubing above Owen's elbow and watch as his veins bulge. His blood is really pumping, so that will make this quick. "Just for shits and giggles, tell us the Quinn Laws."

His eyes widen. "Uh…no killing in your streets."

"Right. And what else?"

"Uh…no drugs, guns, or violence will impact the innocents."

"Aye. Right again. So, you knew the Quinn Laws and yet I was rung up at three in the morning by a grieving mother saying her boy and two other lads were dead in her living room."

He swallows, blinking up at me. "I'm sorry about that…really…so, so sorry."

"I'm sure that's true, but it doesn't make those three lads any less dead now, does it? You brought McGuire's poison on our side of the bridge and people died."

"I didn't know it was dirty, Mr. Quinn. I swear I didn't," he sputters, snot running from his nose.

"But a man must stand behind the quality of product he sells, Owen. It's just good business."

His tears and snot are getting tangled as his gaze locks onto Sean's lighter dancing under the spoon, heating the drugs he brought to this private party.

"Wait! I can still help you. The McGuires are planning something big. Word on the street is that Mad Mattie is going to make a play."

Sean steps in, syringe in hand, and Owen practically vibrates in the chair.

"Wait! He's bringing in men from the north. He's gunning for all of Dublin. I can help. I know people!"

"Aye, Owen. Mattie McGuire may have delusions of grandeur, but the good news is, you won't be around to be caught up in the bloodshed."

The kid's last flare of hope dies when I give Sean the nod and grip his arm hard to hold him steady. "Safe home, Owen. May the road rise up to meet you. May the wind be always at your back."

It takes no time at all before the toxic shit he brought to our side of Dublin claims its next victim. The McGuire mule convulses for a bit and then sinks toward the floor and falls still.

In my mind, it's a poetic end.

You live by the poison, you die by the poison.

When it's done, I pull my knife free and wipe it clean on Owen's shirt. "Aiden, bring the van around and then dump the body somewhere McGuire's mules will see it. I want his street weasels to know what happens if they break the territory lines and bring their shit into our streets."

"You got it, bro."

"And Sean, find out what the fuck Owen was talking about. If Old Man McGuire plans to break Da's truce and come at us, I shouldn't have to learn he's gone north from a fucking grunt."

Sean rubs a rough hand over his mouth and pulls at the scar through his lip. "Aye. The boys and I will start rattling cages. If the McGuires are talking to the Campbells, we'll find out why."

I collect my jacket from where I hung it when I arrived and slide it on. After tugging the cuffs of my shirt sleeves into place, I run a hand down the front of the fabric. "I'm going to grab a bite and spend an hour or two in my office before heading to my loft. Call me when you know something."