Quinn's Deirdre (23 page)

With a
roar worthy of an ancient Celtic warrior, Quinn arrived.
 
Through the splintered panels, Deirdre
watched as he heaved one of the men away from it with a mighty toss.
 
The man’s pistol went off in the fray as he
flew arse over teakettle into a table.
 
When he did, the second man turned to Quinn and pointed his gun in his
face.
 
Deirdre screamed.
 
“Quinn, look out!”

He ducked
in time to miss the bullet. It smacked into the wall and buried deep into the
paneling. The
hitman
swore and turned toward Deirdre
again, but Quinn came from behind.
 
He
grasped the man’s wrist and twisted it until it broke.
 
She heard the distinct snap, followed by the
man’s howl of pain.
 
The other managed to
stand, but he’d lost his gun.
 
He lunged
at Quinn and punched him hard in the gut.
 
Quinn doubled over and Deidre tried to make her way through the broken
bits of door to reach him but stumbled.

Another
pair of armed men burst into the room, pistols extended.
 
Quinn tripped the first and relieved him of
his firearm, but the other approached Deirdre.
 
“It’s time to die, bitch eyes,
”
 
he
said with a growl and then
laughed.
 
His evil cackle chilled her
more than anything and in his face, she read his intent.

Quinn
lunged forward, but the first two men grabbed him.
 
They hit him with swift, sure punches aimed
to do optimal damage, impacting his face, his abdomen, and his groin.
 
He fought back, delivering whirlwind kicks,
his hands pummeling his attackers with desperate bravery.
 
As the man, the same who had delivered his
threat three years earlier outside the courthouse and winked at her, raised his
gun, the third delivered a savage kick to Quinn’s head.
 
He groaned and then went still, face down on
the floor.

Deirdre
didn’t breathe.
 
Her heart banged against
her ribs as an incredible pain rocked her soul.
 
Heedless of the danger, she pushed forward and managed to exit through
the broken boards.
 
Before she could
reach Quinn, the hit man stepped forward and pressed the mouth of the pistol
against her forehead. “I can kill you quick,” he said. “One shot and you’re
history, but I think I’ll take my time and go slow.
 
I’d like to taste your pussy first, then rape
you and watch you suffer.
 
Looks like
your lover’s dead or dying, so there’s no one left to defend you.
 
I plan to enjoy this very much.”

Without
thinking, she spit in his face and dropped to her knees.
 
She would crawl to Quinn if she could.
“Quinn,” she cried, her voice low but urgent. “Quinn!”

Her
attacker laughed again. “He can’t hear you or help you, you stupid cunt.”

Reality
hit with the force of a tornado as he cocked the hammer on the .357 Ruger
pistol.
 
His finger touched the trigger
and when he pulled back, she would die.

Oh god, Quinn, I’m so sorry.
 
I don’t want to leave you again and this time I can’t come back.
 
I don’t want you hurt or dead but you’re one,
maybe both.
 
I love you, I love you, I
love you…

She
expected the words to be her final thought and closed her eyes, waiting for the
shot which would end it all.

Chapter Fifteen

With death
imminent, Deirdre struggled to remember the words to the Act of Contrition.
 
If she had to die, without a priest or
prayers or someone to hold her hand, at least she could pray, but when she
moved her lips, nothing emerged.
 
A
faint, anguished moan came from Quinn, and she opened her eyes to see if he’d
roused.
 
He remained down but the fingers
on one hand moved as if he reached out, maybe to her.
 

“Christ,
he’s not dead,” the man standing in the doorway said. “These Irish mother
fuckers are tough.”

“Shoot the
bastard,” the one with his gun aimed at Deirdre said. “Let her watch him die
and then I’ll take her out.
 
It’s over.”

Sorrow
consumed her with blackness.
 
It can’t end like this.
 
It can’t.

“Not
quite,” Desmond Sullivan said from the doorway.
 
He placed the edge of his pistol against the closest criminal’s head.
“Things just bloody changed, ye
feckin
’ lot of
idiots.
 
Drop yer weapon,
laddie
, or I’ll shoot this one.”

“Fuck!”

“You don’t
want to shoot me, old man.
 
You don’t
know who the fuck I am.”

Des
laughed. “Oh, aye, but I do.
 
Yer old
granddad’s the leader of this outfit, is he not? Ye’re young Johnny or should I
say Gianni.
 
Ye think ye’re someone to
reckon with, but I’ve killed more men than ye, and I’ll have no remorse at all
if I kill
ye
here and now.
 
And the rest of ye can answer to yer boss
when I do and explain to him why ye couldn’t drop yer bloody guns.”

The gun
aimed at Deirdre dropped to the floor as the gunman lifted his hands high. The
others followed his lead, but Desmond kept his aimed. “Now one of ye
gobshites
, call Big Johnny and tell him I want to talk to
him.
 
I’ve no doubt ye’ve a cell phone
stashed away.”

“He won’t
talk to you,” one of the men said with a snarl.

“Aye?”
Des said.
 
“Then young
Johnny here dies and ye can tell him so.”

Once the
man prepared to shoot her became unarmed, Deirdre crawled across the floor to
Quinn.
 
His stillness worried her and he
hadn’t made another sound.
 
When she
tried to turn him over, Des spoke. “Ye’d best not move him, dearie.
 
He’s badly hurt, I’ve no doubt.
 
Call 911, would ye, love, and I’ll escort
these gentleman to the kitchen for now.
 
Tell them, when they come, we had a break-in, but that the robbers
fled.
 
I’ll deal with this and come find
ye
.”

She used
the phone in the bar,
then
returned to Quinn’s
side.
 
Desmond had disappeared in her
brief absence, taking the men with him.
 
Deirdre knelt beside Quinn and groped for his wrist.
 
When she managed to locate his pulse, it
seemed faint to her.
 
Hurry
, she prayed,
hurry
. Within minutes, the thin, high wail of the ambulance
approached the pub.

After
that, everything happened fast.
 
The EMTs
lifted Quinn onto a gurney and loaded him into the ambulance.
 
Deirdre begged to ride up front and they
allowed it.
 
At Truman Medical Center,
she waited in the same area she had before but alone.
 
Before leaving the pub, she’d managed to grab
her purse and cell phone, but she didn’t dare call Desmond.
  
Whatever he might be doing, she had to give
him space to do it.

She curled
into the uncomfortable chair and waited.
 
After more than an hour, a doctor with weary eyes emerged and approached
her. “Are you with Quinn Sullivan?”

Unable to
find her voice, she nodded.
 

“Are you
family?”

If she
said no, he wouldn’t tell her anything, so she lied. “I’m his wife.
 
How is he?”

“He
suffered serious injuries and he’s in surgery now.
 
Afterward, he’ll be in the critical care unit
for a day or two.”

Visions of
Quinn surrounded by scrub-wearing surgeons and nurses, under the knife, filled
her brain and turned her stomach queasy. “What kind of surgery?”

“He
suffered a ruptured spleen, but we’re optimistic it can be repaired. There was
a lot of internal bleeding from that.
 
He
also suffered numerous bruises and contusions
,
 
two
broken ribs, and a
concussion.
 
The preliminary CAT scans
don’t show any major brain damage, but he needs to be under close observation
until we can be certain.
 
He’s got two
black eyes, and he’ll be in a great deal of pain.
 
That’s one of the reasons why we’ll sedate
him after surgery.
 
Sedation will provide
his body more of an opportunity to heal, and it will keep him from becoming
agitated.”

Her
befuddled brain tried to take it all in but it proved difficult.
 
Deirdre made an effort to note each thing the
doctor said and to remember. “How long will he be in surgery?”

“Less than
a
hour if they can stitch the damage,” the doctor
said. “Then he’ll spend some time in post-op, then on to the unit. You can go
upstairs to the CCU waiting room, and someone will contact you when he
arrives.”

Two things
mattered. “Is he going to be all right? Will I be able to see him then?”

“I can’t promise you anything,” the doctor said, blunt and honest.
“He
should be fine in a few weeks, though.
 
And yes, you’ll be able to visit him in CCU, within their schedules and
as permitted by the nursing staff.”

“Thank
you,” she said.
 
Deirdre rose and stumbled
to the nearest restroom.
 
She latched the
door on the farthest stall and heedless of any lurking germs, sat down on the
seat and cried.
 
Until she saw Quinn and
could touch him, she wouldn’t accept all of it, but the emotional release
cleared her head a little.
 
She navigated
her way to the waiting room after a couple of wrong turns and sat, waiting.

Almost two
hours passed and her tension increased with each sweep of the minute hand
around the face of the large clock on the wall.
 
Every horror story she had ever heard about patients dying during a
surgical procedure haunted her and she worried.
 
Fifteen minutes later, her cell phone buzzed in her pocket and she bit
down a scream.
 
Then she took the call
from Desmond.

“How’s the
lad?” he asked without preamble.

“He’s in
surgery,” Deirdre replied, unable to keep a sob back. “Then he’ll be in CCU.”

“But he’s
alive?”

“Yes.”

Desmond
heaved a sigh. “Thanks
be
to god, then.
 
Ye can worry about Quinn if ye like, but
ye’ve naught else to fret over.”

She didn’t
understand. “What?”

“It’s
over, Deirdre.
 
No one will be coming
after
ye
or any of us again.”

Her thick
brain couldn’t compute. “I don’t understand.”

“It’s
over. I’ll tell ye the details when I come.
 
Now, where are ye so I can find
ye
?”

When Desmond
arrived, Deirdre ran to him, and he hugged her tight. “Have ye heard anything
new?”

“No, and
I’m worried. It’s been a long time, Des.”

“Ah, well,
then he’s gettin’ the care he needs and once he wakes, he’ll be relieved to
know ye’re safe, now and forever.”

If so, she
might pass out with relief. “What happened?”

“Ye were
there,” he said. “Ye know most of it.”

“But
after?”

“I had
young Johnny in me sights,” Des said. “That much I knew from the research ye
did for me, aye?”

“Yes, I
remember.”

“When I
talked to Big Johnny, I suggested he come down to the pub so we could have a
wee chat and he did.
 
He had little
choice if he wanted to see his grandson alive again.”

“Jesus,
Des! He could have killed you.”

The old
man shrugged.
“Or not.
 
‘Tis a game I’ve played before and it worked.
 
We had a talk, he and I, and agreed it ended
there.
 
I let his grandson go free with a
promise never to lay a finger upon him again and in return, he called off any
notion of killing
ye
.”

His calm
manner impressed Deirdre.
 
“Will he honor
it?”

“Aye, he
will or
face
the consequences.
 
I’ve no doubt he will, though, for when it
comes to such matters,
men
 
like
him have their own sort of honor.
 
Ye’ve nothing to fear now from them, love.”