Niall was in a foul mood when he walked into Kelly’s, having yanked on his canvas jacket and Yankees cap in the car.
He’d barely accomplished anything at the McKays’ house tonight. Fiona’s earrings hadn’t given him any new information. The Trinity knot was one of the most common Celtic symbols; it was sold on random pieces of jewelry everywhere. And the two women he’d assumed were just her friends? They’d ended up being part of the Forensic Instincts team. Bad enough that Fiona’s pain-in-the-ass brother was involved, now the whole damn company was safeguarding her like one of her precious pieces of jewelry. He’d done his best to befriend them, right down to rescuing Claire Hedgleigh from a near faint. And their president, Casey Woods, had been affable enough. But at best, that meant he’d steered them away from viewing him as a suspect. It did nothing to stop them from interfering with his search.
He scanned the tavern and saw Donald was tied up with some effusive customer who was praising one of his famous dishes. Niall knew the bar owner saw him because he shot Niall a quick look and tipped his head toward the back room.
Fine. Niall would go back there and wait. He needed to think anyway and whatever Donald had urgently called him down here for was undoubtedly going to further piss him off.
He shut the door behind him, tossed his cap aside, and sank down at one of the booths, elbows on the table, fingers massaging his temples.
He’d become a man obsessed.
The first seeds of that obsession had been planted thirty-six years ago, although he hadn’t known it at the time.
A raid he’d made in Belfast. A tout that had to be dealt with. Niall had hated the bastard, knowing that he’d been responsible for the deaths of Niall’s mates from his previous unit. He’d come forward, eager to do the job. The request was granted.
He’d broken in through the back door and entered the house wearing a balaclava over his head and carrying a baseball bat studded with tenpenny nails.
The TV set was on and he could hear the family talking and laughing in the living room, the clinking of silverware telling him they were eating their dinner at the same time. He edged forward until he could see them, eating their food on TV trays, absorbed and off guard. The tout. His wife. Two young kids.
Niall waited just long enough to make sure there were no comings or goings that would surprise him and interfere with his task.
Reassured, he went straight for it, trying to block out the screams and cries of the rest of the family as he went for the tout. He’d beaten the shit out of him with his bat, blood splattering with each successive strike... breaking first his legs and then one arm.
Screaming in pain, the tout had fumbled under the chair with his one good arm, reaching for a gun.
Stupid fuck.
Niall had whipped out his own pistol, putting a hole in the tout’s forehead in one quick move, watching him crumple to the floor, dead.
He shouldn’t have stayed, not even for those brief moments. It violated all his training, went against all his instincts. But he’d never killed a man in front of his wife and kids. His sniper hits were always faceless, his target being his only victim, killed from a distance.
This was different. Seeing the tout’s wife and children—God, they couldn’t have been more than four and six years old—hearing them sob with grief and terror as they huddled together, staring wild-eyed at the lifeless body, he’d felt his gut twist with remorse, not for killing the tout, but for leaving his family alone and scarred for life by this memory.
They’d looked up and seen him pause. Reflexively, they’d cowered, certain he was going to kill them next.
He shook his head, lowering his pistol so they’d know he meant them no harm. Simultaneously, he’d raised his gaze so as not to see the agony on their faces.
That’s when he saw the painting.
A Viking battle. A body of water. A monastery. Graves with Celtic crosses. A slain king lying in his own blood. A wealth of riches spilling alongside him. And the words The Battle of Bawncullen scribbled in Gaelic at the base.
Odd that those images registered so vividly at the time.
Even odder that a deeper, more comprehensive visual memory had evidently sunk in, because, decades later, he’d recognized the painting when he saw—and purchased—it.
But in that initial moment back in Belfast, he’d just torn his stare away, regained his self-control, and gotten out of the house the same way he’d entered.
He knew he’d never forget that kill.
The entire scene was etched in his mind and his soul forever.
“Sorry to make you wait.” Donald’s entrance interrupted Niall’s dark musings. “Couldn’t get rid of that guy.” He sat down across from Niall, planting his elbows on the table and leaning forward, his gaze dark, tension rippling through him.
Niall knew that look, that intensity. Whatever Donald was about to convey was big and it was ugly.
“What happened?” Niall demanded.
“The new kid I hired called in, sounding like a scared rabbit. Said he went to relieve one of the guys watching the McKays’ house and saw him talking to a stranger. The stranger slipped our guy a handful of cash and disappeared into the shadows.”
“A stranger?” Thunderclouds erupted in Niall’s eyes. “Give me a description.”
“Don’t have one. It was too dark and the stranger wore black and a cap pulled low on his face. I dragged our traitor to a warehouse to encourage him to talk. Turns out he’s a junkie. He’d do anything to get cash for his next fix, including selling us out.”
“How did we not know this?”
“He checked out fine. Must keep his habit well hidden. I didn’t pick up on it, and I always do.”
“I know.” Niall gestured for him to continue.
“After a couple of broken kneecaps, he told me that the stranger knew he’d been part of the break-in at Fiona McKay’s place. He gave him two hundred bucks for information on what specific pieces of jewelry he saw there.”
Niall shot up like an arrow. “How the hell would this stranger know about the significance of Fiona’s jewelry?”
Donald’s shoulders lifted in a shrug. “Don’t know. But I do know what our ex-employee told him. He said he saw a pair of earrings made up of some old, foreign-looking coins and a bracelet with pebbles and green stones. That’s all he remembered, except for a bunch of loose jewels.”
“Shit.” Niall slammed both fists on the table, ignoring the stab of pain that sliced through his scarred palm.
“I take it that’s significant.”
“It fucking well is. I need to get more than you did. I know what I’m looking for. You don’t.”
“That’s why, instead of killing our guy, I left him bound and gagged until I could get you down here. You can take over from here.”
Niall was already on his feet. “Take me to that warehouse.”
***
The lock on the warehouse door had been easy to pick.
He hadn’t wasted a moment of his precious time. His attack had been brief and brutal and most enjoyable to watch.
He’d used what he always used—his .22 caliber pistol that shot long rifle rounds. He’d put the pistol behind the useless kid’s ear—a spot he’d long ago chosen for his victims since it was the soft part of the skull—and fired two shots.
The shots killed but never exited the body. They ricocheted so the pain was unbearable and death was welcome.
The junkie’s screams of agony were muffled by the gag still in his mouth.
At last, the writhing and screaming stopped and the body went limp in death.
Cobra stood back and smiled.