Line Of Fire Read online

  Our past.

  Not that any of that mattered now. Not in light of the reason behind my trip home.

  Twenty-four hours ago, I didn’t know when I’d have boots on the ground in the States again, let alone when I’d find myself back in Brighton. But I always imagined my family and friends all there at the security gate to embrace me.

  It wasn’t supposed to go this way. Jimmy was supposed to be there, too.

  Tears pressed at the backs of my eyes, and I squeezed them shut to keep any waterworks from getting loose.

  Chapter Two

  Emma

  He was gone. Dead.

  I’d sat with the news for over a day and yet, somehow, it still didn’t make sense to me. How could Tommy be dead? Shot in cold blood at twenty-six while playing pool with Jimmy and...

  God. Jimmy.

  It was too horrific for words. Or thoughts.

  Tears welled in my eyes as I thought of Mr. and Mrs. Malloy getting the news. Their youngest son shot dead in his own bar and their oldest son off overseas, thousands of miles away, fighting for the country.

  There were others too, Petey Keogh and another guy, a stranger, who’d been at the pub when the shooting went down. No doubt he had family somewhere, too.

  I didn’t stay around long enough to learn his name. The police had the pub taped off and weren’t allowing anyone to go in. The whole neighborhood was clustered outside, clinging to the police line, peering around the emergency vehicles, and whispering together. When they saw me approaching, they swarmed me. Everyone offered their deepest sympathies and within minutes, the ladies were offering to make me and Tommy Jr. meals to get us by as we coped with the news.

  They said all the right things, offered to help, and spoke about how much Tommy would be missed. They all meant well. Of course, they did. But after a few minutes, I couldn’t listen to them anymore. I slipped away to the back entrance of our diner next door.

  Mr. Malloy owned the two buildings side by side on Brunswick Street. Jimmy’s pub was on the street level in number 1236. Mr. Malloy had moved his family into the roomy three-bedroom in the back when the boys were young so they could have a back porch and the yard. Three apartments on each floor, rented to young families, retirees, sometimes two girls sharing to save money. Steam heat, no elevator, solid, pre-war construction. A tidy sum in rental income after paying the mortgage. A few years later he bought our building next door, 1238 Brunswick. The diner was on the ground floor, and Tommy and I had an apartment on the floor above it. Mr. Malloy made us a nice deal since the families grew up together and all. Tommy’s pops helped him come up with the seed money for the business when we first got married.

  Paddy, Dylan’s uncle, had a son, Frankie. He used to own the bar, but he lost it to Jimmy in a stupid poker game a few years ago. The two of them were shit-faced and betting more and more absurd things with each hand. No one expected Jimmy to collect on his winnings the next day, being cousins and all, but he showed up asking for the keys. Everyone thought Paddy would interfere and tell Jimmy off, but instead, he made his son hand them over. Said if he was stupid enough to bet the bar, he didn’t deserve to have it. From then on, Jimmy ran the place and moved into the apartment above the bar. Paid rent on both places to his father.

  Tommy spent a lot of time at the bar, drinking and bullshitting. I didn’t care for it, but figured it was better to have him next door than at some dump across town where no one had eyes on him. I figured at least he was with friends. Safe.

  I was so wrong.

  Tommy and I worked the diner together and our entire lives revolved around the small, twelve-table establishment. We never ventured far from this city block. Who could’ve come in here and done this? Ending Tommy’s life on the other side of the wall we shared with the Malloys.

  By some small grace of God, none of the evidence of the shooting showed on the diner. No bullet holes, smashed glass. If I sat in the diner, ignoring what was happening on the other side, I could almost pretend everything was normal. That Tommy was upstairs, getting Tommy Jr. ready for school. I’d be turning on the coffee pots, laying out pastries and pies, and getting the soda bread and homemade soups started.

  Instead, I ended up sitting at the counter, nursing a healthy dose of Irish whiskey while staring aimlessly at the battered jukebox in the corner.

  I didn’t particularly want to be alone, but it was better than dealing with everyone’s pitying looks and whispered condolences. No one knew what to say, even my girlfriends. Hell, I wouldn’t know what to say if the tables were turned. I was always terrible in situations like these. Anything with death or grave illnesses and I clammed up. Speechless.

  The worst conversation was still to come. My sweet little boy still didn’t know the gravity of the horrible news. I’d be lying to myself if I said he didn’t know something was wrong. I just needed a little more time to come up with the best way to tell him.

  If there even was such a thing.

  Fuck, I wasn’t prepared for this. Not in the least bit. I dragged in a shaky breath and then downed the rest of the whiskey. I lifted the bottle, ready to pour a second shot. Most days I muddled through life, feeling like an impostor. Why should today be any different? I was young, barely twenty-years-old, when I found out I was pregnant with Tommy. For the past six years I’d done my best, but always carried the feeling that I was faking it.

  Even when it came to being a wife, I was barely holding it together to save face in the tight-knit neighborhood.

  A stabbing pain in my chest reminded me how horrible those thoughts were in light of everything . . .

  Tommy’s body was fresh in a morgue and I was sitting here, drinking, wondering if I’d even miss him. What kind of monster was I?

  No one had the answer to that question, either. I hid behind my smile and kept myself busy enough that no one noticed how frayed and rough the edges of my life had become.

  ‘Course, thinking about it only made me feel worse. I’d be the first to say my life with Tommy was no bed of roses. But did I want it to end this way? Did I want this for Tommy? Hell no. I ached for Tommy and what happened to him last night, to have breathed his last breath on the floor of Jimmy’s joint with a bullet in his brain? He didn’t deserve that, no matter what had gone down between us. But I couldn’t deny my other feelings, either. Life was so damn complicated.

  I threw back another shot of the whiskey, letting the heat wash out the terrible thoughts brewing in the back of my mind. A few more drinks and I’d forget the whole damn thing.

  I stood to get myself a glass of water. If I kept at the whiskey, I’d be laid out on the couch by the time Tommy Jr. got up and asked his grandmother where I was, where his father was. He’d been staying with my mother and sister who moved across the hall from us after my father died a few years ago. I hadn’t figured out how to tell him what had happened. I’d kept him home from school, telling him he had a little fever because the kids would’ve been all over him about his father getting shot. It was on the news, of course.

  I had to get myself together. The boy’d just lost his father. He couldn’t afford to lose me, too. And that’s what would happen. If I kept drinking like this, I knew where it would lead. I’d been there once before in my life. Tommy Jr. deserved better than that.

  I was all he had now.

  I had to keep it together.

  Outside the diner, a movement caught my attention. A man in a dark jacket was heading for the front door. Something about him made me stop and watch. Then he turned his face and looked right at me.

  “Oh. My. God.” The empty shot glass slipped from my fingers and hit the tiled floor. “It can’t be . . .”

  Of course, it was. Duh. Reality slapped me hard in the face. He’d just lost his brother.

  Dylan Malloy stood on the other side of the window, his face just as frozen as mine felt as we stared at one another. He’d changed. Time had been kind to him, but the effect of the desert sun showed on his face. As did the years we’
d been apart. His hair was short, cropped close like most military men. Gone was the shaggy spikes he’d carefully sculpted in his teen years. He wasn’t smiling as he stared at me, but from the faint lines etched around his mouth, it looked like he often did. I studied his face, not daring to move to meet his eyes. I didn’t know what I’d find there. Would they be the same? Or would they be cold? Hardened by years at war? What had they seen?

  Finally, I looked up and met his eyes. They were staring intently at me and for a split second, the rest of the world melted away. The horror of the last twenty-four hours faded to the back of my mind. It was Dylan, me, and our past.

  After a moment, he stepped to the side and tried the front door. With a start, I remembered I’d locked it before breaking out the booze. I rushed forward and unlatched the lock. Dylan pulled the door open and stepped inside.

  A gust of cold air followed him. He didn’t seem to notice. “Emma.”

  Something deep inside me broke—shattered—at the sound of my name on his lips. All the tears I’d forced myself to swallow came raging to the surface, and I crumpled into Dylan’s arms. His large hand moved to cradle the back of my head as it collapsed against his chest. He was bigger than he was the last time we’d embraced, but somehow—it still felt familiar. I leaned into his strength for what seemed like hours, though it was likely only minutes, and when I finally forced myself to take a step back, I saw my tears weren’t the only ones spilled.

  “I’m so sorry, Dylan.”

  He blinked hard, leaving his thick lashes even darker. He gave a solemn nod and slipped his hands into the deep pockets of his long wool overcoat. “I heard,” he started, his voice rough. “About Tommy. God, Emma, I’m so sorry.”

  Another string of tears slipped down my cheek as I nodded. “Thank you.”

  His blue eyes searched mine. I broke away and turned to collect the shot glass I’d dropped. The tempered glass hadn’t so much as cracked. I set it on the counter and then held up the bottle of whiskey to Dylan.

  He shook his head. “If I start, I’ll probably never stop.”

  I set it down.

  “I’d take a coffee though,” he said, moving to take a place at the counter. “If you have any brewed.”

  I scrambled around the counter and hit the button on the machine. I’d loaded it up the night before...before the world exploded...but it hadn’t been brewed as the diner was closed for the day. The machine clicked to life and seconds later a stream of rich brown poured out into the glass carafe, filling the diner with the scent of freshly brewed coffee.

  “When did you get here?” I asked Dylan as I gathered two mugs and a silver pitcher of cream. “Where were you?”

  “Kuwait. They put me on a flight, and I got in about an hour ago. Nearly twenty-four hours all together.”

  “You must be exhausted.” I frowned at him. “You sure you want the coffee? Maybe some sleep would be better.”

  Dylan’s lips curved into a sad smile. “I’ll be all right. I’m not sure I could sleep now, anyway.”

  I nodded and stared down at my hands wrapped around the handles of the two mugs sitting on the counter between us, afraid they’d run away if I released them. “I know what you mean. And the day’s not even close to being over. Tommy Jr. is upstairs with my mother. I’ve kept him home from school.”

  Dylan swallowed hard. “Does he...?”

  I shook my head. “He woke up in the middle of the night and looked out the window. Saw the cops and the crowd. But I don’t think he gets it. Thinks his dad is just away someplace. Gonna be hard to explain it to him.”

  “Yeah, he’s so young. How old is he now?”

  “Five and a half. Almost six.”

  He gave me a funny look. “All those years ago,” he said, as though I was supposed to know what that meant. Though maybe I did.

  A soft beep chimed and I got the coffee pot. When we both had our coffee doctored up, I rounded the counter and sat on the stool beside Dylan. “Did you see your parents?” I asked him.

  “Yeah. I just left their apartment before coming here.”

  My heart squeezed. “How are they? I mean, obviously they’re . . .” I stopped and sighed. “I just mean how are they holding up?”

  Dylan stared down into his coffee. “Ma’s coming unraveled. Pops got her to take a couple of the pills the doctor gave her. They help her sleep. I’ll be staying with them while I’m in town.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said, fidgeting with my mug. “Let me know if there’s anything I can do.”

  Dylan lifted his eyes to mine. “Em, you’ve got enough on your plate. How are Tommy’s parents taking it?”

  Hot guilt flashed through my gut at the realization that I’d forgotten about Tommy. For a full minute, I hadn’t let him cross my mind. I quickly dropped my gaze and took a sip of the scalding coffee. “You know. Shattered.”

  “I’ll be around for a few weeks,” he continued. “I’ll pay them a visit. So, how about you let me know what you need, okay?”

  I nodded but didn’t look up at him. “I’ll manage.”

  A tense silence gripped us. My mind was spinning but none of the thoughts were worth voicing. Ghosts of the past and present were battling for my attention, and I didn’t have answers—or time—for any of them.

  After a few minutes Dylan threw back the rest of his coffee and set the mug on the counter. He stood up, and I followed him to the door.

  “I need to check in with Uncle Paddy. You know he’ll have answers.” Dylan gave a weak smile. “Thanks for the coffee.”

  “Sure.”

  Dylan pushed out into the street and headed next door to the bar. I squeezed my eyes closed and sent out a little prayer for him and what he’d find there. I crossed back to the counter and poured more whiskey into what was left of my coffee.

  Chapter Three

  Dylan

  Sure enough, Uncle Paddy was at Malloy’s, the little hometown, hole in the wall bar Jimmy won in a poker game off of one of our cousins, Frankie. Kid had too much money and not enough sense.

  Outside the bar, a cop was taking down the tape blocking off the entrance, and the patch of sidewalk in front of the darkened bar. The front window was shattered, shards of glass laying all over the ground like glitter. The door was riddled with bullet holes and divots. All from the inside. I’d gathered the bare bones of the events from the news report and file from my CIA buddy. In the early morning hours, someone had called the cops when the neighbors heard gunshots. By the time they got to the bar, four men were dead. Jimmy, Tommy, Petey, one of Jimmy’s bartenders, and a customer. No witnesses. At least, none willing to talk.

  I paused on the sidewalk, not ready to go inside. I cast a glance up at the Malloy’s sign decorated with the Malloy family crest hanging from a rod above the door.

  A fresh wave of emotion swelled and threatened to drag me under. I drew in a quick breath and held onto it. When I exhaled, a soft question followed. “Damn, brother, what did you get yourself into?”

  “Dylan!”

  I turned at the sound of my name and found Uncle Paddy rushing across the street. He didn’t pump the brakes and slammed into me at full speed. He wrapped both arms around me and squeezed tight. He was forty years my senior, but retained the strength from his own Navy days. Hell, he could probably still go toe to toe with any man in my unit and have fairly decent odds.

  “My boy,” he said, his voice thick. “Ya don’t know how good it is to see ya.”

  “You too, Uncle Paddy.”

  We broke apart and turned to look at the front of the bar. “Have you been inside?” I asked him.

  He gave a quick nod. “They’ll be turning things over to us soon enough. They said there wasn’t much to collect in the way of evidence.”

  I pocketed my hands. “Security cameras in this place?”

  Paddy frowned. “Nothing they can use.”

  “What was he doing in there, playing pool at four in the morning?” I shook my head. “It doesn’t
make sense. Was he getting into trouble?”

  “Aye. My boy,” Paddy said with a sigh. He clapped me on the back. “You and I will have a long talk. But first, we need to get things settled here.”

  I didn’t argue as I followed him into the bar. I’d seen the aftermath of battle more times than I could possibly count, but there was something about the site of my own flesh and blood’s death that gave the scene in front of me the power to swallow me whole. The blood itself had been cleared away, but the stains remained behind, marking the places the victims fell. A pool table was splattered with it. The wall behind it. All obviously indicating where two had fallen. I didn’t ask which one belonged to Jimmy. I didn’t want to know. Not yet. Chairs were overturned. Tables riddled with bullet holes.

  “Looks like something outta the damn wild west,” I said to Paddy.

  An officer met us halfway across the room and gave us both a solemn look. “We’re done here. Do you need the name of a biohazard service to do the rest of the cleanup?”

  Paddy shook his head. “We’ll manage.”

  The cop gave us a swift nod and headed for the front door. Another pair of officers followed and the only people left were a small crew boarding up the front window. Paddy spun slowly, taking it all in.

  “Did you see it before . . .” I paused and drew in a shaky breath. “Before they took them away?”

  Paddy’s gaze drifted to one of the bloodstains on the floor, a ring only a few shades darker than the thin carpet. I didn’t have to ask. My guts coiled and twisted together, and for a moment I thought I might throw up right there in the middle of the room. I swallowed hard a few times and managed to get myself back under control.

  “Where do we start?” I asked him.

  Paddy pivoted on his heel. “Tomorrow, lad. We’ll start tomorrow. You go be with your parents’ tonight. They need you more than this place.”