Adrian McKinty: The Bloomsday Dead

“How long do we wait?” I asked, but before either could answer, the younger one’s cell phone rang. He flipped it open and put it to his ear.

“It’s him,” he said in English. “It’s definitely him. What do you want us to do?”

The person on the phone said something. The two men stood, leveled their weapons. I closed my eyes expecting instant death, but then opened them again-if death was coming I wanted to meet it headon. And besides, I had a little ace in the hole that those two goons didn’t know about. Maybe take one of the bastards with me. That arrogant son of a bitch with the shotgun, perhaps.

But they weren’t killing me, they were adjusting themselves. The client wanted to speak to me first. The man with the 9mm gave me the phone. His eyes were expressionless. Cold.

“It’s for you,” he said with a sneer.

“Hola,” I said.

“Michael,” Bridget replied.

I recognized her voice immediately. I staggered a little and the man with the pistol had to steady me.

“You,” I muttered, unable to articulate anything more.

“Michael, if you’re taking this call it means that a man is pointing a gun at your head,” Bridget said.

“He is,” I agreed.

“He’s been instructed to kill you,” Bridget said.

“Aye, I gathered that.”

“I mean business,” Bridget said.

I knew she did. A year ago, in March 2003, when the U.S. Army was rolling into Baghdad and most people had other things on their minds, she’d sent a team of five assassins to get me at my hiding place in Los Angeles. A nasty little crew, but they’d screwed it up and I’d taken care of them. Still, I knew she’d come for me again. Honor demanded it. I had killed her fiancé, the mob boss Darkey White, and I had turned state’s evidence against all my old pals. A killer and a traitor. Bridget wanted me dead, even if all that had taken place in 1992-twelve goddamn years ago. You had to admire her tenacity.

After LA I had skipped town, getting a job here in Lima as head of security at the Miraflores Hilton.

I had thought that I’d be safe for a while. I liked the place, I liked the people, I could have maybe established a wee home here permanently, settled down, a family. A nice local girl. A couple of cute kids. You could get a house overlooking the ocean for a pittance.

Now those plans were dead. Bridget was going to taunt me and her boys were going to pop me. And if Hector came running through the door, they’d have him too, poor bastard.

“I want you to listen to me, Michael,” Bridget said.

“I’m listening.”

“You better not try anything, these men are trained professionals.”

“Oh, professionals, eh? Oh, my goodness. I am keeking my whips,” I groaned, attempting bravado.

“Michael, you worthless shit, shut up and listen to me,” Bridget said.

“If the nuns could hear you talk like that,” I mocked.

“I am dead serious.”

“I know, Bridget, but you should have come here yourself, I would have liked to have seen you one last time,” I said.

“For a decade I’ve been trying to kill you, and, believe me, if something hadn’t come up, I would have come there and I would have watched them torture you with arc-welding gear until you were begging me for death. But, like I say, something terrible has happened.”

“Go on,” I said.

“My daughter, Siobhan, she’s gone missing,” Bridget said.

I had no idea that Bridget had a daughter. It was a new one on me; she must have a boyfriend or maybe even a husband in her life now. Well, bully for her. I guess she wasn’t holding a candle out for yours truly.

“Where are you, in New York?” I asked.

“Belfast, I’m in Belfast, Northern Ireland. She’s been missing for three days. I am worried sick. She’s only eleven years old, Michael.”

“What? Eleven?” I said hesitantly.

“Eleven,” Bridget confirmed.

“She’s Darkey’s kid?” I asked, making an intuitive leap.

“Yes.”

This information was another shocker. Bloody hell. So she had been pregnant the night I’d smacked her and knocked her unconscious and then killed her old man. In mitigation she had been trying to shoot me, but still, I’d hit a pregnant woman and I’d murdered the little girl’s da in cold blood. What a charmer I was and no mistake.

“Where do I come in?” I asked.

“I want you to find her, Michael. You know Belfast like nobody else, you have the contacts, you can ask around. I need you, Michael, and by God you owe me.”

“Well, that’s debatable, love,” I said. “Darkey kind of got on my bad side. I’d say the score’s pretty even.”

“This isn’t a request, Michael. If you don’t tell my boys the stop command they are going to kill you.”

Not just playing the tough nut, she was the tough nut. She’d changed a lot, but that side of her was always there if I’d been smart enough to see it. I smiled to myself. Hmmm. What would she look like after all these years?

“I do as you say, or I’m toast,” I said.

“Either you are going to be dead or they are going to accompany you to the airport and then fly with you to Dublin to make sure you take the flight. And then I’m going to meet all three of you at the Europa Hotel in Belfast. And if you don’t find Siobhan I’m going to shoot you myself,” Bridget intoned with clinical, controlled malice.

“Just to be clear, certain death, or near certain death, are the two choices,” I said.

Bridget sighed with impatience. And suddenly I saw her on the other end of the line. Older, yes, but still the curves, the red hair, the alabaster skin, those not quite human eyes. Always a bit of an unearthly quality about my Bridge, as if she’d come from that part of the west of Ireland where the people had supposedly descended from the union of elves and men.

“Michael, I could have had them kill you right now. I’ve known where you are for two weeks now. We were planning the hit, but then this came up.”

“How did you find me this time, Bridget?”

“We heard you went to South America, we put the feelers out. Money opens a lot of doors.”

I grimaced. I really was getting careless in my decrepitude. Should have dyed my hair or grown a mustache; just because I was on another continent I thought I was safe.

“Why should I trust you?” I asked.

“If you don’t, you’re dead. If you try anything, you’re dead. If you mess with me in any way at all, you’re dead. These are hundred-thousand-a-hit Colombian ice men. They’re good at what they do, they’re younger than you and better than you. I’ve told them to take no chances on the possibility of you escaping. I’d rather have you dead and useless, than alive and on the run.”

“So I’ve no alternative,” I said.

“None.”

I stared at the two badass Colombians, shook my head, dismissed the possibility of a play-any move would bring forth their bad side. And also, it looked now like Hector wasn’t coming. So what choice did I have?

“What choice do I have? You win, Bridget, I’ll do it,” I said.

Bridget groaned with relief, which told me that the daughter thing maybe wasn’t a scam. That maybe she wasn’t acting. Meryl Streep would be hard pressed to convey that much information in a groan.

“What do I tell the goons?”

“You say this: ‘The pussy begs you not to shoot him,’” Bridget said.

“You’re not just making all this up to humiliate me before you kill me?” I asked.

“You’ll know about that one second after you say it. Get on that plane. Meet me in Belfast. It pains me to say it but I need your help, you traitor, stool-pigeon piece of shit.”

The line went dead.

“And I love you, too, sweetie,” I said and placed the phone on the floor.