Total pages in book: 81
Estimated words: 78807 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 394(@200wpm)___ 315(@250wpm)___ 263(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 78807 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 394(@200wpm)___ 315(@250wpm)___ 263(@300wpm)
“Genna.” I pull her back and hug her again. “I’m happy you’re here.”
“That makes one of us.” She extracts herself. “But seriously, Finn’s going to be okay. You know that, right? There aren’t many people I know who are half as resourceful as him. And besides, I’m pretty sure the guy’s in love with you. He’s going to burn the city to ashes to get you back.”
“Really?” I ask, biting my lip. “You think he’s in love with me?”
She rolls her eyes. “Oh, stop it, this isn’t high school. Maybe think about, you know, communicating with the guy.” She hops off the steps and heads back toward her rented SUV. “I’m picking you up tomorrow and we’re going to the mall.” She groans, shaking her head. “I already hate it here.”
“See you then!” I wave, beaming, excited to have a friend.
Finn’s coming for me. Sooner or later, he’s coming, but first he’s got some fires to light.
Chapter 43
Finn
I sit in the back seat of my town car watching the McLaren house from halfway down the block. My driver stares forward from behind dark sunglasses, a small box with a long antenna and a single switch held in his hand.
We don’t speak. There’s nothing to say. Anger pushes me forward, and revenge has forced my hand.
Father hasn’t spoken to me since I went to see him after the vote, and that’s more than fine by me.
“Coming within range,” my driver says. He’s a middle-aged man named Franklin with a thick Irish accent.
“How close?”
“Fifty meters, maybe a bit more.” He frowns as the receiver in his hand begins to beep slowly. “We can go any time.”
I lean back in my seat and wait.
Anticipation can sometimes feel better than the payoff itself.
There aren’t a lot of options left for me now. I can roll over and beg for my father’s forgiveness, or possibly even grovel at Clive’s feet, but I’d rather jump off a bridge than debase myself like that.
I’ve done enough politicking to last a fucking lifetime.
Instead, when I stepped back and really thought about how to handle this, only one solution made any sense.
I decided to do what I do best.
“You know, Franklin, my family has a reputation.” I stare out the window toward the McLaren family’s driveway. “We’re thought of as very rich and very powerful. We’re seen as just another bunch of billionaires running the city. But that’s not right, is it?”
“You are rich and powerful, far as I know,” he says, glancing into the rear view. The receiver beeps faster.
“But that’s not what we are. My father’s father’s father built our organization on the street, and we still operate there. My crews run corners, they steal and cheat and scam, they have protection and gambling rackets. They engaged in crime, Franklin, as do all my brothers, as does my father. That is what the Crowley family is. We’ve gotten too obsessed with politics and business and we’ve forgotten what makes us strong.”
“What’s that, sir?” Franklin squints as a sleek, silver Jaguar slowly rolls down the driveway and turns onto the street, coming toward us. I can just barely make out two people inside, one driving, the other in the back seat.
“Violence.” I lean forward, heart racing with excitement. “Hit the button, please.”
Franklin flips the switch.
For a moment, nothing happens.
Then McLaren’s Jaguar erupts in a massive mountain of flames. The car bursts into pieces, steel and plastic shattering and scattering all over the street as the smoke rises into the air in a thick, black plume. The shockwave hits a moment later, rocking our car, setting off alarms all along the block. The flames spout huge and bright into the sky, an inferno of death and horror, and I smile.
Nobody could’ve survived that.
I smile, head ringing with excitement.
Good old Franklin. His father was in the IRA back in the day, and there aren’t many people alive as good at planting car bombs as they were. Fortunately, Franklin picked up some things from his old man.
“Sir?” he asks, looking back at me. “Should we go?”
“Not yet. I have a call to make.” I take out my phone and dial. It rings and rings until a man answers, sounding annoyed.
“Finn Crowley. Why are you calling me on my personal phone in the middle of the day? I was in a meeting.”
I smile to myself, noting how he still left that meeting and took my call.
“Chief Cross. Thank you for answering. I have some very bad news for you.”
The chief of the Boston Police Department does not sound happy. “What did you do now?”
“Clive McLaren’s vehicle just exploded. It’s a shame, really. I told him not to drive that silly English car, but he simply wouldn’t listen. That’s why I stick with the Germans. They never go boom.”
Chief Cross is quiet for a moment. “And do you have any involvement with this accident?”