Free The Bloomsday Dead by Adrian McKinty Page A

peelers,” the big man said, getting his breath back and turning away from me. That was all I needed to hear. I readied myself.
    He began walking back to the car.
    I ran at him and drop-kicked him in the back. He went down hard with a crash. The tire iron slipped out of his hand and he rolled around fast and lashed out with the knife. I was so close it caught me in the stomach, tearing my leather jacket and T-shirt and gouging a four-inch slash below my belly button.
    I held my hand over the wound, blood pouring out between my fingers, and reeled for a quarter of a second, gathered my wits, grabbed the tire iron, and smashed it into his head so fast he didn’t have time to get a protective arm up. I thumped him on the temple and behind the ear. And again. And again.
    I kicked the knife out of his hand.
    Blood was everywhere, his skull was cracked, synaptic fluid oozing out onto his face.
    “Why?” he said and gave me a look of such confusion that I thought, is it possible that I’m wrong?
    I sank to one knee.
    “What did you say?”
    He looked at me with desperation.
    “Why?” he whispered almost inaudibly.
    I leaned next to him. Doubt took over. I cradled his head. His eyes were blinking fast, his body shaking. I had made a terrible mistake.
    “You called your car a Beemer, and it’s a Merc. How could you forget the make of your own car? I thought you’d hijacked it.”
    “Christ,” he said.
    I set down his head and got to my feet.
    “Help, can anybody help?” I managed to shout, but there was no one around. I knelt down again.
    “I’m sorry,” I said to Padraig.
    His face was a mess, his skull smashed in. If he didn’t get assistance he’d be in serious trouble. Blood on the brain, coma, death.
    I had really cocked up this time.
    His hand reached up and he pulled me close.
    He was barely there, about to pass out, almost choking from the blood in his mouth.
    “You fuck . . . Forsythe . . .” he said weakly.
    One second. Two. Three.
    “How do you know my name?” I asked.
    “Fucking kill you . . . Forsythe,” he mumbled, his voice trailing away.
    His eyes closed and he fell into the black pit of unconsciousness.
    I stood, nodded.
    Well, well, well.
    He was an assassin. No other way he could have known my name. Son of a bitch. I had been right.
    Finish the bastard off? Nah. Wasn’t worth it.
    But, oh Jesus, Bridget. What were you playing at? It didn’t make any sense. Didn’t she realize I’d get the first flight out now?
    Blackness at the edges of my eyes.
    I fell down onto the street.
    I examined my belly. Losing blood. The gash wasn’t deep, but I didn’t like the look of it.
    Blinked.
    Stumbled.
    Got up again.
    The fog was lifting but I couldn’t see any houses or pedestrians or passing cars. I went to the Mercedes and got in. He’d left the key. I started the car and drove it about half a mile, anywhere, just to get away.
    Pulled it into an alley. Passed out. Woke.
    Blood flowing through my fingertips. Oozing, not pouring. Looked in the car for anything to do first aid. Nothing.
    Opened the door. A swaying pavement, houses.
    A sign said we were on Holles Street, which was near Marrion Square. Miles from Connolly. The cabbie’d had no intention of taking me to the train station. He was heading for the docks the whole time.
    His job was supposed to be to lift me or kill me. But it was still puzzling. He had no gun. Why not? And why only one of him? And if it was a purely random shakedown how in the name of Jehovah did he know my name?
    I grabbed my backpack, opened it, swallowed a couple of Percocet, got out of the car, popped the trunk.
    Washer fluid, oil, spare tire, rags, assorted tools, big roll of duct tape. Do the job. I took off my T-shirt, ripped a rag in half, poured on the washer fluid, cleaned the wound.
    Jesus.
    Ride that pain.
    I dried my belly with another rag, used a third as a bandage, and wrapped it on with four good turns of duct tape. Do for now.
    Had to go, cops would be