City on Fire (Danny Ryan, #1)(34)

The Murphys have him stored in a second-floor efficiency in the back of a building. They went out and bought him some tea and cans of condensed milk that he wanted, and some eggs, sausages, and bread so he could do a “proper fry-up.”

The shooter is from a Provisional IRA brigade in Armagh.

Danny isn’t a believer in the Cause. Thinks the maudlin “patriotism” for a country they’ve never seen is bullshit. Couldn’t care less if the Six Counties stay British or become part of Ireland or Iceland, for that matter.

The Murphys are big into it. Think they have responsibilities as Irish who have survived and thrived. What did Pat call it? The Irish diaspora? Whatever the hell that was. They’d get all weepy on the anniversary of the Easter Rebellion, hold a little ceremony, pass the hat for the “men who still fight.” It was after the Sands thing they started singing the Irish national anthem at closing time. In Gaelic, no less, as if anyone understood it.

Danny puts it down to guilt. That they hadn’t died in the old country with grass in their mouths, or been blasted to pieces by a Brit firing squad. The truth was, though, that a lot of the Providence Irish had come from the north counties, from Donegal in particular, and still have family ties back there. And connections to the hard men who need guns and are willing to trade personnel for weaponry.

“It stinks in here,” Jimmy says as they stand in the hallway outside the door. “The fucker must fry everything. Jesus, his arteries.”

The door opens.

Danny doesn’t know what he expected a Provo man to look like, but it isn’t this. He’s short, in his midtwenties, has a thin, small face, jet-black hair, and a three-day growth of beard.

“I’m Mickey,” he says. “You’d be Ryan?”

“I’m the guy you don’t shoot,” Danny says. “This is Jimmy. You ready?”

“Born ready.” He slips the AR-15 rifle into a plastic case and slings it over his shoulder. “I’ve killed a few Brits with this, I can tell you.”

Great, Danny thinks. Some poor kids from some shitty British slum have no other choice than enlisting in the army, get their asses sent to Northern Irish ghettos little different from their own neighborhoods, and get killed by a long-range bullet shot by a guy they never see.

For what? A change of flags? Meet the new boss, same as the old boss.



They go back outside.

Jimmy and Mick get into the work car.

Danny gets behind the wheel of Liam’s black BMW.



They know how Giordo will do it.

He’ll be in his own work car—maybe with a driver, maybe by himself—parked somewhere across the street from Cathy Madigan’s building. He’ll watch for Liam’s car, roll down his window, wait for Liam to get out, do the job and take off.

That’s the most likely scenario and the one they’re planning on. The other is that the Morettis got access to a second-floor apartment across the street, the old Al Capone shit. Or Giordo will be up on a roof. If it’s either of those, Danny is pretty much fucked.

But he doubts it.

Getting into an apartment means witnesses, and roof shots are tricky, even for the Sniper. The Morettis know this could be their one shot at Liam, and they’re not going to take chances. And Giordo likes to get in and get out fast.

So it’s most likely a car.

Still, Danny’s nervous—Be honest, he thinks, shit scared—as he drives over. He’s not even sure why he’s doing this—maybe it’s the three murdered friends, or that Peter fucked him, or that he feels guilty that he considered his offer. Probably it’s more he still has this loyalty thing with the Murphys, this connection he can’t seem to break. Like he’s always trying to prove something to them.

He’s not sure what.

But if they can take Giordo off the ice, it leaves Sal as the Morettis’ main guy. Maybe Peter gets cold feet and asks for negotiations.

Danny heads toward Weybosset Street.

Probably the only time in my life, he thinks, I’ll drive a BMW.



In the work car, Mick says, “I have some rules. When we get close, no unnecessary talking. I don’t want a lot of nervous chatter. You lower the window when I tell you to, not a moment before, not a moment after. And don’t get rabbit feet on the pedal—you keep the car stock-still until I tell you to go. Then you go. Got it, champ?”

“I have a rule of my own,” Jimmy says. “That’s my friend out there. You fuck up and he gets hurt—I take this pistol in my pocket and blow your brains out. Got it, champ?”



Danny turns onto Weybosset.

The street is full of parked cars, shoved up against the dirty, sooty snow. Hard to know which one is Giordo’s—the silver Audi, the black Lincoln, the old van. He finds a spot and starts to parallel park, which he sucks at. Normally, Danny would drive a half mile before he’d parallel park, and now his hands are shaking. He hears the back tire scrape against curb, figures he’s close enough, and shuts off the engine.

He’s wearing an old gray Providence College sweatshirt under his peacoat. He checks that the .38 revolver is still in the jacket pocket, buttons it up, pulls the hood over his head and gets out.

Danny’s pissed that his legs are shaking and he’s having a hard time breathing. The feet in his work boots feel like lead as he steps out onto the sidewalk. Takes a deep breath, jams his hands into his pockets, and starts walking the thirty or so feet to Madigan’s building.