SMASHER vs. Mafia: A Christmas Special (Part 3)

Talk to Nicely. March 17th, 1998. There was an energy in the foggy air that morning. The St. Patrick's Day Parade would begin in a few hours, just outside the Catholic Cathedral in the borough of Little Dublin, before moving through the Irish neighborhood, then across the Odin's Gate Bridge to Grim Bay's corporate downtown. Cops and volunteers had shown up before dawn to close off streets with traffic cones and erect bleachers and a cell system along the main thoroughfare. Food trucks were already rolling in and setting up, and the smells of hot coffee and diesel were strong in the air. But beyond the usual stress and excitement of the annual event, there was an added tension to the morning preparations. You see, a great deal of the volunteers that were out and about, with their reflective vests on and paper cups of whiskey coffee in their hands, also had pistols or even submachine guns strapped just out of sight. And on the rooftops all along the main road, those manning the confetti cannons were armed with more than glittery shamrock confetti in vibrant shades of green, white, and orange. Through binoculars or the scopes on their sniper rifles, the gangsters watched the entrances and exits of the shops and homes and the church, looking for any sign of their new number one enemy, who had, less than 24 hours earlier, been their chief assassin. News had spread fast to the ranks of Celtic Cartel. Cormac was dead. Smasher was responsible. And now, the silent giant on the prowl. Shoot to kill. That was the order. And it came from the top. Over by the harbor, two of the Cartel's windowless vans were parked on a service road that hugged the water line. The driver of the first van in front hopped out and climbed onto the waist-high concrete barrier. On zipping, he took a piss over the ledge, to the water a hundred feet below. When done, he gave himself a little shake, re-zipped, and glancing up at the rusty pylons of the suspension bridge, climbed down and returned to the driver's seat. One of the guys in the back of the van yawned, and another hummed to himself as he loaded bullets into the clip of his HK MP5. The mounted radio on the dashboard gave a pop, then a hiss of static, and a woman's voice said, Black Van, this is CC Combs. Do you read me, Black Van? Over. The driver suppressed a yawn with the back of his hand and snatched up the handset. Hey, it's Callum. What's up, Sadie? No names on Combs, boys. You're supposed to say Black Van, and you're supposed to say over, over. Yeah, well, how about I go and visit you later and bend you over? The driver grinned at his own joke and looked back over his shoulders at the others, but they weren't laughing. Disappointed, he turned back to the radio. So whatcha want? And he signed to the big guy over. Don't you think I'd tell you if there was? No, obviously. Hey, is it true what they're saying? Did Smasher really rip Madcow's head right off his body? Now the men in the back took notice of the conversation, growing quiet, leaning forward. After a long moment, Sadie answered, Just keep your eyes open, boys, and report in every 15 minutes. We've got more guys coming into the city as we speak. We'll be ready if, when, he shows up. Over. Yo, what about them Russians Madcow was meeting with? Someone in the back shouted. Hey, ain't they helping us out with this? The driver turned in a seat. I wasn't holding down the thingy, you stupid fuck. She can't hear you. Well, then call her back and ask her, you piece of shit. I'm not calling the bitch back, you fucking bitch. The man loading the magazines suddenly shushes them. Shut up! You guys hear that? What is that? They all went quiet. What the fuck? Glancing out his window at the driver's side mirror, the gangsters' eyes bulged. Oh, fuck! Framed within the dim and misted reflection, he watched as a huge figure in the street behind them shoved himself against the other van, pushing the vehicle up so that it leaned and smashed against the concrete barrier. Fuck! He grabbed the handset. He's here, he's here, he's right fucking here, and... He... he pushed the van over the fucking ledge. What the hell is happening? The driver threw down the handset and twisted the key. I am running down this fucking right now! He jammed the van into reverse and floored it. See you again, black van over. The reversing van lurched to a sudden stop. The tires continuing to squeal, then tilted suddenly forward, its front bumper smashing into the asphalt. The driver grunted as he slammed against the steering wheel, and the men in the back screamed. Do you require backup, black van? The van gave another violent lurch, and a window shattered. Raising the handset with a shaking hand, the driver said, Tell them to empty the goddamn armory. We don't just need men. We need a goddamn tank to stop this. Freeeaaaaaah! Everything spun wildly as the van twisted into a roll, riding up onto the barrier. Metal groaned, sparks flew, and the remaining windows burst. Then gravity vanished, and through the glass and the blood and screams in the air around him, the driver saw the world blur into streaks of dawn light and dark fog. The van hit the bay with a glorious splash, and sank from sight, leaking bubbles. Upon the ledge above, Dermot dusted off his hands, and panting slightly, looked around. He had heard a bit of that last radio call. If the cartel comms knew where he was, they'd send a team right away, and another team would be heading to retrieve the military-grade weapons stored at the club. The fact that they hadn't already done that was interesting. Sure, those arms were meant to be sold off, or else sent over to the IRA in Ireland. But still, it meant they underestimated him. That she underestimated him. Well, could he really be surprised? Taking a deep breath, Dermot crouched, digging his boots into the debris-stroomed street. Then he pounced forward into a wild sprint. There would come a time, the doctors had all said, when his ever-growing body would start to work against him, when his bones would have trouble supporting his massive weight, and his muscles would grow weak. But if that were true, that time was not today. The sun began to rise, and this city glowed violet in its light, casting giant shadows across the walls and windows, as Dermot flew down the winding alleyways, an explosion of speed and fury, kicking up dust and warping the air around him so that scattered newspapers fluttered in his wake. The first of the company trucks was barreling down the Misty Road, away from the club when Dermot got there. Annoyed, he let it go, and charged toward the second truck, which was idling out front, its headlights glowing through the fog. The driver walked around from the back of the truck, flicking his cigarette butt as he climbed up and opened the door. Just as he was pulling himself inside the cab, Dermot flew from the mist and drove an elbow into the truck door. The driver was crushed against the jam as the door imploded and the window shattered. Landing with a grunt, Dermot spun and wrenched the smashed door free from the truck. The driver's body thudded to the pavement, and footsteps rushed from around the back of the truck. Dermot marched forward, holding up the door like a shield, as a gangster rounded on him and opened fire. Reaching the gunman, Dermot swung his shield and batted the gangster into a bloody backflip. Marching to the front of the entrance of the lusty shamrock, Dermot threw down the mangled door, flexed his huge fingers, then tightened them in sledgehammer fists. The front doors started to swing open from within as he reached them, and punching out with both hands, he smashed the doors the other way, knocking them off their hinges and flattening two gangsters on the other side. Ducking inside the dim front hall, he walked across the doors. The men, under them groaning, and their bones bent and snapped. The house lights were on as Dermot rounded into the club's main room. He headed toward the employees-only door at the back, when a voice from the balcony called out, Whoa, shit! Oh, no, you don't! and he heard the distinctive thunk and a click of an MP5's charging handle loading around in the chamber. Dermot dove into a roll as the man opened fire. The bullets whizzed by, striking the door, the bullets whizzed by, striking the dance stage, and Dermot snatched the leg of a stool, spun, and thrust it upward. It burst into pieces when it collided with the gunman, who grunted and slumped sideways, falling against a panel of switches at the DJ's booth. Power surged to the lighting grids and amps. The fluorescent house lights powered down as the rave lights booted up and began to strobe, to spin, to light the whole place and pulsing rainbows and drifting disco ball constellations. The speakers thumped to life, blasting out a track and shaking the floor beneath Dermot's boots. He turned back to his destination, just as someone kicked the employee door open from the other side. Dermot saw a flash of gunfire and tried to jump sideways, but felt searing hot pain in his side. He landed, slumped against the side of the stage, dizzy with shock, blinded by the wild lights, and watched as the figure moved towards him. Huttin' big game, the gangster said, cockin' the shotgun in his hands. Requires a big gun, don't it? He raised the gun. A shot went off. The Irishman dropped his weapon, then he dropped. Dermot looked up at the stage, blinking, where a whiskey blaze now stood in the spotlight, a compact Walter P.P.K. pistol in her right hand. She was dressed in shiny green tights for the holiday's performance, but her expression was serious as the fucking grave. Hey! She said, looking down at him. You okay? Dermot winced and felt at his left side. A handful of bucks shot had peppered his abs just below the ribs. The pain was sharp, and his shirt was bloody and ruined. That was annoying, but he nodded. And get up! From the front entrance, they heard car horns shouting and running feet. Dermot grabbed the edge of the stage and pulled himself upright, greeting his teeth. Your brother! said whiskey. I loved him too, but she was one of my girls, Dermot. Turning, she took aim at the front hall. So fuck him! Fuck him all! Starting something new can be exciting, but it can also be terrifying. When Dr. No Sleep first launched, there were a lot of what-ifs. What if no one listens? 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She dashed sideways out of the spotlight. Dermot charged forward, swinging his right fist in a wide arc. The blow sent the gangster into the air, his body contorted in a broken dance and the pulsing strobe lights. Slapping the next gunman's weapon away with his left open hand. Dermot jumped up and drove his massive knee into the bastard's chin. Teeth burst out like a dental firework. Whiskey shot two more as they rushed inside. Then a man screamed as they scurried up the stage stairs and sprinted at her, ducking nimbly left and right to avoid her bullets. Dermot turned to help, but saw her clutch the pole in the center of the stage with her free hand and swing herself up and around to meet the attacker. She drove both her heels into his chest and he grunted, staggering backward, then raised his gun, but Whiskey continued to spin, now hooking her knees around the pole and aiming with both hands as she revolved. She put a round between his eyes. Notting in appreciation, Dermot turned back to the front hall as three more rushed in, tipping under gunfire. Dermot pounced, snatching the front man's head, crunching it in his hand, then seizing the corpse by the shirt and using it as a shield as he charged at the others. Guns roared. Dermot swung the headless body, knocking down a man, then stomped on his face, spun around and thrust the headless body in his hands at another who was knocked off his feet. Behind you! Whiskey screamed, flipping herself to her knees on the stage. Two light machine guns fired from the employee's only doorway. Dermot dove left, behind the cover of the balcony stairs, then peeking around saw Whiskey jerk backward with a spray of blood from her left shoulder. She landed on her back, then returned fire and rolled backward off the stage at a firing range. One of the gunmen jumped up onto the stage and advanced on her as the other came running at Dermot, his flickering shadow stretching around the edge of the stairs. Dermot pulled himself to his feet and ran into the shadowy back of the club, bullets whistling at his back and shattering mirrors on the wall. Reaching the pool tables, he rolled over one and pulled its sideways with him. As bullets struck the table's thick slate interior, Dermot, twisted on the floor, brought his knees to his chest and kicked out hard. The pool table shot across the floor, kicking aside chairs like bowling pins and flattened the gangster. Man, screw this! Dermot heard the other guy yell and firing a burst in both his and Whiskey's directions. He grumbled, I'm getting the fucking minigun. As he ran from the stage and through the back door, Dermot hurried to check on Whiskey. I'm fine! She said, through clenched teeth. The bullet had carved a gash on her upper arm. Just get that bastard! Hurry! Dermot ran, not for the door itself, but straight for the lockup room he knew the man was headed to. Roaring as he charged, Dermot jumped and drove his shoulder into the wall, smashing through the reinforced drywall and bursting out the other side. His body split apart a shelf of drugs in the lockup room and he found himself engulfed in a cloud of white powder. Snorting and blinking, Dermot marched forward through the cloud and saw the red-faced fool trying to heave up a heavy machine gun from the floor. The man brought his gaze up to the cocaine-covered giant looming over him. Oh, man! Dermot swung his fists together and pulverized the gangsters' head. Returning to the main room through the hole in the wall, Dermot coughed and shook his head. His hair, thick with misted blood and powder, was all over his face. Jesus, look at you! Said Whiskey, setting down the pistol as she moved behind the bar. She flipped a switch that finally silenced the music, then wet a rag and tossed it to him. Dermot grunted his thanks and began to clean himself off. She sighed, looking around at the body's undistruction in her club. On the stage, the bullet-blasted pole gave a squeak and fell with a clang. This fucking place! Winsing as she moved her bleeding left arm, she retrieved a bottle of Jamison 12, managed to uncork it and looked to Dermot. Drink! Blowing his nose on the rag, he shook his head. Whiskey shrugged, took a swig, then turned and began pouring the rest across the bottles on the glass shelf behind the bar. Then she pulled out and lit a zippo and, backing up, tossed it onto the counter. A quick burst of fire spread, reflected in the mirrors there. Whiskey threw the bottle and the whole shelf burst into flames and glittering glass. She turned to Dermot as the fire rose up behind her. Come here a minute, lean down! Cocking one eyebrow, Dermot set aside the filthy rag and knelt. Whiskey reached up and put her hands on his cheeks, then pushed her hands up, combing his tangled hair from his face. He lowered his head and, reaching to pull in the rest of his hair, she gathered it tight atop his head, twisting it into a top knot, then used an elastic band on her wrist to hold it in place. There now, that's better! Dermot looked up at her, gratitude coming into his mind, clashing with the anger there. He struggled with the feelings, fighting his own thoughts. His heart began drumming madly in his chest, though the drugs he had inhaled might have had something to do with it. I'll finish up here, you go! Your mom will be at the pub, but she'll be protected. Be careful, Dermot. Dermot nodded and rising up, his teeth chattering. He turned his back on Whiskey Blaze and the blazing Whiskey behind the bar. Snatching up the fallen pole on the stage, he ducked through the hall, then out the ruined front doors. The morning mist was retreating and sunlight was warming the world. Another car of attackers sped into view and drifting came around the corner toward him. Spinning the metal pole in his right hand, he leaned back and thrust it into the air. It pierced the windshield and the driver and the car spun, hit the curb and flipped into a violent roll. Dermot tilted his head, cracking his neck, then set a hand on his injured side. Taking a deep breath, he leaned down to charge into a run, then hesitated, walking instead to the back of the truck, still idling outside. He grabbed the padlock on the latch, tore it off, then swung open the doors. Reaching up to the weapon crates inside, he snatched out a grenade, pulled its pin, then returned it to the crate. Now, he ran. The wind on his face, the great boom from behind him shaking the foundations of little Dublin, as a rolling cloud of black smoke rose up against the city skyline. The night before, they had wrapped Cormac's body in a tarp and taken it through the back door of the ballet gov and up the stairs, to lay it in the office above the pub. Cormac was still dressed in his denim jacket, his black t-shirt, his gold chain necklace, and his designer jeans, though one of his expensive sneakers was missing, as was his diamondeering and his head. Mairade still hadn't let anyone move him again. She sat behind her desk, across the corpse on the floor, the wolfhounds huddled and whining anxiously on their dog bed in the corner. On his stool by the door, the druid was, for once, silent. Mairade nodded drowsily in her chair, drifting in and out of a restless sleep, as her half-shut and sunken eyes looked out the window at the street below and at the bay beyond. The sounds in the city were strange today. Above the chatter of excited voices and the warming up of percussion and bagpipes clustered in the side streets, the wail of fire engines could now be heard. A tap came on the office door. Ma did not react, except to lift her hand to take a puff on her cigar. But it had gone out an hour ago. Cleaning his throat nervously, the druid closed the antique Bible he was reading, hopped off his stool, and moved to open the office door. Old fits came in, straightening his glasses. Oh, then ma! He said, trying not to look at the decapitated man on the floor. There's yet another complication. Sighing, my red spun languidly in her chair. What the fuck now, Fitz? The bartender nodded toward the windows. Well, all them firetrucks were meant to be in the parade. They've all headed to the club, which sounds like it's all gone up in smoke. The coppers are still following our orders for now, but the mayor is asking to cancel the parade. Mairade snarled, some of her usual spark coming back into her eyes. Oh, fuck that! Little Dublin has hosted St. Patty's Day for the past 12 years. And you can tell the bloody mayor that if he sends away so much as one ice-cream truck, I'll make sure he never gets another Irish vote. If that doesn't persuade him, remind the bastard that I've got a video of him starting coke off his assistant's cock in the back rooms of the shamrock. Bloody arrogant fool! The druid chuckled weakly and returned to his stool. Old Fitz cleared his throat again. Things are getting worse out there, ma, and they still cannot track him down so... Mairade narrowed her eyes, grumbled to herself the nodded. We keep the parade on. Yes, Smasher is shy. He won't come near while the streets are busy. It's best this way, yes? I'm not sure it is, said Old Fitz. You think I don't know my own son? She shouted, startling the dogs in the corner. Old Fitz puffed up his cheeks and exhaled. I think if you did, all this wouldn't have happened. Mairade sneered, leaning over the desk. Don't you have drinks to serve, Fitz? Yes ma, of course. He nodded to her, then to the druid, then left. Mairade pulled herself shakily to her feet and moving slowly, she circled the desk to look down upon the bloody tarp and the body atop it. The first faint odor of decay was rising from the flesh. My boy! Her voice was as hollow as her heart and her eyes were dry and red. My boy! She had not, for one moment since giving the order that had started all this, thought about the other body. Chen Lian, whom everyone called Lotus, had been dragged out of her apartment at gunpoint, brought to her place of work, questioned, executed and discarded. As far as Mairade McMurrah was concerned, that was how the sluts story should have ended. But no, for now, Lotus was back where she belonged. Dermot had carried her body gently up to the roof terrace and laid her upon their square of grass, their little lawn, their private heaven. He had cleared her up and sprinkled flowers all around her body. The only other mourner at that private ceremony had been the three-legged kitten, which had crept curiously out from the shadows to watch. And when Dermot rose to leave, wiping his eyes and shaking all over, the cat had walked up to nudge its whiskers across his boot, then hopped onto the grass and curled up beside her body, lending Lotus a tiny bit of warmth and comfort. Dermot's mind had wanted to keep that final image of her in its focus, the woman, the blossoms of early spring, and the mangy, curious, beautiful little cat. But he had forced the memory down and let the fury rise up to fill his being. There would be time to mourn in this life or the next, but for now, for now, he had a task to complete. A gangster on the roof of St. Halvard's Cathedral listened as the parade began in the street below him. First came the rolling of the snare drums and the low humming of the bagpipes, then the pipers began their proud song and marched. Moving around the corner and into view, the drum major led the way in his tall feather bonnet, bright sash and tartan kilt, setting the beat with a pump of the polished silver mace in his hands. Behind him, the pipers and the drums streamed in ordered ranks slowly down the street, as the spectators crowded on either side smiled, cheered, or raised their red solo cups of beer, which stood out against the brilliant green of the crowd's hats and scarves and jackets. At his belt, the gangsters' walkie-talkie buzzed to life. Any sign of the big guy in church post? Over. Negative. He responded, leaning against the chest-high parapet wall and looking through his binoculars at the rooftops around him, where more men waited, many with rifles, then back down at the edge of the street, where two federal agents in black suits stood outside their car, watching the parade with their arms crossed. Clipping the walkie-talkie back on his belt, he lowered the binoculars and pulled out a cigarette and a book of matches. Above the sound of the marching band, his ears picked up a sound to his left. Leaving the cigarette in his lips unlit, the gangster jogged over to that side of the church roof and peered down into the alley there. That side street was shadowy and empty, but he did notice a broken length of gutter lying on the ground and the spot where it had broken free from the roof. Huh. That's weird. He lit a match as behind him, a great shape loomed up, blocking the sun and a low voice exhaled. The gangster froze, then slowly turned and looked up into Dermot McMurray's glaring face, then massive hands grabbed him and twisted his neck with the crunch that was drowned out by the beating of the drums. Dermot lowered the body silently onto the rooftop, then, crouching, moved along the rooftop and around the cathedral's central tower to approach the other side. Hunching behind the parapet, he squinted at the rooftop next to the church, where two more gangsters looked out from behind a billboard, one through the scope of a sniper rifle. Moving to the back of the cathedral roof, Dermot took a deep breath, then sprang forward, leapt over the parapet and the alley below and landed on the roof of the neighboring building. He rolled, kicking up dust and staying low and quiet ran along the rooftop toward the billboard and the two gangsters hiding behind it. The man with the rifle had just looked around when Dermot reached them and, grabbing ahead in each fist, squeezed. As their body slumped, he flicked the gore from his hands and set off for the next roof and the next and the next, moving like a ghostly giant as the bagpipes and the drums and the chatter of the crowd filled the air around him and the sunlight sifted through grey clouds, drifting in from over the harbor. As he landed quietly atop the roof of the corner drugstore, he heard the crackle of a walkie-talkie on the belt of the gangster there. Dermot dispatched the man quickly, punching his face inside out, but from the walkie-talkie, a voice said, any sign of the big guy drugstore post? Over. Dermot stared at the device. Do you read me? Are you there drugstore post? Over. Remissing, Dermot leaned and smashed the walkie-talkie with the toe of one boot. Crouching, he moved to the front of the roof, peering through slats in the scaffolding there. Down in the street, floats covered in Irish flags and shamrock banners were moving along in the slow procession and children were scrambling to pick up candies along the curb that were thrown from workers on the floats. Peering south, Dermot saw a line of his ma's men emerge from an alley led by old Fitz. Shoveing past spectators, the gangsters marched across the road, weaving between the floats of a local union and that of the city mayor, who stood waving to the crowd, beside a giant plastic statue of St. Patrick in his green robes and tall bishops hat. The gangsters were heading for the drugstore and Dermot saw their eyes looking up at the roof as they got nearer. Then the group split, some walking into the store, others moving to the alley on its side. Dermot backed away from the edge, thinking hard. There wasn't much cover on this roof. He wasn't sure he could take them all up here, so, making up his mind, he darted to the side of the building and jumped, not all the way to the next roof, but to the wall of that building, letting himself hit and slide down the bricks as he fell into the alley. The three gangsters walking below all gasped and looked up, just as Dermot landed on the one in front, crushing him to the ground under his boots. Backhanding the second man into the wall, Dermot darted to the last man. It was old Fitz, but the bartender had already drawn a pistol and raised it as he stumbled backward. Dermot just had time to seize a fist around the barrel when the gun went off. The blast muffled by his flesh. He critt his teeth and plain blossomed and blood splurred it from his hand. Yanking his arms sideways, Dermot pulled old Fitz off his feet and shoved him to the ground. The pistol bounced down the alley and Dermot raised a boot to stop. Wait! Dermot paused, his foot in the air, old Fitz side, looking up. His glass is broken and a skew. Just don't hurt me, son. Mr. Dermot, please. Dermot grumbled in his throat, then gently lowered his foot onto the ground and backed away. Old Fitz led out a relieved breath and collapsed onto his back, clutching at his broken hand and dislocated shoulder. Dermot looked down at his own left hand. His palm was singed and bloody. Then he looked up and out the end of the alley, at the back of the crowd and the parade moving beyond them. One young boy, holding his mother's hand, had turned his head and was looking at Dermot. Dermot lowered his left hand to hide the grisly wound, then smiled weakly and waved with his right. The boy blinked. Dermot grunted and twisted backward, misted blood suddenly filling the alley from a fresh wound in his right shoulder. Snarling, he flattened himself against the wall. Over on the road to his left, several voices cried out at the gunshot, but the parade music continued. It wasn't until the second sniper shot sounded that the crowd began to panic and earnest. Dermot had felt the second bullet wind on his face and crouched, panting, clinging to his bleeding right shoulder with his bleeding left hand. As the drums in the street lost their rhythm and quieted and the bagpipes released their final breathy wines, he saw the chaos of confused and frightened spectators and heard the pounding of many running boots. Turning to his right, he saw two armed gangsters come around the corner at the back end of the alley and heard voices on the roof above as well. Gritting his teeth, Dermot straightened up and sprinted toward the main road, leaping over old fits. At the sight of Dermot sprinting out of the alley, a mother screamed and pulled her children close. Dermot swerved to avoid them, tripped on a fire hydrant and crashed against the float, which lurched. A little woman in a leprechaun outfit fell from the float with a gasp. Dermot caught her in one hand as he grabbed the float and steadied it with the other, grunting in pain. He set the little woman down on the sidewalk as people ran screaming all around them. A police siren wailed. From the rooftops above, men called out, then more gunfire sounded. Dermot leapt backward, bullets pelting the float and flattening its tires. Spinning around, he dashed around the other side of the float, coming face to face with two bagpipers, who each tossed aside their instruments as they pulled pistols from the fur pouches at their wastes. Dermot dove at them, crushing their faces with his fists. Then ducking, his bullets flew from the roof of the drugstore. Looking down, he saw that he was standing on a manhole cover and diving his heel into its edge. He flipped it up, caught it, and held it like a shield as he dashed to the next float. The shield rang like a gong as bullets pelted its iron surface. He ducked into the shadow of the next float, from which the oversized St. Patrick smiled down and the mayor waved his arms frantically and screamed, Drive, drive, drive! Goddamn Irish! The float shot suddenly forward a few feet, then its tires squealed to a stop as people ran across the road, moving in all directions. From the fray, two gangsters rushed out. Dermot swatted the heavy manhole cover left and right, knocking the men aside, then held it up against the gunfire from another rooftop across the street. But on the sidewalk, two cops looked up and opened fire on Dermot's attackers. Then another cop, a corrupt son of a bitch whom Dermot knew from the pub, opened fire on those cops. It was madness, a storm of motion and violence and chaos. Next to him, the mayor's float started forward again, honking as it swerved down the road, crushing lost bagpipes under its tires. When it traveled for a hundred feet, a box truck sped suddenly from a side street, barreling into the float, which flipped onto its side. St. Patrick took down a line of Irish flags with his hat as he toppled into the street. Dermot narrowed his eyes, watching his gangsters emerge from the back of the box truck, unloading the military weapons within. He whipped his head side to side. There were still so many civilians in the street. They wouldn't use those, not here, they couldn't. A door burst open to his right, and another pair of gangsters charged. Dermot spun and threw the manhole cover. It popped the head off one man and bounced off the brick wall. Dermot lunged, grabbing and smashing the other's head with a hand, then catching the iron cover, turning back to face the weapons truck. He watched his four men cringed under the weight of a positively massive gun. No, not even a gun. An M-242 Bushmaster autocannon, and set it on its hefty stand. Dermot sighed and shook his head. This was getting ridiculous. As the men hurried back to the truck to get the ammo, another emerged from the back, bringing out a shoulder-mounted rocket launcher. Tires squealed behind him. What now? Dermot spun, watching as a black car careened onto the sidewalk, and sped toward him, knocking aside trash cans. That was not a cartel vehicle, and as it came closer, he recognized the suited men in the front seats as the federal agents from last week. Pinned between the oncoming feds and the rocket launching gangster, Dermot crouched and jumped. The RPG fired with a womp and whoosh, sending the rocket straight for where he had been, and where the feds in the cars still were. Dermot pivoted with a grunt, spinning back to the sidewalk, and batting the air with the manhole cover. The rocket struck his shield in ricochet, knocking Dermot off balance as it spiraled into the air, hissing smoke like a firework. Then the car struck Dermot's legs, and he was flipped over it. The windshield shattering under his weight. The air knocked from his lungs as he rolled over the roof, and the trunk, and he fell heavily to the sidewalk. Down the street, the wild rocket struck the clock tower on St. Halvard's Cathedral with a mighty boom. Dermot lay for a moment, dazed and numb. Then he rolled to his side, watching as the black car barreled on, and collided with the men at the M-242, and screeched to a stop. Agent Tippett jumped from the driver's seat, pulling a service weapon and shooting three gangsters dead where they stood. Dermot pulled himself to his hands and knees, panting, groaning, numbness, giving way to fiery aches and sharp stinging pain all over his body. He was losing steam, losing blood too. Come to think of it, but he wasn't done. Not yet. Getting drunkenly to his feet, the ginger giant jogged across the debris-strewn street, entering a side alley, stumbling forward, heading for the Bally-Gub pub just around the corner. Dark clouds now covered the sun, and the day was cool and gray. Dermot took in a deep breath, tasting the promise of rain on the sea breeze, and slowed as he approached the pub. Down the road on the far side, three police cars had just pulled into view, setting up a barrier. They would box him in, surround him, take him out if he didn't hurry. But just before the Bally-Gub's windows, he paused. The curtains moved inside, and glancing at the reflection in the windows of a car parked outside, Dermot spied the shape of a dozen men within the pub. They would all be armed, with their fingers on the trigger, ready to blast him as he entered the pub. Dermot wouldn't make it after all. That was clear enough. Even if he wasn't tired and bloody and dazed, not even he could withstand a chest and face full of bullets. So this was it. Dermot reached up with a shaky blood-splattered hand, tucking a loose bit of hair from his sweaty cheek, and tucked it behind his ear. Then, exhaling, he squeezed his hands into painful fists one last time, and took one step toward the pub's front door. Gunfire did fire within, and Dermot spasmed, but no bullets came from the windows to strike him. After a few seconds of continuous fire and many screams, the pub went quiet. Reaching the door, his eyebrows raised. He pushed it open, and stepped inside. The setup for the holiday party was still there. Streamers on the ceilings, green-dyed beers abandoned on the tables. But the drinkers must have all run out at the first sound of trouble. And the gangsters that had stayed behind to protect their queenpin upstairs, they now lay smoking and bloody around the bar. Dermot looked over at the last man standing. Young Fitz in his newsboy cap stood behind the bar, panting, a smoking Tommy gun in his hands, a haunted look in his eyes. Dermot stood crouched just inside the doorway, staring at his friend. Young Fitz blinked, then lowered the gun. Stop! he said, his gaze passing over the bodies around him. I don't know if, I mean, I've never actually, you know. Dermot nodded and moved slowly toward him. Reaching across the bar, Dermot gently took the gun, then used his filthy sleeve to wipe it down. Fitz swallowed, shook himself, and forced a smile onto his face. So, how was the parade? Dermot grinned, then chuckled, wincing as his body shook. You okay? He shrugged. And, my dad, is he? Dermot shook his head. Oh, good. Thanks. Dermot's finger didn't fit in the Tommy gun's trigger guard, so he pinched and twisted off the metal bit, then squished one bloody fingerprint against the trigger, before tossing the gun onto a nearby table. Fitz looked up at his friend and smiled sadly. I guess you and I won't. Well, you never know. Maybe we'll meet again someday. Grab a pint. Dermot nodded. Outside, the sounds of police sirens grew louder. Um, they can't know I, so, I guess? Dermot raised one huge hand into the air and squinted a tiny question. Am I ready? Hell no. How could I possibly be ready for- Dermot slapped him sideways, but only with about 2% of his full strength. Fitz smashed through a stool and lay groaning. Then he raised a shaky hand to give a thumbs up. Dermot took a deep breath, and ducking through the doorway behind the bar, he walked up the old stairs. The hall was dim and quiet as Dermot passed through it, reached his mother's office and opened the door. He saw Cormack's body on a tarp on the floor, and two wolfhounds in their corner, and his mother, Maread McMurrow, standing stiffly behind her desk. Dermot's blue eyes blazed in his battle-scarred face. Crouching through the doorway, he took one long stride forward. Truet magic! Halteh drew it, running from the left and raising his dagger. Dermot didn't even look over. He just snapped out his left arm, seized the man's head, and squeezed. Across the room, Maread flinched, her upper lip wrinkling and pulling back, revealing her tobacco-stained teeth. Dermot took another step, his boot setting down just before the edge of the bloody tarp. Dogs! Maread screamed. Get him! The wolfhounds looked up at her, then turned their narrow faces to Dermot, and did not move. Ah, damn it! Dermot stepped over his brother's body, and reaching the desk, he grabbed it and thrust it on its side, spilling papers and ashtray and a telephone to the floor. Maread flattened herself against the back wall, raising her chin defiantly, even as her body shook. Dermot came to stop before his mother, looming over her. A huge chest rising and falling with deep, growling breaths. She swallowed. Well then, she said through gritted teeth, Here we are. What do you want me to say, huh? Did I am impressed? Naring her eyes, she shook her head. No, Smasher! Tearing shy depart is easy. Building it up, that's hard. That's what I did. It's what your brother did. You're just... She grimaced, glancing sideways out of the window, where the flashing lights of police cars flickered in the gathering gloom. You were... always an impossible child, you know that? She closed her eyes and screwed up her face. It nearly tore me in two when you were born. And when you were a bairn, you were just... always fucking crying. I went back in plead and tried to calm you down, but nothing ever whacked. I shook you till my arms were sore. I didn't know what you needed. It's a terrible thing that... for a mother. She took in a shaky breath, then looked back up at him, grief and hatred showing an equal measure in her eyes. But you know who did understand you? Who could get you to stop crying? Cormac. Tears came into her eyes. Your brother cared for you. And look what you did to him. What you did to my boy? Her lips trembled. You monster! Dermot's fists hung, bloody at his sides, and his gaze remained locked onto her wrinkled face. You should kill me now while you can, because otherwise... She wiped angrily at her eyes. You've done a lot of damage today. Oh yes. But I have a lifetime of practice, fixing men's messes and turning their disasters into my fortunes. Her lips curl into a snarling grin. Well, go on then, boy. Crush your ma's head. Because that's all you're good for, isn't it? Dermot stared at her, his body vibrating, his jaws clenched. Do it! Dermot flinched, then his eyes bugged. Then, he exhaled, releasing the tension in his shoulders, his arms, his hands. His face relaxed, and his eyes softened. And leaning down to his mother's snarling face, he said, No. Outside, thunder rumbled above the bay, and a cool spring rain began to sprinkle against the office windows. Merade stared up at him, shock and disbelief on her face. How did something like you ever crawl out of my cunt? Dermot straightened up, his top not squishing against the ceiling. From the hallway behind him, the sound of bodies creeping forward reached his ears, then. It's over, McMurray! said the voice of FBI agent Tippit. Back away from your mother, slowly! Dermot obeyed, pivoting his body to look back at the doorway. Tippit and Cohen both had their pistols out, aimed at his face, and the hall was full of cops. Shoot him! Merade shouted. Cohen looked nervously to Tippit, whose face was set. Ignoring the woman's outburst, the special agent met Dermot's eyes. That was a hell of a thing you did back there! Jumping between us and that rocket? A hell of a thing! So then, are you gonna come quietly now? Dermot dipped his head down and up, and that little movement, now that it was truly finally over, it made him suddenly tired. He swooned, blinking, weak from the pain in his side, his hand, his shoulder, his muscles and bones. And will you agree to provide evidence against the Celtic cartel? Tippit went on. Oh, give me a fucking break! Interrupted Merade. Him? After what he just did? No judge will give him any sort of deal. He knows that. Dermot nodded again to the feds, and then, careful not to make any sudden moves, he shuffled slowly toward the druids' wooden lectern and the large antique magic trick Bible sitting on the stand. Across the room, Merade sucked in an angry breath. Oh, don't you dare! She hissed, starting to step forward, then jerking to a stop as Agent Tippit turned his pistol on her. Dermot gently took hold of the heavy book, closed its cover, then turned to face the agents. Cohen blinked curiously behind his glasses, sweat gleaming on his cheeks, then he slowly lowered his gun. As Dermot reached to hand over the Bible, he flipped it in his bloody hands. Cohen stowed his pistol, accepted the book, and peeled it open. Curious. Oh, you bastard! Snarled Merade. On their bed, the dogs whined and backed into the corner. Oh my god! Whispered Agent Cohen, scanning a page at random, a page of carefully recorded transactions of criminal activity. You fucking ugly bastard! Merade ran forward, but cops hurried in from the hall and seized her. She fought back, fighting and spitting. Fuck you, Smasher! There were right about you, everyone! You're a freak show! A freak show! Behind the police barricade, a crowd had gathered to watch, and news cameras were there to capture the strange and historic moment. As the Grim-Bay police and federal agents led two suspects through the front door of the Baligub pub and into the pouring rain. Merade and McMurrow continued to scream and fight as they dragged her. Her salt and ginger hair, a wild mess, her feet kicking the mud. A few people kept their eyes on the infamous queenpin as she was stuffed into the back of a police car, including a middle-aged Russian couple. The wife squinting curiously, the hairy husband smiling as he sucked on the end of a large pipe. A golden ring with a bear's head fixed around one thick finger. But most of everyone in the crowd had turned quickly away from Merade, staring instead at the second prisoner, her giant son. A pair of handcuffs had been wrapped around each of Dermot's wrists, with a third pair holding them together. He kept his head bowed and his gaze around the ground as he was brought out. Half a dozen guns aimed at him the whole time, as they led him toward a waiting van outside. Parents covered their children's eyes at the sight of him, so vast, so bloody, so horrible to behold. Voices gasped, cameras clicked and flashed. At the edge of the crowd, a young college student turned and jabbed his peer in the arm. I always knew there was something off about that bouncer at the club. What a monster! Dermot didn't look up, but he heard the word. He heard it and he felt it and he knew it to be true. But that's the thing about monsters. They are not a monolith. They are monsters who get a thrill out of seeing fear in their victims' eyes, and monsters who cannot stand to look at their own reflection. And they don't all come to be what they are for the same reasons or in the same way. It's all very complicated. Nature, nurture, choices. And what the people in that crowd, all those shocked and curious faces, failed to see, was that in Dermot McMurray's mind, the whole world was monstrous. Such a scary place. He had always been afraid, always, until she appeared. And when she was gone, when the blessed light of existence was so violently extinguished, all of his fear turned to pain, and his pain, his training, his power, they had overtaken him. But never again, never again. The police van tilted and groaned under his weight as Dermot climbed into the back, turning in the cramped space to hug his knees to his chest. The officers backed away, still aiming their guns at him. He stared out the back, through the pouring rain, and tilted his tired head. Looking past the guns and the cops, his eyes had just spotted a small, white flower, sticking up from a crack in the pavement. Its stem bent, its petals bouncing in the rain. Dermot stared at the little blossom, and he smiled sadly. Then they swung the van doors closed, shutting him in the darkness, and drove off. I'm Dermot, the fellow horror fan. I'll see you in the next one.