Page 184 of Sins of Innocence

The sociopath is completely at peace with this. He saw what he saw, he did what he did.

And I'm fucking glad. "Thank you."

He inclines his head.

Chapter forty

The Actions of a Desperate Man

WRAITH

We're on the LIE between Long Island and Queens, when the ringtone for my team sounds over the car speakers. I flick my gaze to the video panel on the dash and see McLaren's name flash on the screen.

Áine's finger darts forward and she presses the button on the display to accept the call. "Hey, sister, you com—"

"Kenneth knows Áine is working on the books." McLaren interrupts my wife, her voice clipped and urgent. "Considering what she's found, he's going to be shitting a brick."

Or planning another hit. We cut off his access to the players he would have relied on for this but there are other gangs and syndicates that freelance hits. Even with McLaren monitoring him, it's possible.

Never underestimate a desperate man with ties in the underworld.

Goddamnit.

"How?"

"O'Grady. My program monitoring Kenneth's calls caught her name and alert—"

Bang. Something hits the rear quarter panel.

Áine screams.

The SUV breaks loose, the heavy tires shrieking against the asphalt as we lose traction and the rearend comes around. My hands lock on the wheel, fighting the skid as we slide sideways.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see the massive grill of a flatbed truck a split second before it hits us dead center on the passenger side. One massive, resonant concussion through the whole frame, ringing through my body like I'm inside the Liberty Bell.

And the SUV tips.

The sound of metal scraping on metal tells me one of the security detail hit the truck.

Too late.

The side airbags deploy with a sound like a shotgun blast, filling the cabin with a sudden, blinding cloud of white chemical powder and the hot, acrid smell of scorched nylon.

For a half-second, we hang in weightless suspension. And then the SUV slams down onto its driver's side.

An earsplitting screech sounds as the armored doors and side panels scrape along the asphalt at freeway speeds. Sparks shower past the fractured windows, a brilliant cascade of orange fire flashing through the white airbag smoke.

The momentum finally dies with one last, heavy shudder. The SUV groans, dead on its left side.

The driver’s side window beneath my cheek is a spiderweb of fractured safety glass, pressing flat against the asphalt of the Long Island Expressway.

I do an instant internal grid check. Ribs intact. Vision clear. Extremities responsive. Weapon operational.

"Áine." Ignoring my training for silence in combat situations, I shout her name.

The passenger side is now the ceiling. Hanging sideways, suspended four feet above me by the violent tautness of her seatbelt, her caramel hair obscuring her face, my wife dangles limply.

Dread takes hold for a split second. I shove it away. She is not dead. Knocked out maybe. Not dead.