The Dead Yard by Adrian McKinty Read Free Book Online

at her and tried to figure out precisely how I was going to throw myself

on top of her when the assassin was due to commence his work.
    As soon as her da walked in, was I supposed to start following her around? What if the

assassin took his time about it? Look a bit suspicious, me hanging off Kit’s bloody shoulder the

whole night.
    Samantha had given me zero instructions on this.
    I would have to come up with something. I took a sip of my Sam Adams. Nah, couldn’t possibly

tag behind her the whole evening. I’d just have to keep my eye on the door and when Gerry showed,

I’d saunter over to wherever Kit happened to be. Until then, low profile, no fuss. If it didn’t

work, it didn’t work. I could only tell Samantha I’d tried my best and she’d have to believe me.

I looked at Kit. And really by now I wasn’t contemplating the stupid plan. Two minutes staring at

her was enough to get you.
    Think Winona Ryder in
Heathers,
Phoebe Cates in
Gremlins,
Sean Young in
Blade Runner
. That kind of vibe. The dark eyes, the tubercular pallor, the thing on her

head that had once been a Louise Brooks bob but now was teased and hairsprayed in all

directions.
    She leaned into the bar, picked up the order, and waltzed off with a tray full of black and

tans.
    Had she even noticed me? I wouldn’t blame her if she hadn’t. When we’d arrived that morning,

Samantha and Jeremy had driven me to a safe house in Cambridge. A barber had shown up at four

a.m. Obviously as annoyed about the hour as I was, he had savagely cut my hair to a number two

and then dyed what was left a dark black. Previously, I’d had longish sandy-colored hair, and

everyone in New York had certainly known me that way. Now I appeared quite different. Not a bad

look for me. Little rougher, little tougher. But the jet-lagged eyes and nasty sunburn couldn’t

help.
    "Get ya another?" the kid from Cork asked.
    "Nah, still working at this one," I said.
    "It’s all right, is it?" the kid asked.
    "Aye, it’s fine," I said.
    "One of this country’s great patriots."
    "Who is?" I asked.
    "Sam Adams. He rode from New York to Boston to warn the people the British were coming. And he

was the third president of the United States."
    "And he made beer, too?"
    "He certainly did now," the keep said and walked back to the bottles.
    I looked at my watch, three minutes to six. I couldn’t help but be a bit nervous. Quick

time-out. I went to the bathroom and splashed some water on my face. Ok, take it easy, Forsythe,

this is bloody nothing. Piece of piss, I told my reflection.
    Nothing for you, buddy, remember you were in a riot a couple of days ago, my reflection

said.
    I splashed some more water and went back to the bar stool.
    The assassin had ordered another Schlitz Lite. The blond kid in the corner hadn’t touched his

drink at all. And neither had a bunch of clean-cut men wearing board shorts and Gap T-shirts,

sitting together, at two tables by the door.
    Ah, the
federales,
I thought.
    "So what you do for a living?" the assassin asked me out of the blue.
    "Me, oh, um, I was a postman back in Ireland," I answered—the first thing that popped into my

head.
    "Fucking posties, bastards so they are, on the whole. Always bills, always fucking bills," the

assassin said bitterly. The kid from Cork came over.
    "Pushkin said that postmen were monsters of the human race, a bit extreme perhaps but you

could see his point of view," he intoned, obviously attempting levity.
    Both the assassin and myself turned the evil eye on him and he pissed off. We didn’t need some

know-it-all student showing us up.
    "The Commie with the dogs?" the assassin asked me when the kid had gone. For a sec I had no

idea what he was talking about.
    "No, no, you’re thinking of Pavlov, mate," I said and was about to explain but got interrupted

by the assassin, who turned his full pale face and intimidating eyes on me.
    "Look, maybe you should make