“Nancy’s pregnant. You just killed her husband and the father of your grandchild.”
“Jesus.” Cavendish shook his head. “I didn’t mean for him to die.”
“Using him as a human shield says otherwise, you son of a bitch.”
Cavendish’s gun hand drooped, but only for an instant. The steely take-no-bullshit visage soon returned. Nash could ask him to drop the gun, but they both knew he wouldn’t. Cavendish would never concede a single advantage. It was how he was built.
Cavendish was responsible for the death the man who’d saved Nash’s life, who’d pulled him out of his downward spiral of a life without purpose. Paul had been a friend and mentor to Eva, Bishop, Nash and countless others. A good man lay dead while this human filth stood breathing free air. Christ, poor Nancy would never recover from this.
Seemingly reading Nash’s mind, Cavendish lowered his gun and fired three shots, then kept pulling the trigger repeatedly. All three bullets missed their target and he had nothing left in the magazine.
Tossing the empty gun aside, Cavendish held his palms aloft. “You can’t blame a man for trying.” He lowered his gaze. “We both know you’re not going to shoot me.” The arrogance in his tone was nauseating. “Your pathetic pacifism won’t let you, will it? You’re a pitiful, wretched little man. Even now, even after all I’ve done, you can’t pull the trigger.” He let loose a delirious cackle. “The once great warrior, the scourge of evil empires everywhere is a frightened little coward. Drop the charade. Drag me to the authorities and let’s see how that turns out for you.”
“No.”
“No?” Cavendish appeared genuinely surprised. “What do you mean, no? The famed peacenic Mason Nash is not going to shoot an unarmed man, no matter what I’ve done, surely?”
Nash sniffed and cracked his neck. “I don’t know about that.”
And then Mason Nash shot Ramsay Cavendish.
Epilogue
The sky was a remarkably clear blue for this time of year.
Nash dug his hands deep into the pockets of his long coat. The air had a chill, but there was the faintest hint of warmth which had been sorely missing for the last few months. The weather was finally looking up.
The lazy village streets were unchanged, in spite of Tartarus’s best efforts. Repairs had begun a month ago on St. Stephen’s on the hill. The inexplicable fire was blamed on careless workmen. The fact it had occurred the same night a biological hazard spill saw the town evacuated was put down to coincidence.
Life in Devil’s End had returned to its natural state: slow moving and sedate. That suited Nash just fine. Making his way down the street in the warm afternoon sun, Nash was overcome with a sense of joy when he caught sight of the Hangman’s Inn. The quaint pub had stood for hundreds of years and hopefully would for hundreds more, or at least until Nash was done with it.
Entering the low-ceilinged, near-empty pub, Nash gave the publican a friendly wave. In return, she gave him a wink.
“Pint of Newcastle Brown?”
“You read my mind, Denise.”
“That’s my job, love.”
Taking his usual position at the back of the pub, which afforded him the best view of every corner of the room, Nash nestled in and inhaled deeply. He’d learned to appreciate moments like this. Contented moments. There was a time not long ago when he’d thought he’d never experience them again, so he had chosen to appreciate them when he could. One never knew if they would come again.
“Dining alone, are we?”
Nash looked up to see Lila’s pretty beaming face. It had taken some time, and a distinct lack of attacking assassins for her to become comfortable in his company again.
Nash returned the smile. “Not anymore, no.”
Giving Nash a curious crinkle of her forehead, Lila left a pile of menus on the table and went to greet another local couple keen to spend the night in the warm confines of their local. Denise came by and delivered Nash’s pint. He savoured that too.
After a few minutes later, Hawk entered and discarded his coat. He swung by the bar for a whiskey, then joined Nash at the table.
“Sorry to talk shop, but you okay to cover Kurt’s English class on Wednesday afternoon? He’s getting some dental work done.”
“Sure, no problem.”
The transition back to sedate teacher had been easier than Nash had anticipated. True to his word, Hawk had brought Nash back into the fold at his school. In no time at all Nash was issuing hall passes and marking homework.
The two talked shop and drank for a few minutes before the next group arrived. Eva was back to her natural raven locks, although Bishop still sported his ridiculous moustache, clinging to the inexplicable idea that he looked distinguished despite Eva and Nash’s best efforts to dissuade him of the notion. Bishop held the door open to allow Nancy to roll the pram inside.
The group exchanged hugs and kisses and the room was soon overflowing with love and good cheer. Lifting her son from the pram, Nancy thrust the baby into Nash’s arms.
“What am I supposed to do with this?”
“Hold him, you big eejit, what do you think? Mumma’s got to go to the loo.”
“Why me?” Nash asked good naturedly. It certainly wasn’t been the first time he’d held Nancy and Paul’s child, and knew it wouldn’t be the last.
“Because he’s got your name, so one Mason can hold the other. At least until he needs his nappy changed.” She gave Nash a kiss on the cheek and went with Eva to the bar.
Nash shouted to the departing women, “I thought you said you were going to the loo?”
Nancy gave a dismissive wave of her hand. “One thing at a time.”
Holding little Mason in his lap, Nash saw the familiar facial features of Paul staring back at him. The little guy was only six months old, but he already looked like his father. And his height was in the 90th percentile, so he was already on the way to his dad’s lankiness.
The loss of Paul had been hard on them all. The funeral was the toughest Nash had ever attended, and his eulogy left no dry eye in the church. There wasn’t a day Nash didn’t feel Paul’s absence. The fact he’d been such a close friend to them all meant Nash was not alone in his grief.
Watching the two women chatting chummily at the bar, Nash nodded in their direction and addressed Bishop. “How’s she doing, Nancy?”
