It's strange celebrating Independence Day today with the club. Three months ago, we stood in the barn, torturing the assholes that tried to take out Claddagh's ol' lady, Clara, when the mercenaries showed up to tell us the cartel compound in Mexico exploded. At the time, Shamrock, Soundwave, Motormouth, and Preacher were inside. The police are still searching through that rubble for bodies, but our people haven't turned up yet. Everyone else, including my sister, is starting to resign themselves to the fact they're dead. I'm not so sure, though. Until I get confirmation of bodies, I'm not letting go of hope. We did that on Faylinn, and she found her way back after fifteen years. Shamrock can find his way after one year— and I don't think an entire army could really take down Motormouth.
