Wicked Deception (Quinlan Empire #4)

Prologue

Rhys Quinlan ~ Dublin, Ireland ~ Six Years Ago

Every op blurs the line of morality a little darker, and I can’t tell where the shadows end anymore.

“Where are they?” I ask slowly and deliberately.

Blood trickles from the corner of the dealer’s mouth as I tighten my grip on his collar. Anger surging through me, I force his head back against the concrete wall.

Eyes rolling, he mutters something lost in a choking cough.

“You should be praying, you bastard,” I growl, driving my knuckles into his ribs.

His scream echoes off the walls of Interrogation Room C, and the crack of bone vibrates through my hand.

I’ve done this hundreds of times.

My boss wants answers about stolen arms shipments for a client. I deliver answers. Mercy isn’t in my contract.

This crook spits blood at me in a pathetic attempt at defiance. Gobshites like him always break. They bleed, beg, then bargain. No one’s ever been brave enough to completely challenge me.

Dosser better not have Hep C. Now I need a tetanus shot just to make sure.

“Is that all you got?” I wipe my cheek with the back of my hand, slow, deliberate, and then slam my fist into his jaw.

His head snaps sharply left, teeth clattering from the pain he’s trying to hide.

“Where are they?” I ask again, my voice flat.

“Fuck you,” he mumbles, the words almost incoherent.

I yank him downward and drive my knee into his chest. He cries out, and breath whips out in shallow wheezes.

I should feel satisfaction. Instead, I feel nothing. Detached. No more than if I were squashing a bug or incinerating ants with a magnifying glass.

The door to the interrogation room bangs open, and a harsh light cuts into the dank space.

My boss, a VP at the private security firm I’ve worked for since leaving the Irish Defence Forces, steps into Room C, a phone pressed to his ear.

“Quinlan. I need you,” he calls out.

I eye the dealer with a frown and smash his head against my sore knee one last time, the frustration of his silence bringing me to the brink of losing control. He slumps over, spitting blood.

Wiping it from my trousers, I say, “He’s close. I feel it.”

“Forget this bloke. We’ve got a situation, lad.” His voice cracks in a way that makes my stomach clench.

“Aye?”

“Leinster House.” He covers the mobile phone with his palm. “There’s been a terrorist attack.”

My heart stutters. “Where is my brother Trace?”

He’s a private security officer for one of the ministers at Leinster.

Shaking his head, my boss quickly replies, “No. Your brother was in the States burning PTO. I just spoke to his handler. He’s on a flight, set to land in around an hour. He’s being assigned an investigative role.”

The pressure behind my eyes eases. “What do you need from me?”

“We’re pulling every able-bodied agent to look for survivors. Some ministers are unaccounted for. Your brother’s boss Keegan, included. They need you on-site.”

I don’t ask another question. I don’t need more details. My weapons are already packed up, and I’m out the door, leaving a broken man gasping behind me who nobody cares about any longer.

The scene at Leinster House is all wailing sirens and black smoke from the structural damage curling into the Dublin sky.

The sharp stench of burnt wiring and construction dust fills my nose.

People are everywhere. Ministers in dusty suits, guards in torn uniforms, and civilians covered in blood and glass are scattered all around.

Some are screaming, some rocking in shock, others pacing and talking on their phones.

Presumably telling loved ones they’re safe, that they made it out alive.

Who would I call?

My mum, I guess.

That’s sad for a twenty-nine-year-old bloke.

Showing my badge, I shove past barricades, ignoring the shouting Gardaí.

Even from several meters, I can see that the corridors are a wreck of cracked walls.

Parts of the ceilings are sagging with sections buckled from the electrical fire and water damage from exploded pipes.

The building’s alarms are shrieking, and there’s a lot of smoke.

My ears ring from the annoying screech, as I wait for my orders of where to search.

A man in a burned shirt barrels past me, but he’s held back by the on-site security team.

“Oliver! Ollie!” The bloke’s voice is raw with terror, shouting the name over and over. “My son!”

Blood streaks his forehead. But it’s not until I recognize the powder blue uniform shirt and thick black pants covered in gray ash that it registers. He’s one of the building porters.

I grab him from the traumatized security guard. “I got this bloke.”

The porter’s eyes are wild when they meet mine. “Sir, my boy… I brought him in for the children’s tour, but I can’t find him. I looked everywhere.”

He clutches my shirt collar as his words break apart, strangled by panic.

Christ. Were schoolchildren here today for some bloody civics program? The day terrorists decided to show up and open fire with machine guns and the desire to kill a lot of people.

I pry his hands off my collar. Not cruel, just firm enough to get his attention. “You’ll only get yourself killed charging back in there blind.”

“My boy.” His chest heaves, tears streaking through the soot that cakes his pale skin. “He’s only seven… And he’s got special needs. He’s non-verbal. He won’t cry out for help.”

Aw, bloody hell.

The look on his face guts me, and I can’t ignore it.

I imagine myself in his place, knowing a loved one is in extreme danger. I would run into a burning building, flood waters, or even a car teetering off a bridge to save someone I loved. I’ve faced this kind of danger before. I know how to survive it.

It’s a thought that doesn’t cross my brain very often. Love isn’t part of my world. In my line of work, there is no place for emotions that make you soft, weak, or an easy target.

I worry about my Mum enough. She and Dad sent Trace and me into the military. We both made it out, and now, the place we work has been leveled to a smoldering heap of ash while I was off-site beating the piss out of a dealer and Trace was gambling in Las Vegas.

Lucky for us.

Pay it forward. Help the dad.

“Stay here,” I snap, already moving. “I’ll find him.”

I shove past the second line of barriers. They’re telling everyone to wait for Fire and Rescue. Bollocks to that. I know every inch of this place. Worked as a guard one summer. I memorized the halls and exits the way other men commit sports team stats to memory.

I hop over the barricade, and I’m past a splintered door frame that is hanging loose before someone can try to stop me.

Christ, this wasn’t one blast and done. This was sustained and repeated gunfire by madmen who must have set fires here and there as well. The sprinklers dumped thousands of gallons of water into old ceilings that look ready to collapse.

Leinster House hasn’t been leveled. It’s been bloody gutted from the inside out.

Smoke burns my throat as I turn down the east corridor. Covering my mouth with my sleeve, I cringe, walking past portraits of former Prime Ministers, their glass frames shot out and sparkling shards on the floor.

School kids tour the Hall of Heroes. Little faces light up at the big paintings of Theobald Wolfe Tone, Michael Collins, and Patrick Pearse. A whole parade of Irish martyrs.

I crouch to stay under the cloud of smoke, remembering when my dad brought Trace and me here. Patrick Quinlan was proud as hell and said we should know all sides of history. Not just who built the ground we stand on, but the ones who fought to keep it free.

I laugh despite my current predicament, because I didn’t give a shite then. I was happy to play hooky from primary school. I remember the spots I used to slip into and hide from Dad when I was a young brat. Dark alcoves were perfect for a kid wanting to disappear.

“Oliver!” I yell for the missing lad.

Pushing deeper into the hall, I hear rubble crunching under my boots. The smoke thickens and makes my retinas feel like they are on fucking fire.

Shot up fire hoses have busted and soaked the place, water pooling above the tiles, and heat warping the supports. The ceiling groans like it might come down on my head any second.

Christ.

“Oliver!” I yell again. “Your dad sent me to find you, lad. Whistle or snap your fingers so I can find you.”

In case he thinks he’s got to keep hiding.

My hands are shaking now, not with rage, but with something I don’t recognize.

Desperation. Clawing anxiety. Fear.

All for a boy I don’t even know.

Ollie, his dad called him Ollie. Horrible name for a kid, but…

“Ollie!” I bark. “I’m trying to find you, lad. Got to get you out of here.”

Spinning around, I worry I’m looking in the wrong damn place.

A thin sound of a child crying catches my hearing. I follow the faint whimpering into a breakroom, now a mess of overturned tables and vending machines used for cover.

Candy.

Through the smoke, I catch movement under a slab of laminated wood.

I drop to my knees, shoving debris aside until I find a small boy rocking and eating from a bag of Milky Mints. His round face is streaked with soot, eyes wide and unfocused as he eats.

He doesn’t speak, just stares right through me.

“Ollie, come on, lad. We have to get out of here.” I reach for him.

He flinches, tucking tighter into the shadows.

Frustration bites down on me. I don’t have time for this. The ceiling in this entire corridor could come down any second.

“Bloody hell,” I mutter. “Your dad’s waiting for you, squirt. Do you want him thinking you’re dead?”

Okay, maybe that wasn’t the best thing to threaten a kid with.

I lower myself, chest to the ground, bringing my face level with his.

“Listen, squirt. You’re safe with me.” My voice softens, something I didn’t know I was capable of. “I used to wear one of those uniforms you saw on mates behind the glass. You can trust me, aye?”

He stops eating and stares at me. After a swallow, his lips part and he whispers, “You’re a soldier?”

I fucking freeze because the kid I’m looking for is supposed to be non-verbal. But maybe that’s just with his parents.

“Aye. I’m here to rescue you, Ollie. How about I give you a ride on my back? Run through the smoke. Let me save you, lad. I’ll look good for my boss.”

Nodding, his small but grimy hand curls into mine. He’s fragile, but he’s got the will to live. So long as he gets a pony ride on the back of a six-foot-four hero.

I pull him free, tucking him against me, feeling a sense of relief I didn’t think my hardened heart could feel.

Out in the hall, I swing him onto my back. The sound of bending metal screeches behind me, and debris starts falling from the ceiling.

“Hold on, lad. We’re gonna make a mad dash for it.”

With his hands locked around my neck, I run through smoke and dust until daylight blazes in my eyes.

“Oliver!” a woman screams, barreling toward me with her arms outstretched.

“Your mum?” I ask the boy.

He nods and starts to cry.

Aye, mums will do that.

I place him in her embrace. His ash-streaked hair melds with her tears, leaving her face stained with soot, too. “Mo chroí, mo grá…” She rocks him. “I thought I’d lost you.”

Her husband, the porter, clasps my shoulder, words garbled in his own tears. “Thank you, sir. God bless you.”

I soften to pure appreciation. Maybe all the violence I’ve had a hand in isn’t the only thing I can give this world.

When I look up, I see my brother with my mum and dad just beyond the barricade. Trace was on a plane when I got the call about the fire. How’d he get here so fast? Had I lost that much time looking for Oliver?

Trace hops the barrier as I did and reaches me. He looks both jet-lagged and stressed. He wraps me in a hug so hard it knocks the air out of me. “Jaysus, Rhys.”

“I’m all right,” I say, even if I’m not sure it’s the truth.

“They told me you went in there looking for a kid,” my brother says.

“Aye, the boy had special needs. Anxiety and non-verbal.”

“Since when are you an expert with that?”

“Today.” I shrug. “It was satisfying. Figuring out a way to communicate differently.”

My parents come up behind us. Weeping, my mum knocks everything else out of focus as she clutches my face and kisses both cheeks.

Then she smacks me.

“You bloody reckless moron. The two of you. You’re going to give me a bleedin’ heart attack.”

Something tight in my chest loosens into laughter and tears.

Mums will do that.

Dad pulls me close next, strong arms grounding me. “Don’t listen to her. You’re trained, and you’re smart. Always do the right thing, lad.”

For a moment, I just let my family hold me as if I’m not the monster I was hours ago, breaking bones in a warehouse.

Trace walks with me to get checked out by a medic. “I was freaked out too when I heard you were here.”

“I had it under control.” I look him up and down. “How was Las Vegas?”

He goes visibly pale. “You’re not the only one who likes to do incredibly stupid things.”

“You?” I cough out some smoke. “Don’t see it happening.”

“I’ll tell you more when your heart rate’s back to normal. You might code here on the bloody pavement, hearing what I did.”

The EMT clears me to go home, but I don’t. Not yet. I stick around with Trace for word on the minister he’s been assigned to protect.

The rest of the day is lost in sorrow, our Leinster House will never be the same.

Two days later, Trace is sent to Algeria to chase down terrorists, and I go back to making arms dealers bleed.

I never did find out what happened in Las Vegas.