Chapter 2
CHAPTER TWO
Bryan
T he sterile air of Gatwick Airport is a sharp contrast to the thick, whiskey-drenched atmosphere of the Quinn family war room. Everything here is polished, orderly. Deceptively civilized.
I roll my shoulders, fighting the restless energy that always builds when I’m forced into waiting. Patience isn’t my strong suit. I prefer problems I can hit—solve with my fists—but for now, this mission requires precision.
A slow, strategic hunt.
Beside me, Kieran stretches with an easy sigh, arms over his head like he just woke from a nap instead of stepping into enemy territory. The bastard always looks relaxed, even when he’s walking into trouble.
Maybe it’s his gift of the gab—the guy could talk his way out of a grave.
Or maybe it’s because he enjoys stirring the pot just as much as I enjoy breaking bones.
The two of us make our way toward the exit where our contact from the Watson crime family is waiting. The moment we step through the glass doors, our greeter peels away from a black SUV, watching us approach with a calm, assessing gaze.
He’s tall, broad, and well put together in a tailored gray overcoat that speaks of old money and silent power.
A man accustomed to control.
A Londoner through and through.
“You must be the Quinn boys,” he says, his voice smooth as a poured pint. “I was told to expect muscle, but Christ, they didn’t mention you’d be fresh off a cage fight.” His eyes flick to me, landing on the bruises along my knuckles.
I lift a brow. “And you are?”
“Logan Fletcher.” He extends a hand. “I’m your guide, your handler, and the unfortunate bastard assigned to keep you from making a mess of London business while you chase your vendetta.”
Kieran snorts, clapping Logan’s outstretched hand with a firm shake. “Vendettas are a Quinn family business, mate. It’s what we do best.”
Logan’s lips twitch. “Right, so I’ve heard.” His gaze shifts to me. “Bryan Quinn.” He says my name like it carries weight, like he’s heard the stories. Most men have. “I assume you know the rules?”
“We stay out of your business, you stay out of ours,” I say flatly.
“Smart lad.” Logan nods toward the SUV. “Come on, let’s get moving. You’re attracting attention.”
We pile into the vehicle, Logan sliding into the driver’s seat while Kieran and I take the back. The leather is soft beneath me, but I can already feel the itch of impatience working its way under my skin.
I don’t want to be sitting in a car. I want to be closing the distance between me and Siobhan-fucking-Daley.
Logan pulls onto the road, glancing at us through the rearview mirror. “So, where are we headed?”
Kieran leans back, stretching his arm over the back seat like he owns the damn car. “I’ve got a man we need to meet up with. An informant who’s got eyes on certain movements within your fair city.”
Logan hums, drumming his fingers against the steering wheel. “And this informant—does he have a name?”
Kieran’s grin is sharp. “Not one you need to worry about.”
A chuckle slips from Logan, low and knowing. “Fair enough.”
I shift in my seat, rolling the tension from my neck. Every second wasted is another second Siobhan is breathing the same fucking air as people I care about.
The thought claws at me, a slow-burning fury winding through my chest. She killed Da. She betrayed us all. And now she’s hiding behind a task force like it’ll save her.
But it won’t.
The city presses in around us as Logan maneuvers through the streets, weaving past black cabs and double-decker buses. The farther we get from Gatwick, the heavier the air feels—too many people, too many unknowns.
Dublin is chaos, but it’s our chaos.
This? This is a different kind of battlefield.
Kieran, unfazed as ever, slouches in the backseat, flicking through his phone like we’re not in the middle of a goddamn manhunt.
“Where am I going next?” Logan’s gaze flicks to the rearview mirror.
“Left at the next side street. He says there’s a brick warehouse by the train bridge.”
Logan takes the left and drives toward the overpass bridge at the end. “I hope this guy is as good as you think. I don’t want to be your chauffeur any longer than I have to.”
Kieran smirks. “Oh, he’s worth it. My guy’s been running tech for half of lowlife London since before I had chest hair. He can fence goods, manipulate CCTV, and get into places most people can’t. But for the right price…” he winks, “he can do just about anything.”
Logan exhales through his nose. “And here I thought you Irish liked to do things the old-fashioned way. Rough up a few blokes, crush some skulls, shoot some kneecaps?—”
I grunt. “That’s where I come in. That’s phase two.”
Logan chuckles, slowing down to pull to the side along a chain-link fence. “I’m looking forward to that. Much more my speed.”
Kieran reaches for the handle and steps out into the mid-morning chill. “Lenny can get a bit dodgy. He manages to stay alive because he’s useful. He ain’t my friend, but he is my contact, so play nice. Och, and watch your wallets.”
The front of the brick warehouse has a graffiti-tagged metal door wedged between two shuttered storefronts. The whole place stinks of piss and fried food. Not the kind of neighborhood you come to by accident.
I rub a hand over my nose to lessen the stench stinging my sinuses. “You take me to the nicest places.”
Kieran meets my gaze and grins. “Come on, big guy. Let’s go make you a new friend.”
I follow, my boots crunching on wet pavement.
Logan stays at my side, pulling the collar of his coat up as he mutters. “What the fuck did I do to deserve this?”
I chuckle. “How the fuck should I know? Did you fuck the wrong woman? Piss in someone’s beer?”
Logan arches a dark brow and scoffs. “That’s just another Thursday night in London, mate.”
Kieran pounds twice on the metal door, then once more after a beat. A second later, a muffled curse sounds from inside, followed by the screech of rusted hinges.
The man who appears in the doorway is small, twitchy, and balding despite him looking no older than forty-five. His brown eyes are a little too close together and dart between us before he huffs. “Christ, Kieran, I keep a low profile for a reason. You could’ve warned me you were bringing half of Dublin.”
Kieran grins. “I thought I’d surprise you.”
Lenny glares, but steps back, waving us in.
The inside of his den is cluttered with wires, computer monitors, and the kind of equipment that gets you ten to life if you don’t have government clearance.
A wall of screens flickers with CCTV footage—busy London streets, car parks, and an overhead view of Gatwick’s private terminal.
Jackpot.
Lenny drops into a chair and cracks his knuckles. “Let’s make this quick. I’ve got other customers, and don’t fancy being caught helping a bunch of Paddy gangsters again. All it did was piss off the cops and make my life difficult last time.”
Kieran drapes an arm over Lenny’s chair, all easy charm. “You still crying over that? Come on, mate. What’s a little treason between friends?”
Lenny grumbles, but his fingers still fly across the keyboard. “What are we looking for?”
I step closer. “A woman. All the curves. Red hair. She was escorted through Gatwick in protective custody. Private plane. Here’s the date and time.”
I hand him the slip of paper Finny gave me with the details as closely as he could figure.
His fingers click over the keys. It takes a few minutes, but soon enough he’s pulling up a zoomed-in, high-res feed of a black sedan rolling through a private hangar gate.
Kieran taps the screen. “That’s our target.”
Lenny exhales through his nose. “Wow. She had a full convoy of unmarked vehicles. That’s heavy security. What did she do?”
“She killed my Da, flipped on both the Quinns and the McGuires, and signed an immunity deal to spill her fucking guts to take us down.”
Logan whistles. “Fucking hell. All that from such a pretty package.”
I grunt. “She’s a fucking viper in four-inch heels.”
Logan folds his arms and tilts his head at the monitor. “And she’s royally fucking over two major families. If the assholes running the task force have any sense at all, they’ll be expecting trouble.”
I study the screen, my pulse steady but charged. She’s here. In this city. Breathing, walking, thinking she’s safe.
She isn’t.
“The lead asshole running the witch hunt is dead. The task force will be in a bit of a scramble while that tragic tale plays out and the next in line steps up.”
Kieran leans forward and points to the screen. “What we need to do is track down Siobhan while they’re regrouping. Where did they take her, Lenny? Where did they stash the bitch?”
Lenny clicks to another screen, showing a different angle of the convoy moving through traffic. “They took her north. If they were transferring her to a government safe house, she won’t be in central London.”
Kieran cracks his knuckles. “So where is she?”
Lenny hums, pulling up more street feeds. “Well, that’s where things get tricky. See this?” He points to a timestamp on the footage. “I had them on traffic cams for the first forty minutes. Then—” He clicks, showing an empty road where the cars should have appeared next.
“They vanished,” Logan mutters.
Lenny nods. “Your target is in deep cover. No tracking, no tail. It seems they’re operating under full blackout conditions.”
Kieran scratches his jaw. “Which means what?”
I roll my muscled shoulders, the familiar weight of violence settling into my bones. “It means we’ve got a hunt on our hands.”
I glare at the last grainy image of Siobhan Daley before she disappeared.
She can run.
But she can’t hide for long.
* * *
Harper
I study my reflection in the darkened storefront window, adjusting the cuff of my cable-knit sweater as I hold my phone to my ear. The thick wool is warm against the late October chill, a shield against the hostilities I’m facing. Paired with dark jeans and ankle boots, I look like any other innocent woman exploring the streets tonight.
Good. That’s the point.
“I don’t like this,” Anton’s voice comes through the speaker, low and edged with tension.
I lean closer to the window, adjusting my bangs and the hang of the loose braid falling over my right shoulder. Scanning the reflection of the street behind me, I note the steady trickle of foot traffic.
The glow of pub signs casts flickering patches of light onto the wet pavement, but even with people around, the night feels too quiet.
Too still.
“You don’t have to like it, Anton,” I murmur, shifting my weight. “Just trust me to know my limitations.”
Anton exhales sharply. “I trust that you know how to take care of yourself. I don’t trust that Jamie Rowan plays by the same rules.”
Neither do I.
“Try not to worry.” I’m proud that my voice remains steady, but my stomach betrays me and twists with unease. I press my fingers to my temple, willing away the tension building there.
I’m fit. I’m fierce. I’m a fighter.
I draw a deep breath and repeat the words again. I’ve been training in martial arts and self-defense since I was a kid. Rock climbing, hiking, pushing my limits—that’s what I do. My body is strong. My instincts are sharp.
I know how to defend myself.
But there’s a difference between taking down an opponent on a mat, in a controlled fight, and walking into the unknown. I could be outnumbered and potentially drugged before I ever get the chance to react.
“If he tries something, I can handle it,” I add, more to bolster my confidence than his.
“If these are the people we think they are, and he tries something, you won’t get the chance to handle it. He won’t fight fair, Harper. He’ll have men around him. He’ll have contingencies.”
Anton is right, of course.
If Jamie Rowan is part of the Liverpool criminal ring kidnapping and selling women, he won’t rely on overpowering me with brute strength. He won’t have to.
The people who took Chantal, Macie, and Anton’s sister, Zhara, have power and influence. They have a system in place that allows them to acquire and move women like any other commodity on the black market.
But I can’t back down. Not if I want answers.
I focus on my reflection and harden my gaze with determination before exhaling and feigning a smile of sweet innocence.
That’s better. I look calm and cute, even if, beneath the surface, my pulse is drumming through my veins.
“You don’t have to do this, Harper.” Anton says after a beat. “We can find another way. We can try the police again. We can?—”
“The police are useless. Either they don’t care or they are looking the other way.” I shake my head, even though he can’t see me. “No. This is the way.”
A group of people spill out of the pub across the street, their laughter breaking through the silence. I pull in a slow breath, letting the sound ground me, then push away from the storefront glass.
“I have to go. I’ll check in after and knock on your door when I get back.”
“ If you get back.”
I close my eyes. “Worst pep talk ever.”
Anton sighs. “Be careful.”
I end the call and slip my phone into my pocket.
My breath fogs in the cold air as I turn toward the restaurant where Jamie Rowan is waiting. My body is loose, steady. My mind is sharp. If this goes the way I hope it will, I’ll finally be able to get some answers.
And if it doesn’t…
I tighten my hands into fists.
I’ll be ready.