Chapter 5
CHAPTER FIVE
Harper
T he walls of my hotel room closed in on me hour after hour until I had no choice but to workout to preserve my sanity. Given my recent fiasco in the streets, I opt not to go for a run. Instead, I make my way downstairs to the hotel gym.
My muscles are twitching with the need to move, to release the tension coiled inside me before I go out of my mind.
The setup isn’t anything overly impressive: there are a couple of treadmills, a couple of elliptical machines, a rowing machine, and a wall of equipment, including some boxing gloves, skipping ropes, stretch bands, and a stand of free weights.
The treadmill works for what I need—mindless, repetitive motion to exhaust my body while my mind is free to work.
With my earbuds in and my settings locked on a pace that will keep my body moving, the steady rhythm of my feet hitting the belt becomes white noise. I let my mind spin in a dozen different directions without reining it in.
When I left the big Irish hulk in the hotel lobby, I went straight to Anton’s room, and laid it all out—the botched plan, the fight in the alley, the lost opportunity.
I didn’t sugarcoat it or make excuses. Our chance to move forward evaporated before my eyes and there was nothing I could do about it.
He didn’t take it well.
Not that I expected him to.
He paced, cursing under his breath, tugging at his hair as his fear and frustration for his sister broke free.
He got angry, and I took it.
He ranted, and I let him vent.
He’s trying to save his sister, and I understand the desperation clawing at him. I feel it, too.
But while Anton is still hoping to find Zhara alive, I’m not so na?ve to believe there’s a happy ending in store for me and mine.
Macie and Chantal have been missing for months.
Either they’re dead, or they’ve been drugged and trafficked to some other part of the world, their former identities erased. The odds of me finding them are slim to none. I know this. I’ve accepted this.
That reality settled into my bones months ago.
I don’t have hope—but I do have determination. If I can’t save the girls who are already gone, maybe I can stop this from happening to someone else.
That was the whole point of coming here, of spending time getting inside Liverpool’s underworld, of finding out who Jamie works for, and of using myself as bait to figure out how deep this operation runs.
I was so close .
Then the big Irish idiot came storming in with his fists flying, and now Jamie and his boss will be on high alert. Weeks of groundwork lost, gone in an instant because some stranger decided to play hero.
I press my finger against the speed button and click it up a notch. My legs are burning, but I’ve got so much pent-up frustration, I need to burn it off so I can think.
Sweat trickles down my spine, and my lungs start to protest. I push through it. Physical pain is easier to manage than emotional turmoil.
I’ve left Jamie two messages already. The first was a panicked apology with me making a point that I didn’t know who that man was or why he came in fists flying. The second was calmer. I simply asked that he call me when he got a chance.
Not that I expect him to get back to me. I’ve now slipped into the ‘too desperate’ column and he’ll be wary of my motives.
Because, why would any normal tourist walk back into a situation like that?
They wouldn’t.
There’s always a way to gain access to new sources. I just have to think of the angle that’ll get me there.
The steady pounding of my sneakers on the track of the treadmill keeps me in the zone. There’s a rhythm to it. A soothing repetition of something rote that occupies my body and frees my mind.
It sharpens the chaos of my problem-solving skills.
Today went totally sideways and I need to regroup.
Who the hell was that guy?
I close my eyes, but that’s a mistake because now I’m picturing him. The fury in those emerald eyes. The tension in those broad shoulders. The way his muscled frame exploded in the fight—a storm breaking loose, wild and unstoppable, his body a weapon honed by an instinct to protect the damsel in distress.
Not that I needed his help.
I had everything under control until he burst onto the scene and ruined everything.
I can still feel his grip on my arm, firm but not bruising, despite him escorting me away from the fight and into the alley like a ball of rage and muscle. His fingers were calloused—working hands—not soft office hands.
The idea of him working in an office is laughable. I can’t picture it. He’s more likely a construction foreman or a high-priced bodyguard or something.
The sheer size of him… and the way his voice curled around his words, deep and rough, edged with that thick Irish brogue… He is next-level hot and is likely used to women melting into panting puddles at his feet.
Other women, that is. Women who don’t have a job to do, who can afford to be distracted by a six-foot-five wall of pure masculine perfection.
The heave of his chest as we argued about him following me had my body zinging with electricity. That man is raw power barely contained. He’s trouble.
Dangerous. Angry. Aggressive.
I felt it when I touched his heaving chest—I felt him .
The air between us snapped tight. It was electric… or maybe combustible. Like one wrong move between us could ignite something I wouldn’t be able to control.
I hate not being in control.
My heart shudders in my chest and I curse myself for letting my hormones get the better of me. Yes, he’s a perfect specimen of a man, but I refuse to let hormones dictate my life.
There was a lot of adrenaline pumping in the moment. I’m quite sure I wouldn’t have given him a second glance if he hadn’t just overturned my world.
I laugh at myself. Okay, I totally would’ve given him a once over—any hot-blooded female would—but I if not for the adrenaline of the moment, I wouldn’t be replaying our interaction on a constant mental loop.
The fact remains, his interference ruined my plans.
I push the stop button on the treadmill as that reality sucker punches me in the gut. I’m back to square one.
As the track slows to a stop, I get off, grab my towel, and start walking off my workout. My legs feel like jelly, but it’s a good kind of exhaustion—the kind that means I’ve pushed myself and am stronger for it.
That doesn’t mean I’m any less salty about my day.
The frustration of losing my chance with Jamie and his boss hits me right in the gut. I double over and stretch out my hamstrings, grabbing my ankles and touching my forehead to first one knee and then the next.
Fact: Hot Irish Guy likely nullified this attempt to get sucked into whatever trouble found Chantal, Macie, and likely Zhara.
I straighten and swing my right arm across my body, securing it at the elbow to stretch out my shoulder. As my breathing slows and my muscles settle, I think about what I learned during the chaos of the fight.
The driver called Jamie’s boss, ‘Mr. Mason’ . When I searched the name plus Liverpool, I got a dozen news articles about several members of the Mason crime family. There’s a dynasty of criminals who have their fingers in everything from drugs to extortion to embezzlement.
Allegedly, of course.
It took me less than ten minutes to ID the man I almost met as Edward Mason, or Eddie the Eel as he’s known on the streets.
He’s the nephew of James Mason, the head of the Liverpool crime family. Eddie has a criminal record going back to his rebellious teens.
Assault. Drugs. Extortion. Weapons charges.
No convictions—of course. Because that’s how he got the name Eddie the Eel.
He’s too slippery and slimy to pin anything on.
Fact: Eddie Mason owns the speakeasy.
Over the course of my afternoon, burning through the frustration of the day, I dug into the dummy corporations and shell companies tied to the address of the gentlemen’s club and illegal casino.
I don’t have the inside connections to follow the money through the labyrinth of false fronts and fake names, but I’m good at extrapolating the most likely scenarios and making educated guesses as to how those connections work.
And while the two clubs are technically part of the Mason holdings, Eddie is the point man. And even though the local police have raided the place a half-dozen times, when the dust settles, there’s nothing illegal happening and no charges are laid.
Of course not. That would be too easy.
I shake out my arms and continue to let my mind spin. Jamie Rowan—and likely a dozen other hot bad boys—smooth-talk their targets, and then traipse the women through the nightclub, gentlemen’s club, and the casino.
If the women spark interest, they approach them and then…
I sigh. That’s what I’d know if Hot Irish Guy hadn’t stuck his fists into my business. Patting my face with the towel, I grab my water bottle and head back upstairs.
I became an investigative reporter because I like to unravel mysteries. I’ll figure out how Eddie Mason’s sex trafficking ring works… and how Hot Irish Guy fits in.
* * *
Bryan
I crouch behind a rusted chain-link fence, eyes locked on the small brick house a few yards away. It’s the third one we’ve checked tonight, and I’m running out of patience. My knuckles are white from gripping the fence too hard, my faith in this intel dissolving more with each passing moment.
Kieran’s contact said he knew a few addresses which had been used by local law enforcement as safehouses. He thought one of them might be where Siobhan would be kept. Wrong.
I tighten my grip on the metal, scanning the windows for movement. Nothing. Just like the last place.
Just like the one before that.
Kieran shifts beside me, exhaling quietly. “Sorry, mate. This is shite.”
No argument.
The first place we checked had been a dead end—just an empty house with dust-covered furniture and a padlocked fridge. The second? A bust, too. It was occupied, but not by the people we were searching for. Not unless Siobhan is being protected by an elderly couple watching the telly with the volume cranked so high we could hear it from outside.
Now we’re here. The last of the three.
And if this one doesn’t pan out, I’m back to square fucking one. The thought of striking out again today makes my jaw clench so tight I feel a headache taking root behind my eyes.
I stretch my neck and cast a glance down the block.
Logan leans against the SUV parked a block away, keeping watch while Kieran and I move up. He wasn’t thrilled about tonight’s plan—he’s still running hot about my poor behavior this morning—but I don’t have the luxury of playing nice. Not when there’s so much at stake.
Siobhan not only killed our father, she knows the ins and outs of our family and our business.
She needs to be found.
She needs to be silenced.
I adjust the fit of my gloves, the leather stretching across my scabbed knuckles, then nod toward the fence. “I’m going over.”
Kieran huffs. “Might as well. The sooner we strike out, the sooner we get to eat and call it a night.”
The resignation in his voice grates on my already frayed nerves, but I push past it. If there’s a chance she could be here, I’ll check it out. No stone left unturned.
Planting a hand on the metal rail, I haul myself up and over. The chain-link rattles, protesting under my weight, but I make it over without much fuss. I land in a crouch on the other side.
The house is dark except for a faint glow coming from a back window. I move low, my gun drawn, my boots silent against the frost-covered grass as I cross the yard. My pulse kicks up as I approach the window, keeping my movements tight, controlled.
I reach the frame and glance inside.
The room is empty.
It’s a small kitchen with a cheap wooden table and a few mugs left haphazardly by the sink. No sign of guards, no sign of Siobhan, no sign of anything useful.
I continue along the house, peering in the bathroom, the den, and then the front windows. It’s all the same, empty and abandoned house.
My hands clench into fists as I fight to keep my beastly side from breaking free.
Another dead end.
I push away from the front window, jaw tight as I scan the yard one more time before making my way back to the fence. I vault over it just as smoothly as I came in, landing beside Kieran, who gives me a look.
I shake my head.
Nothing.
Logan’s leaning against the SUV, his arms crossed. He raises a brow as we approach. “So? Will I be blessed with your triumphant exit anytime soon?”
The sarcasm in his tone makes me bristle with an overwhelming urge to punch something—or some one . I shove past him, yanking open the passenger door. “Drive.”
Kieran gets in the back while Logan slides into the driver’s seat with a sigh, turning the key in the ignition. The engine hums to life, and the glow from the streetlights flickers across the windshield as we pull away.
I scrub a hand over my face, the scratch of stubble rough against my palm. Then, I take a steadying breath and pull out my phone.
Time to admit things aren’t going to plan.
Tag picks up on the third ring. “Tell me. Have you made the world a better place?”
I exhale through my nose. “Not yet.”
“Well, it’s only been two days. You’ll get the job done. I have all the faith in you, brother.”
I wish I did. “Can you talk to Drake? Maybe he has an idea about who we can talk to or where we should look.”
“ That bad is it?”
“Aye, we’ve been chasing shadows for two days. We’re late to the game here, T. That’s why I thought maybe Drake might point us toward some of his old buddies in the local organizations.”
I stare out at the passing streets, fighting the urge to slam my fist into the dashboard. Why should the SUV suffer for our shitty day?
Tag exhales, and I hear movement on the other end. “I’ll ask him first chance I get. Now, what’s this I hear about you throwing elbows with Eddie Mason?”
I drag a hand through my hair, glancing out the window as the city blurs past. “My bad. He and one of his lackeys were scooping a woman off the street in broad daylight. Knowing how he runs his business…well, I couldn’t stomach watching it happen without stepping up. I kept thinking about Nora and her friend in that cage. About how close Brenny came to losing her to assholes like that.”
I know the pain of losing the woman you love. The agony. The emptiness. I wouldn’t wish it on anyone. There’s no way I could sit there and watch it happen.
“Aye, I understand the impulse. Bad blood fucks us over pretty bad, but I get it. Stay out of their way from now on though, yeah?”
“I’ll do my best.” Which isn’t a promise, and Tag knows it.
The line muffles as Tag speaks to someone on the other end. “Brendan wants to know if the woman you saved showed you her undying gratitude for sticking your neck out.”
I rub a hand over my stubbled cheek, probing the tender spot where her fist connected. “If her slamming a right cross into my face and making me see stars is a symbol of her gratitude, then aye, she did.”
“Come again? She sucker punched you?”
“Aye,” I drop my jaw and test the ache of the damage done. “She didn’t appreciate me making her look bad in front of the men trying to kidnap her or some shit. I don’t fucking know. Women be batshit.”
Although the punch had been impressive—perfect form and surprising explosive power.
There’s no missing my twin’s laughter booming in the background.
Tag chuckles. “Brenny wants me to ask if Kieran can get any CCTV footage of the lass clocking you.”
I roll my eyes. “We’re almost back to the hotel. Let me know what Drake says.”
“Aye, I’ll ring you back once I speak with him.”
The line goes dead, and I drop the phone onto my lap, letting my head fall back against the seat. The leather is cool against my neck, offering small relief from the tension building there.
Nothing about this is going the way I need it to.
Maybe the gods will take pity on me and tomorrow will be a better day.
It couldn’t be much worse.