Chapter 20
CHAPTER TWENTY
Bryan
T he rain has let up a little by the time I ease the stolen BMW into the gravel lot behind the roadside inn. The Range Rover is right where I left it, hidden from the outdoor lights by the shade of an ancient English Oak.
The interior of the SUV is black as the night sky, the only light visible being the heater of Kieran’s cigarette where he sits behind the wheel.
I slide the shifter into park and pop the latch for the boot. “I’ll move the bags over. You get out of the rain.”
“All right.” Harper gives me a soft smile, pulls her door handle, and rolls out of the car.
Something’s off with her. She barely said two words the whole way here and quiet isn’t a word I would usually use to describe her.
As I wipe down the inside of the car on the passenger’s side, her mood shift irritates me more than it should. If things go my way, I’m closing in on avenging my father. That is where my head needs to be at.
The fact that I’m running through the things I said and did since the hotel incites a bone-deep irritation. We sure the fuck aren’t dating, so I don’t owe her anything.
Honestly, the way she leapt into my arms and wrapped herself around me, flooded me with the simmering anger I’ve been suffering for years.
Usually, I ease it with sex or violence.
Considering sex is what seems to have muddied the waters, I’m thinking it would be smarter to beat someone bloody.
Hopefully, it’s Siobhan.
Once I’m sure the dash, seats, door, and handle will never be tied back to Harper, I get out to start transferring our bags to the back of the Range Rover.
When I raise the back door of the SUV, Kieran meets my gaze in the rearview mirror. “Welcome back.”
“Did I miss anything?”
“Not a fucking thing.”
“Grand. Then we’ll figure out our next steps once I return the car.”
The stolen car needs to go back with no signs of tampering to not raise flags. I’m not trying to add Grand Theft Auto to the list of charges law enforcement would love to pin on me.
I ignore the icy rain pelting down on the back of my leather jacket as I transfer the luggage, and the bags of equipment Kieran bought on his shopping spree. Kieran comes out to lend a hand, his movements efficient but tight.
He tilt’s his head toward Harper sitting in the back seat. “All good?”
The fuck if I know. She’s still riding the edge of whatever’s been bugging her since the hotel. I grunt and give him a shrug. “I’ll drop the car and be back.”
Kieran nods and jogs to get back into the vehicle.
Harper twists back to look at me. There’s something in her eyes—curiosity, worry—not sure.
I slam the SUV’s hatch shut.
I slide back into the stolen car and pull out onto the road, tires crunching over loose gravel. The vehicle is quiet except for the ticking of the engine cooling and the sound of my own thoughts, loud and relentless.
Maybe bringing Harper into this was a mistake.
She’s brave—no doubt—but she’s not trained for this and not used to falling on the wrong side of the law. If me stealing a car shut her down, what will me coming home with bits of skull and gray matter on my boots do to her?
And why am I even wondering? It’s stupid. We barely know each other. It’s just proximity. Shared danger. Sexual tension. Chemistry.
But the way she leapt into my arms and wrapped herself around me felt…
I pull the car into the quiet lot beside the dealership and park it where I found it. After giving the interior a quick wipe down, I go back to the sales booth, let myself in, and leave the keys hanging on the little hook where I found them.
I don’t linger. Just lock the door from the inside, slip out, and vanish into the shadows. Once I’m sure I’m out of any possible surveillance camera feed, I double back and beat feet back to the motel.
Odds are, no one will ever know I borrowed the car. And if they notice the discrepancy of milage, hopefully it’ll be days or weeks down the line and I’ll be back in Dublin and long gone.
By the time I’m closing in on the Range Rover sitting in the shadows under the tree, the hair on the back of my neck prickles.
Harper and Kieran are arguing.
I slide into the back seat next to Harper and close the door behind me. “What’s going on?”
Harper crosses her arms, glaring at Kieran. “You need to ID the person in that hotel room before backup arrives or they recover enough from their injuries to get moving, right?”
“Aye, that’s the gist of things.”
“Well, the fastest way to ID her is for me to knock on the door and look inside.”
I blink, my hands balling into fists. “Not going to fucking happen.”
Her jaw tightens, and I see her holding back the words she wants to fling at me. I know that look. She hates being shut down. Hates being underestimated.
“No,” I repeat as sternly.
My phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull it out, check the screen—Brendan. I sigh and leave the truck, stepping back into the shadows under the tree. “Again, so soon. Do you miss me, brother?”
My twin snorts on the other end of the call. “Like a bad habit. Nah. We saw the compound go up on the camera feed you sent us and haven’t heard from you.”
Ah, right. “Been a busy night. We followed the two men left standing after the firefight. We’re outside a roadside inn, about to confirm the target they secured.”
There’s a pause on the other end. “Siobhan?”
“Unconfirmed, but if it is, this will be over tonight.”
“Safe home, brother. Keep us posted. And if shit goes sideways, call in backup.”
I hang up and tuck the phone away, sliding back into the SUV. Only…Harper’s not here.
Every muscle in my body snaps tight. “Where the fuck is she?”
He glances up from his phone, brows raised. “Went into the lobby. Said she needed the toilet.”
“And you believed her?”
“Fuck you, Bryan. I’m not her fucking babysitter. She said she needed to piss. I watched her go into the lobby. End of story.”
But I already know that’s not the end of it.
Because as I scowl toward the lobby entrance, I see her walking along the front of the building, a stack of folded towels in her arms like she’s on staff.
Her chin is up, her gait is smooth, and she walks straight up to the room our mercenary kidnappers disappeared into like she fucking belongs there.
“Fucking hell.”
* * *
Harper
I lift my hand and knock twice.
The towels are warm in my arms, fresh from the dryer, with a white, metal first aid kit perched on top. My heart’s thudding so hard I feel it behind my eyes, but I keep my face blank, my spine straight.
I’m just a hotel employee dropping off supplies.
The door creaks open and a brute of a man—late thirties, thick neck, close-cropped hair—fills the space, blocking my view of the room behind him. He stands, shoulders squared and eyes me up like I’m a threat and an inconvenience all at once.
He doesn’t speak. Just scowls. Measuring.
“You called the desk and asked for more towels and a first aid kit?” I offer, with just enough polite confusion to make it sound routine.
I know they did.
I was at the front desk chatting with the girl—Lacey, according to her name tag—when the call came through.
Lacey was flustered, dealing with an angry customer trying to make a last-minute change to their room. She promised she’d drop the stuff off shortly but it didn’t seem like that would be anytime soon.
I offered to take it and drop it off for her.
Aren’t I helpful?
The man’s gaze narrows, lingering on my face a second longer than I’d like. I keep my chin up, breathing slow. Innocent. Harmless. Forgettable.
His eyes drop to the bundle in my arms. He sees the towels, and the white box with the red cross on top. That seems to satisfy whatever mental checklist he’s running.
He opens the door wider and shifts back to reach for my offerings. And just like that, his angle shifts and over his shoulder, across the darkened motel room, I see the mirror above the dresser.
And in the mirror, I see her.
A flash of red hair against a cheap floral bedspread. Her back is to me, but I’d know that hair anywhere. It’s a shade of auburn that doesn’t come out of a box—deep and rich and wildly untamed. She’s lying on her side, facing away, asleep or pretending to be.
But it’s her.
I bite down on the inside of my cheek so hard I taste blood. My hands don’t tremble. My face doesn’t crack.
I’m good at pretending.
He grabs the bundle from my arms without a thank you and starts to close the door. I pivot without hesitation and head back toward the lobby. Not fast. Not suspicious. Just another errand done.
If he’s watching me, I don’t feel it.
The urge to sprint across the lot to Bryan and Kieran nearly rips through me. But I don’t.
I make it to the office door, push it open like I belong there, and step inside. I raise a thumb to Lacey behind the registration desk, then count three breaths, before I slip back out and make my way to the truck.
My stride is casual, though my legs feel like jelly.
I faked out the mercenary who kidnapped the woman this whole operation hinges upon.
And I didn’t get myself killed.
Bryan is fuming when I climb into the back seat. His face is thundercloud dark, his chiseled jaw clenched, his broad shoulders rigid. He looks like he wants to throttle me, but I don’t let him burst my bubble.
“It’s her,” I say, before he can open that furious mouth and ruin my triumphant mood. “Siobhan’s in there. I saw her reflection in the mirror behind the guy who opened the door. She’s lying on the bed.”
He freezes.
The anger dims in his eyes—doesn’t disappear, but it flickers. His jaw remains clenched as his gaze narrows and his fingers flex against his thigh. “I said, no.”
“And I said, it was the fastest and easiest way to get the ID. Whether those are McGuire men, or a tactical force hired by that Gravely guy, they don’t know me. Now, I got what you needed. What’s next?”