24. Ruairí #2
The only one who doesn't is me, and maybe Keira, wherever she is.
By evening, Niamh gets word from Brussels.
"The Italians think you're vulnerable."
The message is clear—our little theater has gone international, and the first act is over.
Now comes the blood.
Lena asks, "You think Keira is safe?"
I say, "She's safer now than she was yesterday."
At this point, Lena gets a call.
She moves quickly to listen, head cocked, then slams the phone down on the table and spits a string of curses.
"It's started," she says, no preamble.
"O'Duinn's people are moving. Full audit on the Donnelly accounts, tonight."
Niamh looks up from her phone, face unreadable.
"Which ones?"
"All of them."
Lena swipes the hair from her face, rainwater flicking onto the table.
"They're calling it ‘reclaiming misallocated assets.' But it's a hit. They're stripping every front, every shell company, every safe house on the list. Half the crews are already in the vans."
I stand, my chair grating against the tiles.
"Customs?"
"Paid off. They'll sit on their hands while the shipments get ‘seized'. If we move anything through the port, it's gone."
Niamh leans in, fingers laced.
"What about the warehouses on Sheriff Street? "
"First stop," Lena says.
"They've already hit two. No resistance yet, but the third one is ours. If they find what's in it?—"
"They won't," I say, though I'm not sure.
Niamh's voice is almost amused.
"You think Padraig's clever enough to coordinate this without help?"
"Doesn't matter," I say.
"It's already in motion."
There's a knock at the door, soft but insistent—two, then one, then two.
The old code.
I go to the peephole, check, then open.
Fiachra steps in, shoulders hunched against the weather, eyes wild and unfocused.
He reeks of cigarettes and bad coffee.
"They're here," he says.
"Sheriff Street. Four vans, six men per, at least two with shotties. They're not wearing colors, but it's O'Duinn's boys. I saw Liam with them."
"Liam?" Lena asks.
"Liam," he repeats, like it's a diagnosis.
We move fast.
Lena grabs the pistols off the hooks, tosses one to Niamh, keeps the other for herself.
Niamh sets out for the headquarters so she can keep an eye on Keira.
Fiachra checks the clip on the subcompact, slides it into the holster at his ankle.
I check the magazine on the shotgun, then throw it in a duffel with three extra shells.
The street is empty except for the rain, but I feel eyes in every window, every alley.
We pile into the car—a battered Ford with half the paint scraped off—and Lena drives, gunning the engine like it owes her money.
Fiachra rides shotgun, head on a swivel.
The city blurs by in streaks of sodium and neon.
At every light, I expect a van to pull alongside, a gun to appear in the window.
But nothing happens, not yet.
Lena kills the headlights two blocks from the warehouse.
We park in the shadow of a burned-out supermarket, engine running.
I take inventory—four bodies, six guns, no plan.
Perfect odds .
Fiachra cracks the window, takes a drag, and says, "You ever regret it?"
I know what he means, but I pretend not to.
"Regret what?"
He grins, teeth bared.
"All of it."
I shrug.
"Regret's for people with time."
He nods, satisfied.
The warehouse is a slab of concrete, graffiti tagged in layers so thick the original color is a mystery.
The only light comes from a single security bulb over the loading bay.
Through the rain, I see shadows—men moving, the shapes of weapons cradled close.
Lena checks her watch, then turns to me.
"You want to go in loud or soft?"
"Loud," I say.
"Always loud."
We get out, moving in a line.
The rain is a curtain, muffling the sound of our footsteps.
We cross the lot, hugging the shadows, until we're twenty meters from the target.
Fiachra points.
"Second story window. Two lookouts."
I glance up, spot the gleam of a cigarette tip.
"They're bored."
"Not for long," Fiachra says.
We spread out, each taking a side.
I go for the loading bay, shotgun ready, heart pounding so hard it's almost a voice in my head.
I count to three, then kick the door.
It buckles but holds.
Again, harder.
This time, it pops open, and I'm inside, sweeping left to right, barrel up.
There are four men in the entry, all in work jackets, all with the O'Duinn build—beefy, sallow, eyes flat as pond water.
They look up slowly, then realize what's happening.
None of them expected me to still be in the city.
Just like Keira and I had planned at the onset when we decided to go through with this breakup.
I fire once, into the ceiling.
Plaster rains down.
They freeze.
"Back wall," I say.
"Hands up."
They comply, more out of confusion than fear.
Lena and Fiachra take the stairs running.
I hear a scuffle, then a scream.
The lookouts go down without a shot.
I move through the warehouse, past stacks of crates and pallets.
At the far end, two men are crouched by the office door, arguing in whispers.
I step into the light, gun leveled.
"Drop it," I say.
They hesitate, then do.
Fiachra appears at my shoulder, blood on his knuckles but nowhere else.
He smiles.
We gather the men, tie their hands with cable from a spool on the floor.
Lena checks the crates, then gives a thumbs up—nothing touched, nothing missing.
"Now what?" she asks.
I walk to the office, boot the door.
Inside, the safe is open, papers scattered everywhere.
Someone's been through it, but they left in a hurry.
I pick up a folder, flip through the pages.
It's all ledgers, inventories, nothing useful.
Except one sheet—a list of addresses, each with a date and time.
The next one is tonight.
The Donnelly house.
I hold it up.
"This is the real play."
Lena reads over my shoulder, then nods.
"Liam's going in."
Which means he's taken the bait and is going there to talk Keira into some form of an alliance or kill her for refusing it.
Time is running out, and I realize that this is the closest in my life that I've come to experiencing something that is so close to fear.