22. Cillian
CILLIAN
T he safe house is twenty minutes north of Boston, hidden among thick woods. I park beside Eamon's black BMW, noting the two guards flanking the entrance. My brother waits for justice. Orla will deliver it.
"Ready?" I ask as we approach the door.
Orla checks her gun one final time. "Yes."
The guards nod as we enter. Inside, the main room holds sparse furniture—couch, table, chairs. Functional, not comfortable. Eamon sits by the window, staring at nothing.
He looks up when we enter. His face shows exhaustion, guilt, acceptance. This is a man preparing to die.
"Orla." He stands, hands visible. "Thank you for coming."
She studies him like a predator evaluating prey. "You killed my father."
"Yes." No denial. No excuses. "Vincent Collins told me your father planned to expose our entire operation to federal authorities. Said he threatened the family."
"And you believed him."
"I was twenty-two. Stupid. Desperate to prove myself." Eamon's voice carries seven years of regret. "I didn't question orders from my father's right hand."
Orla moves closer. "Tell me how it happened."
I watch this confrontation unfold, ready to intervene if needed. But Orla deserves this moment.
"Collins gave me an address. A photo. Said your father was meeting with FBI handlers that night." Eamon meets her eyes. "I broke into your house. Found him at his desk, working late. When he saw me, he asked if I was there about the missing money."
"The missing money," Orla repeats.
"I didn't know what he meant. Collins said your father was stealing from us, then turned informant when caught." Eamon's hands clench. "Your father tried to explain. Said Collins was embezzling, that he had proof. I thought it was lies to save his life."
"So you shot him."
"Once. In the head. Quick." Eamon swallows hard. "He didn't suffer."
Orla's gun appears in her hand so fast I barely see the movement. Pointed at Eamon's chest. Her finger rests on the trigger.
"Seven years," she says. "Seven years I've planned this moment."
Eamon doesn't move. "I'm ready."
Silence fills the room. Guards outside remain unaware of the execution about to happen. I could stop her. Should stop her. Eamon is family.
But justice has its own demands.
"Do it," Eamon says quietly. "I deserve worse."
Orla's hand shakes. The gun wavers. "My father believed in justice, not revenge."
"Sometimes they're the same thing."
"No." She lowers the weapon slightly. "They're not."
My phone rings, shattering the moment. Jackson's number.
"What?" I answer, annoyed at the interruption.
"We have a problem. Three black SUVs just hit Orla's apartment building. Witnesses say armed men went straight to her floor."
Ice fills my veins. "When?"
"Twenty minutes ago. Building's surrounded now. Cops think it's a home invasion."
I look at Orla, who watches me with growing alarm.
"They're looking for you," I tell her. "Your apartment."
"But I'm here."
"The Donovans don't know that." Understanding hits me. "They think you're home. Collins must have given them your address before he died."
Jackson's voice continues through the phone. "Cillian, there's more. They took someone. Female, matches Orla's description from a distance."
My blood turns cold. "Who?"
"Building manager says a woman was visiting apartment 3B. Auburn hair, same height and build."
Orla grabs my arm. "Sarah. My cousin Sarah was supposed to stay there this week while I was... while I was working the case."
"They took your cousin," I say.
Eamon stands. "They'll kill her when they realize their mistake."
Orla spins toward him. "This is your fault. All of it. If you hadn't killed my father?—"
"You're right." Eamon grabs his jacket. "Which is why I'm coming to get her back."
"Like hell."
"She's there because of me. Because I started this mess seven years ago." Eamon checks his gun. "I owe you this."
I step between them. "We all go. Together."
"Why?" Orla demands. "She's not your blood."
"No. But you are mine now. Which makes her mine too."
The words hang in the air. Orla stares at me, something shifting in her eyes.
"We don't have time for this," I continue. "Every minute we waste is another minute they hurt an innocent woman."
Orla holsters her gun. "Fine. But after we get Sarah back, this conversation continues."
"Understood," Eamon says.
We load into my car—unlikely allies bound by guilt and necessity. During the drive back to the city, I call Jackson.
"Donovan's got the girl at his warehouse. West side. Bring everyone."
"How many boys?" Jackson asks.
"All of them."
I hang up and focus on driving. Beside me, Orla stares out the window. In the back, Eamon cleans his gun with methodical precision.
"Your cousin," I ask. "What's she like?"
"Stubborn. Smart. Looks enough like me to fool strangers." Orla's voice tightens. "She's a teacher. Never hurt anyone in her life."
"She'll be okay," I say. "We'll get her back."
"You don't know that."
"I know the Donovans. They want information, not blood. Sarah's safe until they realize she can't give them what they want."
"And then?"
I don't answer that question.
Twenty minutes later, we arrive at an abandoned factory two blocks from Donovan territory. Jackson meets us with weapons and building plans he pulled from city records.
"Eight guys inside the warehouse," he reports. "Your cousin's in the office area with three watching her."
Orla studies the building layout. "Ways in?"
"Three. Front door, loading dock in back, old storm drain on the east side."
I point to the drain. "Eamon and I take the tunnel. Orla stays here with Jackson."
"No." Orla's voice cuts like steel. "I'm going in."
"Too risky."
"She's my blood. My problem." Orla meets my eyes. "And I can handle myself."
True, though I hate admitting it. She moves with her gun like she was born holding one.
"Fine. But I call the shots inside."
"Deal."
We load up with vests and guns. Eamon checks his piece with steady hands.
"Remember," I tell everyone, "we get the girl and get out. No heroes."
As we prepare to move, my phone buzzes with a video message. I play it on speaker.
A young woman sits bound to a metal chair. Auburn hair, green eyes, same stubborn chin as Orla. Blood runs from her nose. Her lip is split.
"Two hours," Donovan's voice says from behind the camera. "Shipping routes for your south harbor facility, or she dies. Slowly."
The video ends.
Orla stares at the phone. "They're hurting her."
"Not for much longer," I promise.
We reach the storm drain entrance. Dark water flows beneath the street, carrying the smell of rust and garbage. The tunnel runs straight toward the warehouse.
"Everyone ready?" I ask.
"Jackson here. Boys are in position."
"We're set," comes another voice.
"Place looks quiet. You're good to move."
I look at Orla and Eamon. Strange partners for this job. A woman hunting justice, a killer wanting forgiveness, and me trying to protect what's mine.
"Let's get her back," I say.
We enter the tunnel, moving toward whatever waits ahead.
Behind us, the city goes about its business, not knowing that Sarah Kelly's life depends on what happens in the next hour—and that saving her might be the first step toward healing seven years of pain.