Chapter 13
Thirteen
ALEXANDER MOORE
The barn fell into silence after Beatrice's departure, the air still thick with the scent of sweat, blood, and sex. My skin crawled with disgust, my body feeling like a weapon that had been turned against me. But now wasn't the time for self-pity.
"Can you move at all?" I asked Aoife, watching her hanging form with concern. Her skin had taken on an alarming pallor, the chains cutting cruelly into her wrists where dried blood formed dark rivers down her arms.
"Not much," she admitted, her voice strained. Yet, despite what she'd been through, she still somehow radiated defiance. "What's your plan?"
I twisted my wrist, feeling the restraints give slightly. "When I was younger, I broke my right wrist. Never healed quite right—gives me extra flexibility to work with. Convenient."
The plastic ties weren't professional-grade—a mistake on our captors' part. By dislocating my thumb with a practised motion I'd mastered years ago, I could potentially slip one hand free.
"You and Beatrice," Aoife said suddenly, her eyes searching mine. "What did she mean about the hunt? About the maze?"
I paused, considering how much to reveal. "It's a long story for another time."
"I'm not exactly going anywhere," she countered with dark humour, chains rattling as she shifted.
Before I could respond, the barn door creaked open. Two masked guards entered, carrying water bottles and a bucket. My muscles tensed, preparing for another round of torture.
"Boss says keep them alive," the taller one grunted. "Says they need water."
The shorter one laughed, eyeing Aoife's naked body with undisguised lust. "Pretty fancy setup. Like something from those films."
They approached me first. The taller guard held a water bottle to my lips, allowing a few precious swallows before pulling it away.
"That's enough for now," he said. "Don't want you pissing yourself."
The shorter guard moved to Aoife, water bottle in hand. Instead of offering it to her lips, he held it above her head and squeezed, sending water cascading over her face and body. She gasped at the shock of cold, but maintained her dignity.
"Give her the water properly," I growled, my voice deadly quiet.
"Shut up," the shorter guard replied, but the taller one intervened.
"Just give her the water. Boss wants them functional."
The guard—reluctantly—opened another bottle and held it roughly to Aoife's lips. She drank greedily, water spilling down her chin. When he pulled it away, she locked eyes with me briefly, and my heart tightened in my chest.
The taller guard set the bucket down near us. "For your business," he explained awkwardly. "Not that it will help. Boss says we can't unchain you, so..."
"How considerate," Aoife said, her voice dripping with sarcasm.
The shorter guard raised a hand toward her but his partner stopped him. "Let it go. We have our orders."
As they turned to leave, I catalogued every detail—faces, voices, mannerisms—committing it all to memory. When this was over, I would find them.
The guards left, locking the heavy door behind them. I returned to working my bonds, ignoring the burn of plastic cutting into my skin.
"They'll be watching," Aoife warned, her eyes darting to the corners of the barn. "Cameras."
I nodded. "Most likely, but cameras have blind spots. And Beatrice is arrogant—she thinks she's won."
Hours passed as I methodically worked at my restraints. Blood slicked down my hands, making the plastic ties slippery—a blessing and a curse.
Darkness fell, the barn illuminated only by a single weak bulb. Aoife had grown quieter, her breathing more laboured, head occasionally dropping forward before jerking herself awake.
"Stay with me," I urged. "Talk to me, Aoife. Tell me about Paris."
Her head lifted slightly. "What about Paris?"
"Your art studio. The secret one."
The ghost of a smile touched her lips. "How did you know about that?"
"I make it my business to know things. What did you paint there?"
"Landscapes, mostly," she admitted after a moment. "The Seine at dawn. Notre Dame in the fog. Things that existed before families like yours and mine poisoned the world. Well, perhaps there've always been families like this..."
The wistfulness in her voice surprised me. Connor O'Malley's daughter—raised to take over a criminal empire—finding solace in painting landscapes.
"I've only been to Paris once," I told her, the confession unexpected even to myself. "Briefly, on business with Ronan. I barely saw the city."
"You should go back someday," she murmured, eyes drifting closed again. "When it's snowing. The whole city becomes something from a dream."
A sharp snap jerked my attention back to my wrists. One tie had broken. I continued working on the second restraint, my thumb throbbing where I'd dislocated it.
Just as the second tie was beginning to give, a commotion erupted outside—shouting, then gunfire. Aoife's eyes flew open, alertness replacing exhaustion.
"What's happening?" she whispered.
"Either our rescue or our execution," I replied grimly. "Either way, we need to be ready."
The barn door crashed open. A familiar figure stepped inside, gun raised.
"Bloody hell," Coyne muttered, taking in the scene. "Boss?"
Relief flooded through me. "Perfect timing. Think you could cut her down?"
Coyne holstered his weapon and rushed to Aoife, producing a knife to slice through the ropes binding her wrists to the chains. As the tension released, she collapsed, her legs too weak to support her weight. Coyne caught her, awkwardly trying to maintain her modesty while supporting her.
"Get her a blanket," I ordered as he cut through my remaining restraint. "And check the perimeter. Beatrice can't be far."
"Already done," Coyne replied, wrapping Aoife in a tactical blanket one of his men brought in. "The place is surrounded. We've got teams sweeping in expanding circles, but no sign of the woman yet."
I rose from the chair, muscles screaming in protest. One of Coyne's men handed me a spare set of tactical pants and a shirt, which I pulled on quickly.
"How did you find us?" I asked, accepting a handgun.
"Tracking chip in your watch," Coyne explained. "Standard protocol for all high-ranking Flanagan personnel. You went dark for several hours. We triangulated your position and moved in."
I turned to Aoife huddled in the blanket, her face drawn with exhaustion but her eyes still burning with life.
"Take her back to the house," I instructed Coyne. "Get the doctor to check her over—dehydration, possible infection from those cuts. Keep security tight."
"And you?" Coyne asked, though he likely already knew the answer.
"I'm going after Beatrice."
Aoife's voice called me back as I reached the doorway. "Alexander."
I turned, meeting those changeable green eyes.
"Don't die," she said simply.
Something twisted in my chest—an unfamiliar sensation I had no time to examine. "I'll join you once this is finished."
I moved through the darkness on familiar grounds. The woods around the barn were swarming with men—Coyne's people. They acknowledged me with respectful nods, providing status updates.
"No sign of a female matching her description, sir," reported one agent. "We've secured three male suspects—hired guns by the look of them."
"Keep looking," I ordered. "Expand the search perimeter. Check all access roads, outbuildings, anywhere she could hide or escape through."
But as the hours passed and the search expanded, a sinking realization began to take hold. Beatrice had vanished like smoke. Professional, thorough—she'd planned her escape route as carefully as the capture.
Dawn was breaking when I finally called off the active search.
"Keep patrols running," I instructed Coyne over the radio. "Monitor all roads leading away from the property. She's out there somewhere."
"Yes, sir," Coyne replied. "And Miss O'Malley has been brought to the house as ordered. Doctor's finished his examination—dehydration, exhaustion, lacerations to the wrists, but nothing life-threatening. She's... responsive."
"Set up a rotating security detail," I added. "I don't trust that this is over."
I returned to the mansion as morning light spilled across the grounds. The familiar facade of Ashford House loomed ahead, its windows dark except for a single light in what I recognized as Eleanor's old bedroom—the room I'd instructed Coyne to prepare for Aoife.
Every muscle in my body protested as I climbed the grand staircase. When I reached the bedroom door, I paused, suddenly uncertain. What exactly was I doing, bringing Connor O'Malley's daughter into my home? The woman who had been systematically undermining Flanagan operations for months?
I knocked lightly, then pushed the door open without waiting for a response.
Aoife stood by the window, wrapped in a thick robe that swallowed her slender frame.
Her auburn hair hung damp around her shoulders, freshly washed.
She turned at my entrance, her face showing the strain of her ordeal despite what must have been a thorough scrubbing.
The bruises on her wrists had darkened to angry purples and blues, visible beneath the too-long sleeves of the robe.
"You look like hell," she observed, her voice stronger than I'd expected.
"You're one to talk," I replied, closing the door behind me. "Though at least you're clean."
Her lips quirked in what might have been the ghost of a smile. "Your man Coyne is surprisingly considerate. He had someone fetch clothes, arranged for a bath to be drawn."
I moved into the room, maintaining a careful distance. "The clothes fit?"
"Close enough," she replied with a shrug. "Though I don't think Eleanor and I share the same taste."
The casual mention of my brother's estranged wife brought reality crashing back. This woman was not a guest. She was Connor O'Malley's daughter. A prisoner, an enemy, a threat to everything I represented.