27. Connor
CONNOR
I park two blocks off and approach the building Nora sent me on foot—old habits.
The dockyard’s quiet this time of night, like normal.
It isn't often people plan meetings out this way, either.
Usually, it's a safehouse or a business front.
But I've been so anxious to hear from her, I don't care where we meet.
The message came in just after eight. Her number lit the screen, and I left Killian standing in the courtyard wondering where I went.
Come alone. South dock. Midnight .
They were the sweetest words I'd read in days.
Waiting nearly four hours to move almost killed me.
When the phone rang and the number showed restricted, I ignored it, keeping the line open for her.
Then Ronan tried calling too, and there was no way in hell I was answering that. Killian probably ratted me out.
The wind rolls off the water and carries the salt inland.
My jacket flaps against me as I move past the rusted chain-link gate and onto the gravel path.
It’s dark. The few overhead lights flicker more than they shine.
I scan the perimeter, but the yard stays still.
I see nothing—no sign of her. I'm a few minutes early, though, so I'm not getting riled over it yet.
The warehouse squats beneath a large crane used to move shipping containers onto vessels for transport, a rotting skeleton of steel and concrete. I check the corners, the shadows, the space between the delivery trucks—nothing.
This doesn’t feel right, but we've met in sketchier places under my own direction, so I can't second-guess myself.
With the heat on us, Nora isn't taking chances.
That's smart of her. The days of meeting up in her father's safehouses or using her father's man as a chauffeur are over.
In fact, if we're not careful, we may both have to vanish just to cling to the love we have.
The metal door groans when I push it open, then settles back into place with a dull echo that stretches through the open interior. My boots crunch over the grit and broken glass scattered across the floor. A seagull screeches somewhere near the rafters. That’s the only sound.
No Nora.
I check my watch—11:58. She'll be here any minute. I take a few steps deeper into the warehouse. Old oil drums line one wall. A busted forklift rests near the center, half buried in shadow. Still no sign of her. No footsteps. No voice.
Then the trap snaps shut before I even realize I'm the one it's been set for.
Nora's father’s men step out from behind crates and shadows, weapons raised and ready, and without warning, they open fire. Before the first sound of a gunshot sounds, I'm diving, ducking behind an old oil barrel as I pull out my gun.
The first round strikes the concrete near my foot in a warning shot. The second rips through the air and grazes my ribs as I dive and roll. The burn is sharp and sudden, but I keep moving.
I draw my pistol and return fire, taking down two before ducking back for cover. Their bodies drop hard, but I don’t watch them fall. My breath punches through my chest in short bursts as I pivot behind the metal drum and grimace against the loud report of gunfire.
Another shot rings out and buries itself in my thigh, and my leg buckles. Blood soaks through my jeans, running down to the ground where my knee hits the concrete hard, but I press my back to the barrel and force my grip to steady.
I count every shot. The space between each one stretches thin, like time is trying to tear itself in half.
Another muzzle flashes to my left. I fire twice and hear the sharp collapse of a body hitting steel. Someone screams and keeps shooting blindly. I shift my weight and drag myself behind a stack of crates. The blood from my thigh leaves a trail, but I don’t have a better option.
A round punches through the edge of the crate and splinters the wood near my ear. I fire again—once, twice, three times. One of them curses and hits the floor. That makes five down, but not necessarily dead.
More boots scrape the concrete. I twist, ignoring the fire crawling up my leg, and drop the sixth with a clean shot to the chest. He doesn't get up.
Shells clatter across the floor. Their rhythm stutters. They’re repositioning.
I duck low and shoot toward the sound. A voice calls for cover, then silence. My clip ticks down with each shot, and I'm running out, but if I stop returning fire, I'm dead anyway. I pivot out and fire again. Another man drops, one hand still clutched around his weapon as he goes limp.
The air inside the warehouse reeks of blood and oil.
My breath drags raggedly through my throat.
Pain throbs through my thigh and my ribs, where pain has started to chew through the muscle.
I wipe the sweat from my eyes and reload, moving toward the back wall.
If they circle me again, I need better cover.
One more pushes in through the side door. I don’t hesitate. I shoot him clean through the sternum. He drops with a thud that echoes louder than the gunfire.
I’m down to four rounds when the side door opens, and I almost let another round fly. But I stop myself at the sound of her voice, so feminine and full of fear.
"Connor," Nora's screaming, sobbing. "Connor, please. Oh, my God…"
She stumbles into view with blood on her hands and mud on her jeans. She's limping hard, but she doesn’t slow. She sees me slumped against the crate and throws herself forward.
Then her father steps in behind her silently with his gun already raised.
Nora turns in time to see it. She doesn’t scream or plead. She moves, driven by instinct. She plants her body in front of mine and stands with her arms out to the sides, feet in a wide stance as she sobs. "Da, no," she whimpers. "You can't kill him."
Seamus's aim shifts, the barrel lowering an inch. Not out of mercy—just recalculation.
I push up on my elbow, but I won't fire at him with her standing between us. I don't know what sort of man he is, and I don't want to find out right now whether his daughter means anything to him.
Blood leaks through the fibers of my jeans, making the puddle beneath me larger, and my chest tightens. She’s standing between us, eyes fixed on him, jaw clenched like she’s ready to die for this.
His finger rests against the trigger but he doesn’t blink.
"Step aside, Nora," he says. The scrape of his voice is worse than a shout. He's the devil incarnate ready to claim what he thinks is his.
She doesn't even look back at me. "No," she tells him. "I'm not moving. You'll have to kill me too."
He takes one step forward, then another.
I reach up to pull her down, to shield her, to do something—anything—but she plants her hand against my chest and holds me in place. She won’t budge.
"You want him dead, you go through me."
The pistol shifts again.
Then the safety clicks off.
The warehouse holds its breath.
Her father’s aim falters. He doesn’t lower the weapon, but it wavers. He's calculating what this means, likely what he'll have to tell his wife if he kills his own daughter. It's sickening watching him even think of doing this.
My breath is ragged. My gun’s useless now, jammed or empty. I don’t even take my eyes off Seamus long enough to check. My body wants to collapse, but my mind won’t stop. I look at her, knees shaking, shoulders squared. She’s facing down the man who made her, and she’s doing it for me.
He doesn’t speak. Neither does she.
Then the muzzle shifts downward.
Her father steps closer.
"Step aside, Nora."
His voice is low, but not calm. Still, she doesn’t move. "You shoot him, you shoot me," she says.
The safety clicks off.
The moment freezes.
I hear the wind outside and my own blood dripping to the floor. A single breath more, and it’ll all go black.
Then—
The door slams open.
And everything changes.