71. Eamon
Eamon
The cold stone presses against my back, bleeding the warmth from my body, the weight of the pit folding in around me like a coffin waiting to be sealed.
I stay still. I barely breathe. The air hangs thick and damp, sinking into my chest with every shallow inhale.
I don’t know how Ruairi survived down here for weeks.
The walls seem to lean inward, squeezing the space, tightening with every heartbeat.
We’re not dead.
Not yet.
But we have to look it.
Above us, Aoife’s voice rings out, steady and sure, slicing through the pit’s heavy silence.
She’s selling the lie.
Selling our deaths.
Then, her tone shifts. A name slips from her lips—Ronan.
I go still. I know that name. Ruairi’s second-in-command. A man too ambitious for his own good. I hear the shift in her voice. Her careful control falters, just for a second. That’s enough to tell me that this isn’t going according to plan.
Ruairi shifts beside me, the sound of his breathing rough and broken, scraping against the pit’s heavy silence. He’s too weak to stay still, his body hollowed out from weeks of damp stone and darkness wearing him down.
I turn my head, the movement stiff and strained. Ruairi’s face is tight, his eyes wide and unfocused, staring into the dark. But I see it—the moment understanding slams into him.
It isn’t just Cian. It’s Ronan, too. His right hand. The man he trusted to hold the line in his absence. Betrayal cuts through him like a blade, sharp and merciless.
He doesn't speak. He doesn’t have to. I feel it in the way the air sours between us.
I don’t have time to process it. The world above us fractures in an instant as a gunshot rips through the silence. Aoife’s scream follows—raw, jagged, real enough to tear me open.
I go rigid, panic flooding every inch of me.
I can’t see her.
I can’t see anything.
Ruairi grits his teeth and tries to push himself up, but his body crumples, shuddering against the stone.
Grabbing Ruairi, I pull him toward the farthest edge of the pit, pressing him against the wall.
Every instinct is screaming at me to act, to move, to do something.
But the lift isn’t down here. We’re trapped.
"Stay down," I order, my voice low, steady. "You’re no good to her like this."
His eyes burn with frustration. He knows I’m right.
Above us, footsteps scrape across the stone, fast, heavy. A grunt. A struggle. Then Aoife’s voice low and lethal.
“I should’ve ended you the second I saw your face.”
A grunt. The dull thud of impact—bodies colliding.
"You fucking bitch." His voice is furious. “I don’t know what O’Leary saw in you.”
"A way to get himself killed, apparently." Her words drip with defiance.
Another scuffle. The scrape of boots. The harsh rustle of fabric.
Ronan’s breath comes faster, strained. "You always were a handful."
“I guess you should’ve picked a better hostage,” she snaps back.
His voice dips, smug and taunting. "Maybe I should spread those legs and see if you’re really worth all this fucking trouble."
A heartbeat of silence, then a sharp, vicious sound. A grunt of pain. His.
Aoife’s breathing is hard, unbroken. She’s still fighting. Then, the sharp shatter of glass breaking against the stone. A strangled curse. A heavy breath.
She’s fighting back. Still moving. Still resisting.
“Where the fuck are your men?” Ruairi rasps.
"They’re coming." My voice is low, edged with barely contained fury. "But not fucking fast enough."
Because every second she’s up there alone, fighting, is another second I’m stuck down here, unable to put a bullet in Ronan myself.
Ruairi exhales sharply beside me, a mix of exhaustion and frustration. "We need to get out of this fucking pit."
“No shit.”
I crane my neck, straining for a better angle, desperate to see something—anything. But all I have are the sounds. The scuffle of boots. The grunt of exertion. Then, a loud, metallic scrape. A struggle. Bodies slamming against something heavy.
“Let go of me, you piece of shit.” Aoife’s voice tears out of her, ragged and breathless.
"You’re making this harder than it has to be."
A new sound leather against skin. A crack. A sharp intake of breath. I don’t know if he hit her or if she landed another strike on him. I can’t see. I fucking hate this.
"If you think I’m walking out of here with you, you’re dumber than I thought," Aoife spits. "You’ll be dead before you hit the front gates."
"That so?" Ronan breathes out a low laugh. "Guess we’ll find out."
A sharp rustle. The unmistakable sound of a gun cocking.
I push off the wall, instinct taking over. "Seamus, end him!" I bark, my voice cutting like a blade.
Silence.
No answer. No movement.
The pit swallows my voice like a grave swallowing the dead. For a moment, all I can hear is my own breath, ragged and useless. Above us, the chaos that once raged fades into something worse—silence.
No more gunfire.
No more fighting.
Only the sickening truth settling over me like dirt on a coffin lid. Ronan is gone. And he’s taken Aoife with him.
A raw sound tears from my throat—rage, helplessness, a vow stitched in blood.