Chapter 3
Logan
Walking away from her isn’t the easiest action.
She reminds me of Chris with her feisty, don't-give-a-shit attitude.
But where Chris was sunshine breaking through storm clouds, Nuala is the storm itself—all sharp edges and barely controlled chaos.
Chris would want me to protect her. The part of me that's still rotting with guilt agrees.
But the part that's pure O'Neill wants to keep her, claim her, mark her as mine until she can't tell where her defiance ends and my corruption begins. She recognized the O’Neill name and didn’t fluster.
Not once. Unlike her manager, who practically bent over backwards to kiss my arse.
Climbing into the Porsche, I contemplate that recon. The bankers had already fucked off, which could mean a couple of things. They either needed a completely neutral space for a handoff, or they got interrupted.
I’m guessing the former.
But that doesn’t help me, and guessing will only make Connor pissed off.
Stacey doesn’t know anything, but Nuala… maybe she knows more than she thinks.
Midnight is too long to wait to speak to her again, but I’m not going back in there to sit at the bar all night waiting for another opportunity to talk to her, without her boss hovering over her shoulder.
My inability to decide on the next course of action puts me in a prime position to see the three black SUVs pull into the Sailing Club parking lot through the rearview mirror. It immediately raises a red flag, and I sink lower into my seat.
The engines idle. I watch through the side mirror. A back door opens, and a man steps out. He scans the lot.
I stay low. The tint on the Porsche’s windows is dark enough to hide me, but I keep still until his gaze slides past.
He nods once, says something I can’t hear, and slides back in. The fleet circles the lot and leaves, clearly having done a visual for recon and got what they came for.
Which is what, exactly?
The parking lot has four cars, including mine. There was no one in the club except the staff when I left. If they were looking for me, they wouldn’t have driven off.
I wait for five minutes, but they don’t come back. The sun beats down, low and bright, on this winter afternoon. I pick up my phone and dial.
“What?” Connor answers after the first ring.
“Are you sure about your intel?”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning the bankers have fucked off and three SUVs did a sweep of the lot at one in the afternoon,” I say.
A beat. Paper rustles down the line. “Stay on it.”
“Stay on it? I don’t even know what I’m supposed to be looking for.”
“If the bankers cleared out early, something spooked them. Or that was the entire play. A quick hand off under the guise of a meeting.”
“And the SUVs?”
“Probably one of the families doing what you’re doing. Did you recognize anyone?”
“I only saw one guy, no idea who it was. Quick question…”
“Hmm?”
“Why the fuck have they sent three SUVs full of muscle and I’m sitting here on my own like a chump?”
“You’re not a chump, Logan. You’re an O’Neill. Follow them.”
He hangs up, and I throw my phone onto the passenger seat and click the car into reverse. I gun it out of the parking lot, heading in the direction that the SUVs went. It’s not hard to find them, but then they split up, going three separate ways.
“Great,” I mutter. Which fucker do I follow?
I crank the wheel hard to the left. The middle SUV peels off toward the Northside, heading for the port tunnel.
It feels right. The lead vehicle usually carries the prize while the others run interference.
I slam the Porsche into gear and tuck in behind a white delivery van.
I need to keep my distance. A black 911 isn’t exactly stealthy in afternoon traffic.
My phone buzzes again on the passenger seat. I ignore it. Connor can wait.
The SUV weaves through the lanes, aggressive, pushing a silver hatchback onto the shoulder. I hold back. I watch the brake lights flare red as they hit the congestion near the tunnel entrance. I tap the steering wheel. The rhythm matches the throb in my hand.
They clear the toll and pick up speed. I drop a gear and surge forward, keeping three cars back to avoid detection. We exit near the docks. The landscape changes. Glass office buildings give way to corrugated iron fences and stacked shipping containers.
The SUV slows. It turns into a fenced-off yard next to a rusted crane. I drive past, keeping my head forward, eyes flicking to the side mirror. Two men get out. One holds a briefcase. The same one I saw exit the car at the club earlier.
I park around the corner, out of sight behind a stack of pallets.
I kill the engine. Silence fills the car.
I check the Glock in the glove box. Loaded.
I should hate having this on me. But when you walk around Dublin knowing what I know, being who I am, and everyone knowing my business, it’s safer than walking without it.
I glance at the digital clock on the dashboard.
I want to find out what the fuck is going on here, and then I need to get back to Nuala.
I want to know why she creates that itch under my skin.
I check the mirror, open the door, and step out into the cold air, shoving the gun in the back of my pants.
I keep to the shadows. The stack of pallets offers decent cover, but the angle is shit.
I need to get closer. I move along the perimeter of the chain-link fence, keeping my head down.
The wind cuts through my jacket, stinging the split skin on my knuckles.
I ignore it. Discomfort is just another sensation to catalog and discard.
Through the diamond mesh, I see the two men. They stand near the SUV, looking agitated. One checks his watch. The other grips the briefcase handle so tight his hands are white.
“Where is he?” the one with the watch barks. His voice carries over the distant hum of a forklift.
“He is five minutes late,” the briefcase holder replies.
I crouch behind a concrete bollard.
A car rolls up, and I freeze. It’s coming from the blind side of the container stack. A black Mercedes comes into view. It stops ten feet from the SUV. The back door opens.
I narrow my eyes. I recognize the face that steps out.
Paddy O’Rourke.
This is an arms deal, and I’ve just stepped right into the middle of it. I curse Connor, but then I get over it. I’m here now, might as well sit it out.
Connor was right about rumblings. But I’m slow at connecting the dots. Are the private bankers funding this venture, and if so, why?
Paddy claps the nervous suit on the shoulder.
The force of it nearly buckles the man’s knees.
It isn’t a friendly gesture. It’s a warning wrapped in a smile.
The man beside Paddy steps forward and snatches the briefcase.
He rests it on the hood of the Mercedes and snaps the latches.
He lifts the lid an inch. Checks the contents. He nods once.
I shift my weight, feet silent on the cracked concrete. So, O’Rourke is arming up someone who is getting major funding. I don’t recognize any of the SUV guys.
Paddy says something else and pops the trunk. The SUV guy pulls out a crowbar and lifts the lid on a wooden box. He examines it by sight only and nods. Another of the guys picks up the box and carries it to the SUV.
I wait. Patience is a virtue I lost years ago, but survival requires it. Paddy gets back into the Mercedes, and it reverses and tears out of the lot. The SUV follows a minute later.
I wait a few minutes for the fallout, but nothing happens. I straighten up, keeping my guard up, and retrace my steps to the Porsche.
I slide into the driver’s seat and fire the engine.
The dash clock reads three. I drum my fingers on the wheel.
I need answers about the bankers. Something tells me Stacey, the simpering manager, will be more than happy to answer my questions.
Getting to see Nuala is the icing on the shitcake that got baked today.
I put the car in gear. It’s time to pay the Sailing Club another visit.