Chapter 35 Logan
Logan
My hands are steady on the wheel despite the adrenaline still coursing through my veins as I pull away from the curb.
The weight of the ring feels like a promise I’ve made to myself as much as to her.
She keeps flexing her fingers, watching the diamond catch the light, and something primal in my chest purrs with satisfaction. Mine. Marked. Claimed.
The financial district looms ahead, glass and steel reaching toward the gray Dublin sky. I navigate through the narrow streets, my mind already shifting into the headspace I need for what’s coming. Eamon Walsh has no idea we’re coming.
“What’s the plan?” Nuala asks, her voice steadier now that she’s had time to process the ring situation.
“We ask the right questions, see what he knows about the notebook, about Brennan, about what really happened at the Sailing Club.”
“And if he doesn’t want to talk?”
My smile is cold. “Then I remind him that cooperation is in his best interest.”
I park outside a Georgian building that’s been converted into offices.
The brass nameplate by the entrance reads Walsh Financial Services.
I study the building, noting the security camera above the entrance, the way the windows reflect the overcast sky like dead eyes.
No obvious security beyond the standard locks and cameras.
I shove the Glock into the back of my pants and get out first, moving around to open Nuala’s door. She steps out carefully in her new heels, and I catch her elbow to steady her.
The lobby is modest with polished marble floors and a tired-looking receptionist behind a curved desk who barely glances up from her computer screen.
“Walsh Financial Services,” I say, not bothering with pleasantries.
“Third floor, suite 304,” she replies without looking up.
“Nervous?” I ask.
“Terrified,” she admits. “But not about Walsh.”
“About what then?”
She holds up her left hand, the diamond catching the overhead lights. “This. Us. How fast everything is moving.”
The elevator arrives with a soft ding. I guide her inside, pressing the button for the third floor. “Fast isn’t always bad.”
“It is when you’ve never had anything worth losing before.”
The words hit me harder than they should. I turn to face her fully, my hands framing her face. “You’re not going to lose me, Nuala. I meant what I said downstairs. You’re stuck with me now.”
Her eyes search mine, looking for the lie she won’t find. “Promise me.”
“I promise. But more importantly, do you promise me you’re not going to run?”
She swallows hard. “I won’t run,” she whispers. “I can’t.”
That’s all I need to hear. I will hold her to that, and she knows it.
The elevator doors slide open with a mechanical whisper. I take her hand and lead her down a narrow corridor lined with frosted glass doors. The carpet is plush, and the furnishings are luxurious. It’s the place where people would feel comfortable investing their money.
Suite 304 sits at the end of the hall.
We step inside, and the atmosphere is serene and calm.
The receptionist is sharp and well put together with a headset on as she taps into a state-of-the-art computer.
She looks up as we approach, her professional smile faltering slightly as she takes in our appearance.
I can see her making rapid calculations, taking in the expensive clothes, confident bearing, but something dangerous underneath.
“Good afternoon,” she says, her voice carefully neutral. “Do you have an appointment with Mr. Walsh?”
“We do now,” I reply, letting just enough edge creep into my voice to make her uncomfortable. “Tell him Logan O’Neill is here to discuss his recent business ventures.”
Her fingers hover over her keyboard, and I watch her face pale slightly at the mention of my name. The O’Neill reputation precedes me, which is what I was hoping for.
“I’ll... I’ll see if he’s available,” she stammers, reaching for her phone.
I place my hand on the receiver before she can lift it. “He’s available.”
Nuala shifts beside me, and I can feel the tension radiating from her body. She’s learning fast from me on how to stand, how to project authority even when she’s terrified.
“Mr. Walsh is in a meeting,” the receptionist tries weakly.
“Then he’ll have to cut it short,” I say, my voice dropping to something that makes her shrink back in her chair. “This isn’t a request.”
She nods quickly, but I’m done with her. I grip Nuala’s hand tightly, and we stride past the receptionist and down the hall.
“Wait!” she calls out. “You can’t go down there!”
“Watch me,” I state, and check out the names on the door we pass. Three doors down on the left, I smile and pause briefly before I kick it open. The door slams against the wall with a satisfying crack.
Eamon Walsh looks up from his desk, his face draining of color as wood splinters scatter across his polished floor. He’s a thin man in his fifties, wearing an expensive suit. The other man in his office—younger, nervous-looking—scrambles to his feet.
“Jesus Christ,” Walsh breathes, his hand moving toward what I assume is a panic button under his desk.
“I wouldn’t,” I say calmly, stepping into the room. Nuala follows close behind. “We’re here to talk.”
The younger man edges toward the door, but I shift slightly, blocking his path. He freezes like a rabbit caught in headlights.
“And you are?” Walsh says, his voice carefully controlled despite the fear I can see in his eyes.
I don’t answer immediately. Instead, I let the silence stretch, watching him sweat. The younger man’s breathing has become audible, shallow, and panicked. Good. Fear makes people cooperative.
“Logan O’Neill,” I say finally, my voice carrying the weight of everything that name means in this city. “And you’re going to tell me everything you know about the meeting at the Sailing Club.”
Walsh’s hand freezes halfway to the panic button. His eyes dart between Nuala and me. I can see him recalculating, trying to figure out what kind of power play this is.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says, but his voice wavers.
I move closer to his desk, pulling out the Glock, my hands resting on the polished surface as I lean forward. “Let me refresh your memory. A few days ago. Private meeting in the function room. You were there with several other investors, most notably, a woman named Aisling.”
The color drains from his face completely now. “I attend many meetings—”
“This one ended with fifty three people dead. Fifty four if you count Aisling,” Nuala interrupts, her voice cutting through his bullshit like a blade.
“Aisling’s dead?”
I narrow my eyes. That’s the thing he focuses on?
“She is. Strangled in the ladies’ room. Know anything about it?”
“What?” Walsh snaps, rising. “I didn’t even know she was dead!”
“Sit yourself down, Eamon. We aren’t here to play the blame game. We want to know who the notebook belongs to that Aisling was so attached to.”
“What notebook?”
I lean back slightly, studying his face. Either Walsh is a better actor than I give him credit for, or he genuinely doesn’t know what we’re talking about. The confusion in his eyes looks real, but I never take anything at face value.
“The notebook that was hidden in the ladies’ room,” Nuala says, stepping closer. “The one Aisling died protecting.”
Walsh sinks back into his chair, his hands shaking slightly. “I swear I don’t know anything about a notebook. Aisling was part of our group. She handled all the paperwork. I never saw what she kept in her files.”
“What group?” I ask, my voice sharpening.
He glances at the younger man, who’s still frozen by the door. “Michael, get out.”
Michael practically sprints from the room.
Once we’re alone, Walsh looks directly at me, his composure cracking further.
“We were investors,” he says quietly. “A consortium of private lenders who’ve been funding certain... operations in Dublin. High-risk, high-reward ventures.”
“What kind of operations?” I ask, keeping my voice level.
“Arms dealing. Money laundering. Protection rackets.” He runs a hand through his thinning hair. “We provided the capital, took a percentage of the profits. Clean money in, dirty money out.”
“Who ran the operations?” I continue.
“That was the beauty of it. We never knew. Everything went through intermediaries. Aisling was our point of contact. She handled all the documentation and kept the records.”
“And Cathal Brennan?”
Walsh frowns. “What about him?”
I exchange a glance with Nuala. Either Walsh is telling the truth or lying through his arse.
Only one way to find out. I straighten up and aim the Glock between his eyes. “I’m not buying this. You’re talking to easily and pretending you don’t know shit.”
I study his face carefully, looking for any tell that might give away deception. Walsh’s eyes go wide behind the barrel, and sweat beads on his forehead.
“I swear on my mother’s grave, I’m telling you the truth,” he stammers, his voice pitched higher now. “We were kept in the dark deliberately. That was the whole point.”
“Why?” Nuala asks, moving to stand beside me. The diamond on her finger catches the light as she crosses her arms. “What’s the benefit of keeping your own investors blind?”
“Plausible deniability,” Walsh says, his eyes never leaving the gun. “If something went wrong, if anyone got caught, we couldn’t testify against the actual operators because we didn’t know who they were.”
“But Aisling knew.”
“Aisling kept the books. She was the only one with the full picture.” His breathing is ragged now. “Look, I invested because the returns were incredible. Twenty, thirty percent quarterly. I didn’t ask questions because I didn’t want to know the answers.”
“How long had this been going on?” I ask.
“Two years, maybe three. I joined about eighteen months ago when my legitimate business started struggling.”
I study his face, looking for cracks in his story. The fear seems genuine, but fear doesn’t necessarily mean honesty.
“The meeting at the Sailing Club,” Nuala presses. “What was it about?”
“That was supposed to be the final payout,” Walsh says, his voice barely above a whisper. “Aisling called the meeting to distribute the last of the profits and dissolve the partnership.”
“Why dissolve it?” I ask, keeping the gun trained on him.
“Someone was asking questions. Getting too close. Aisling said it was time to cut and run before we all ended up in prison.” He wipes sweat from his upper lip with a trembling hand. “She was scared, more scared than I’d ever seen her.”
“Scared of who?” Nuala demands.
“She wouldn’t say. Just kept talking about how we’d attracted the wrong kind of attention. Said someone had figured out the money trail.”
I feel a chill run down my spine. If Aisling was scared enough to dissolve a lucrative operation, whatever was coming after them was serious.
“How much money are we talking about?” I press.
“Millions. Each of us was looking at a final payout of at least two million euros.”
Nuala’s sharp intake of breath mirrors my own surprise. That kind of money explains why someone would massacre an entire club to get their hands on Aisling’s records.
There are a few people in Dublin who would elicit that kind of reaction in someone who was apparently as hardened as Aisling.
Nuala and I exchange another look, and we both reach the same conclusion at the same time.
Landry. Stacey, with the help of good old Uncle Thomas.
“Please don’t kill me,” Walsh stammers.
“I’m not going to kill you,” I say, lowering the gun. “Whoever you’ve just ratted out might though.”
Nuala and I leave the office, hurrying down the corridor before Walsh hits the panic button. We take the stairs and hit the street before we speak.
“It had to be Stacey,” Nuala pants. “She, and probably her uncle, were looking to expose everything.”
I help Nuala into the SUV and walk slowly around to the other side, getting in and slamming the door.
“But why? And why did she want Connor to have that notebook to flood the table?”
“To get her and Landry off the hook, maybe? To force Brennan’s hand at something? To gain the upper hand?”
“We need to find Stacey.”
“Then we need to go and face one of the hydra heads,” Nuala says.
I nod in agreement and fire up the engine. “To Thomas Landry’s estate, then.”