Chapter 37
Logan
“He dies tonight,” I add, leaving no room for argument. “He doesn’t get a trial. He doesn’t get a cell. He gets a bullet.”
Nuala looks up at me, her eyes wide. She nods once.
Landry pours himself another drink. “Messy. But effective. Where do we do it?”
“The docks,” Lisa suggests. “Container 404. It’s empty. Private. He’ll feel safe there because it’s his territory.”
“Make the call,” I order.
Lisa pulls a phone from her pocket with her good hand. “I didn’t know you were going to take over the shift. I didn’t put you in harm’s way.”
“No, you just removed yourself from it and fuck the consequences.”
“That’s not—”
“Save it. We are both still here, unlike the poor arseholes who died.”
She looks like she wants to say something else, but she doesn’t. She dials.
I steer Nuala toward the door. We have what we need. Staying here feels like walking on a razor’s edge. Landry is an ally of convenience, nothing more.
“We’ll be at the docks in two hours,” I tell them over my shoulder. “Don’t be late.”
Outside, the air feels heavier. The gray sky presses down on the estate. I open the car door for Nuala. She slides in without a word. I round the hood and get behind the wheel.
The engine roars to life. I drive us through the gates, watching the rearview mirror until the mansion disappears.
“You meant it,” Nuala says quietly, twisting the diamond ring on her finger. “About killing him.”
I reach over and cover her hand with mine. “I don’t make idle threats. He hurt you. He tried to kill you. That carries a death sentence.”
She stares out at the passing trees. “He’s my father.”
“He’s a target. Blood doesn’t make him family. It just makes him easier to find.”
She nods.
“Talk to me, Nuala.”
“I’m not… I don’t feel sad, I just feel disappointed. Is that dumb?”
“It’s not dumb,” I say, keeping my eyes on the road. “It’s survival. Disappointment means you expected better, but you aren’t broken by the truth.”
I tighten my grip on her fingers.
“He failed you before you were even born,” I continue. “He doesn’t deserve your grief. He barely deserves your anger.”
“I just thought maybe there was a reason I never knew him. A good reason. Not because he was building a criminal empire inside the police force.”
“The reason doesn’t matter. Only the ending matters.”
I navigate a roundabout and take the exit toward the city center. We have time to kill before the docks, but I need to make sure she is ready. Not just for the violence, but for the aftermath.
“When we walk into that container,” I say, my voice dropping low. “I need you to stay behind me. You don’t look at him. You look at me.”
“I can handle it, Logan.”
“I know you can. But humor me.”
She turns in her seat. Her green eyes lock onto mine, clear and sharp.
“Fine, but make sure you’re the one standing when the smoke clears.”
“Always.”
I check the Glock at the small of my back as I drive. The weight of it is familiar, comforting. Cathal Brennan thinks he is the law. Tonight, I show him that I am the judgment.
“We need to head back to Connor’s to arm up… and change. We might need to run.” The tires grip the wet asphalt as I take the corner fast. Nuala grips the door handle, but she stays silent. She stares at the dashboard. Her thumb rubs against the diamond on her finger. A nervous tic.
“Stop fidgeting,” I say.
She drops her hand to her lap. “I’m not fidgeting. I’m thinking.”
“Think later. Survive now.”
“I plan to.” She looks at me. Her face is pale. Her eyes are dry. “We get the guns. We go to the docks. We end this.”
“That’s the plan.”
The drive passes quickly. I keep my attention on the mirrors. I check for a tail. Nothing. Just the city moving around us, ignoring the violence coming its way.
We reach Connor’s estate. The iron gates swing open before I even stop. The guards recognize the SUV. I park near the front steps and kill the engine.
“Take the bags, go straight upstairs,” I tell her. “Change into something you can run in, dark colors. Even if it’s the leggings and hoodie again.”
We exit the vehicle. The cold air hits my face. Connor waits in the open doorway.
“You look ready for violence,” he says.
“We are,” I reply. “Open the armory.”
Connor nods and turns, leading the way deep into the house. I grab Nuala’s hand. Her grip is tight. She is ready. I grip her chin and force her to look at me. “You can stay here—”
“No,” she says, shaking her head. “Don’t you dare sideline me. Not now.”
I smile and kiss her lightly. Letting her go, I make sure she goes up the stairs, and then I follow Connor to his study.
Connor moves to the bookshelf behind his desk. He pulls a thick volume, and the wood panel slides open. The space inside is tight, lined with steel racks of handguns and ammunition.
“Take what you need,” he says, stepping back.
I reach for a Sig Sauer P226. It has better balance than the Glock. I rack the slide, checking the chamber. The metal feels cold and heavy in my palm. I grab three spare magazines and shove them into the back of my waistband.
“You’re bringing her?” Connor asks.
“She won’t stay behind.” I holster the gun. “She deserves to see him drop.”
“Just make sure she doesn’t watch you bleed out.”
“Not tonight.” I turn to the door. “We handle Brennan. Then we deal with the fallout.”
“The fallout will be heavy,” Connor warns. “A Chief Superintendent turning up dead brings the whole force down on us.”
“Until they figure out who their boss really was.”
He nods once.
I walk out of the study.
Nuala waits at the bottom of the stairs.
She has the black leggings and a dark hoodie on with the running shoes, her hair tied back tight.
She looks small against the grand scale of the foyer, but her stance is solid.
Her hands are empty, but her eyes are hard.
“When this is over, we are going back to my apartment, to start our lives, and we are burning those clothes.”
She giggles. “Sounds like a plan. For now, they work. Ready?”
“Let’s go kill your father.”
We step into the night. Rain slashes sideways, soaking my shirt in seconds.
I shield her body with mine as we move to the SUV.
She climbs in without a word. I shut the passenger door and stride to the driver’s seat.
The engine growls as I punch the gas. We leave the estate behind, cutting a path toward the coast.
Rain slashes the windshield, distorting the view, but I keep the speed high, weaving through the evening traffic with calculated aggression.
Beside me, Nuala twists the diamond ring on her finger.
She stares straight ahead, her jaw set tight.
I reach over and grip her thigh. She covers my hand with hers. Her skin is cold, but her grip is firm.
“Container 404,” I mutter, turning into the industrial district. “Lisa said it’s isolated.”
“It’s a trap if she’s lying,” Nuala says flatly.
“If she’s lying, she dies first.”
The docks appear, a maze of rusted steel and towering cranes reaching into the night sky. Security is light this far out. I kill the headlights and roll the SUV into the shadow of a stacked row of containers and kill the engine. It ticks as it cools.
I pull the Sig from my waistband and check the chamber one last time. “Arm yourself, stay behind me, and shoot anything that gets within ten feet of you.”
“Even Lisa?” she asks with a smirk.
“Even Lisa.”
Nuala picks up the gun from the side pocket of the Range Rover.
We exit the vehicle. The wind cuts through my jacket.
The ground is slick with oil and rainwater.
I lead the way into the maze of metal, my loafers silent on the wet concrete.
Container 404 sits alone at the end of the row.
The door is ajar. A single light burns inside, casting a long, yellow rectangle onto the wet concrete.
I hold up a hand. Nuala stops instantly. Her breathing is audible in the silence between the rain showers, but she holds her ground. I scan the perimeter. Shadows stretch between the rusted metal boxes, but nothing moves. No snipers. No backup. Just us and the target.
I creep toward the slit of yellow light. Voices drift out. Low. Argumentative. I recognize Brennan’s tone. Arrogant. Dismissive. He sounds like a man who thinks he controls the board. He has no idea I’m about to flip the table.
I motion for Nuala to press her back against the corrugated steel. She nods, gripping her weapon with white knuckles. Her eyes are wide, fixed on me. I check my angles. I take a breath, centering myself. The priest in me is long dead. The executioner takes over.
I step into the light. I kick the door wide. It slams against the metal wall with a deafening clang.
Two heads snap toward me.
Cathal Brennan stands in the center of the empty container. Lisa holds her position to his left, her injured arm cradled against her chest. The fleeting look of relief that she shows settles my unease about her objectives.
Brennan’s eyes widen as he registers my face. His hand twitches toward the inside of his jacket.
I raise the Sig and aim directly for his chest. “Touch it, and you die right now.”
He freezes. His gaze flicks past me to Nuala, who steps into the doorway, her gun raised.
“Logan O’Neill,” Brennan sneers, slowly raising his hands. “And Fionnuala Quinn, is it?”
Is it? Is he seriously pretending he doesn’t fucking know?
I blink and raise an eyebrow. It doesn’t matter. All that matters is he dies, and his corruption dies with him.
I understand the irony more than most. Hypocrisy is a stain in the world, but most people don’t have the self-awareness to realize the stench of it wafting from their entitled attitudes.
I, on the other hand, spent four months in Tibet on a solitary retreat.
Self-awareness is one of my biggest assets.
And I am self-aware enough to know Cathal Brennan is too arrogant to realize he is up shit creek without a paddle.
Nuala scoffs next to me. “Fionnuala Quinn, is it?” she mocks in a deep tone that makes me want to laugh. “You are so fucking lame. I hate you. I shouldn’t even have one ounce of anything for you, but fuck that. I hate you. I hate you, you absolute fucking useless prick!”
“Nuala,” I warn as Lisa’s eyes go wide, fear that this is going sideways, slamming into her.
“Don’t Nuala me!” she says, clearly on a roll, and despite my better judgment, I give her the floor.