16. Keira
KEIRA
I come to in increments—first the cold, then the taste, then the ache.
The cold is total, a radiating, marrow-level chill that blooms out from the concrete under my thighs and up my spine, spreading until even my teeth feel brittle.
The taste is chemical, a flat bitterness that crowds out all other flavors, as if I've spent the last hour chewing on latex gloves.
The ache is old-fashioned, proof-of-life headache, blooming from the crown and working its way down until it meets the new problem, a pressure at the base of my skull that only intensifies when I move.
I try to speak and nearly vomit.
There is a cloth in my mouth.
Something synthetic, scrubbed with bleach, and maybe ammonia if I'm lucky.
I clamp down until the urge passes, then let my body run the inventory—wrists behind the back, fingers numb but not broken.
Ankles crossed, zip-tied. No overt blood, but the sleeve of my shirt is soaked through.
I hope it's not from my nose.
The world returns in blinks.
I'm in a box, not wood but steel, walls so close I can trace them with a heel.
The smell is familiar and immediate—salt, oil, rust, the signature stink of the docks.
There's a single bulb strung up on cord, probably run off a car battery, swinging a pendulum arc and throwing mean shadows on the corrugated walls.
Every swing uncovers more of the space—a stack of flattened cardboard in one corner, a plastic crate with a bottle and two paper cups, a dirt-streaked shovel propped upright like a warning.
Across from me, a man is pacing.
He has a scar that cuts through his left eyebrow and runs to his temple, a line of pink that never figured out how to heal.
He wears a bomber jacket and jeans, hair buzzed to the scalp, hands covered in what looks like black nitrile gloves.
He walks the length of the container, heel to toe, every so often glancing at me with the expression of someone who wants to be professional but is also a little bored by the job.
I try to test my bonds.
The zip ties at my wrists are double-looped, but not tight enough to bite.
The ones at my ankles are less forgiving.
I curl my toes to get blood back in the feet.
Scarface stops his pacing, crouches in front of me.
He does not take off his gloves.
"Morning, Mrs. Crowley," he says.
His Dublin accent is more Southside than North, vowels clipped and just this side of patronizing.
"Sorry about the accommodations. Couldn't risk a hotel."
I try to raise an eyebrow, but the cloth fights me.
Instead, I narrow my eyes, the universal sign for go fuck yourself.
He laughs, not unkindly.
"You're a tough one. We had information about your husband saying this on multiple occasions, but you know how men exaggerate."
This means someone on the inside has been feeding information to the enemy, whoever that is, at this point.
He stands, stretching his back until it pops.
"This isn't personal, by the way. You're leverage, as is that." He nods awkwardly at my belly. "That's all. Your husband's been taking what isn't his, and now we take what's his. Classic economy."
They know I'm pregnant.
Two more men are at the far end, near the door.
One is built like a gym rat gone soft; arms folded over a jersey that looks better suited for a pub crawl than a felony.
The other is smaller, with a nervous energy that makes his whole body seem to vibrate, even when he stands perfectly still.
Both have guns tucked obviously, the kind of statement only the insecure make.
Scarface—he's the boss, or at least the handler.
He lights a cigarette, then remembers he's inside a mobile tank of potential carcinogens and flicks it out.
The cherry dies on the steel floor, a little red eye that slowly fades.
I catalog everything—the number stenciled on the wall—3098322.
The faded decal for an Italian shipping company.
The subtle scrape of the locking bar when the wind catches the door.
The keening laughter of gulls outside, echoing over the canal.
Somewhere nearby, a forklift does a three-point turn, the reverse beeper shrill enough to cut the air into chunks.
I do not know what day it is or how long I've been under.
The nausea is back, not just from the drugs but from the basal, cellular memory of morning sickness.
It's sharper now, cut with the jitter of whatever they used to knock me out.
I focus on the numbers, counting each exhale from Scarface as he paces—ten steps one way, nine back.
He never takes an even lap.
They're watching me for signs of fight or flight.
What they don't know is that the fight isn't physical, not with my current ratio of body mass to industrial plastics.
The fight is information.
Every question I don't ask is a fact I might already know.
Every wince or flinch or deliberate blink is a breadcrumb.
My job is to starve them of anything they could use.
"Should take the gag out," says the gym rat, picking at his cuticle.
"She'll choke if she pukes."
Scarface gives it a second, then shrugs.
"You're right."
He crouches again, pulls at the corner of the rag with two fingers.
It slides out, cold and damp, leaving a taste that will live in my sinuses for years.
I cough, spit, and try not to show how grateful I am for the clear airway.
"Better?" he says.
"Fuck you," I reply.
It comes out hoarse but lands.
He grins.
"There she is."
He glances at the nervous one.
"Told you she'd be a handful."
The nervous one—maybe twenty, maybe just old enough to drink—doesn't look at me.
Instead, he stares at the floor, tapping the grip of his gun with the edge of a fingernail.
"Can we give her water?" he asks, not to me but to Scarface.
I say, "If you want to clean up vomit, by all means. But it's not in your job description."
Scarface is still grinning.
"I like you. Most people cry or beg at this point. You're running the math."
I keep my face blank.
"You told me what you want. Now tell me what you're going to do."
He shrugs, as if this is the easiest problem in the world.
"We wait. Ruairí calls, or he doesn't. Either way, you're a message."
"To whom?"
He seems genuinely surprised.
"To everyone."
The gym rat snickers.
"Especially to you, Princess. "
I glance at him.
"If you're going to call me that, at least untie me and give me a tiara. This isn't even grade-school abduction. Next time, spend the extra twenty on rope."
Scarface lets out an actual laugh.
"Jesus, you Crowleys don't quit."
I try to sit up straighter, but my arms are starting to lose sensation.
I roll my shoulders, trying to get blood back.
"If you're done practicing your banter, I'd like to know who signed off on this."
He sits, cross-legged, less menacing than bored.
"It doesn't matter. No one's coming for you. Ruairí has got bigger problems than a missing wife."
"Balls," I say and spit again, this time hitting the floor.
"He's probably got the whole city looking. Unless you're planning to kill me before sundown, you're the ones in trouble."
Deep down, the dread is settling.
What if he doesn't come?
What if this is it for my babies and me, and I never even got to tell him?
My eyes begin to stint, but I hold my ground.
He narrows his eyes, then looks at the nervous one.
"She's not wrong. If you hear anything outside, we go quiet. No mistakes."
Nervous gives a jerky nod, and the gym rat cracks his knuckles.
I run a new calculus—they're not here for a long-term stay.
Either I'm trade bait or they want me as a body, not a hostage.
I let my head loll, eyes half shut but keep cataloguing.
Scarface is ex-military, probably private security before this.
The gym rat is all ego, no discipline—definitely the kind of man who'll get trigger-happy if things go south.
Nervous is the wildcard.
He keeps checking the door, which means he's expecting company.
Or interference .
Time passes slowly—the swing of the bulb, the shift of the shadows, the relentless tick of Scarface's boots on metal.
I let my mind drift to the last thing I remember—Lena trying to save my life and possibly sacrificing her own.
There is a crash outside, not dramatic, more like a dropped pallet than a gunfight.
But Scarface's head snaps up, and the gym rat's hand goes straight to his weapon.
Nervous flinches, then tries to hide it.
They are close to panic.
I can smell it.
Scarface moves to the door, stands to the side.
He signals the others into position with a tilt of his chin.
The gym rat takes a spot behind the stack of cardboard.
Nervous hunches down, gun up, hands shaking enough to make the muzzle dance.
I lie as still as possible, pulse thumping in my ears.
The next few minutes will decide everything.
Footsteps outside, heavy, deliberate.
Then a voice, muffled, hard to place.
Scarface relaxes—slightly—and turns the latch, opening the door just enough to see.
The world explodes.
There is a sound I will never forget—the pop and hiss of a canister, then the shriek as gas fills the container.
Scarface yells, slamming the door, but not before a fist-sized chunk of something shatters the bulb and plunges us into a strobing half-dark.
The gym rat jumps up, firing two rounds into the wall, then drops as a shadow rushes in.
It's chaos—boots on steel, hands grabbing, a flash of blood as someone's face connects with the shovel.
The gym rat screams, a wordless animal sound, and then falls silent.
Scarface is fighting, but he's lost the advantage.
In the swirl of bodies, I catch sight of Nervous, flat on his back, blood pooling under his head.
It lasts twenty seconds, maybe less .
The last thing I see before I black out again is Ruairí, his eyes lit with the kind of hunger that terrifies even his own men.
His mouth is a thin line.
His hands are red.
"Keira," he says.
His voice is shredded, like he's been screaming for hours.
The world goes dark once again.