Chapter 6
Irish
The safe flat Maverick had arranged sat above a narrow bookshop on a quiet side street nearly a mile from Alderwick House, close enough that we could return to the property if we needed to and far enough away that anyone watching the townhouse would have to work to connect us.
From the outside, nothing distinguished the building from the row of sandstone businesses surrounding it.
A brass plaque beside the lower entrance announced private offices on the upper floors, the windows carried ordinary blinds, and the stairwell smelled faintly of old paper and somebody's lunch from the café next door.
Maverick had chosen it for exactly those reasons.
Safe locations that looked secure drew attention, while the best ones looked completely forgettable.
Skye followed me up the stairs without speaking, though I could feel her attention moving over everything—the entry lock, the narrow landing, the second stairwell at the rear, the fire door, the windows overlooking the alley.
She had started doing what I did after less than an hour together.
Noticing exits. Measuring spaces. Looking for what didn't belong.
I wasn't sure whether that pleased me or worried me.
I stopped outside the flat before opening the door. “You can leave whenever you want.”
Her gaze moved from the handle to my face.
“I remember.”
“I’m saying it again because there are several men inside you don’t know.”
“And I know you?”
“Barely.”
“Good. We agree.”
The corner of my mouth threatened to move.
I opened the door and stepped aside rather than entering first, and of course Skye noticed the deliberate choice.
She walked past me into the flat, then paused immediately inside the main room.
Trigger stood near the window with his arms folded, while Hawkeye occupied the far end of a dining table covered in equipment, maps, and several open notebooks.
Raze leaned against the kitchen counter eating something Sunshine had packed for the trip, and Storm sat cross-legged in one of the armchairs with a laptop balanced across her knees.
Maverick had returned before us and was pouring coffee as though bringing suspicious Scottish interior designers into temporary safe houses belonged to his normal morning routine.
Every conversation stopped as Skye studied the collection of strangers waiting inside and they studied her in return, while Raze swallowed whatever he had been eating before deciding to break the silence.
“So this is the woman who broke into the townhouse.”
“I did not break in,” Skye said.
Raze glanced at me.
I shook my head once.
“Gate was open,” I explained.
His eyebrows rose. “Ah. Completely legal, then.”
Skye pointed at him. “I like you less already.”
Storm laughed.
Raze pressed a hand over his chest. “We just met.”
“Apparently first impressions matter.”
Maverick handed her a mug of coffee before she could argue further. “James Whitmore. Maverick.”
She accepted it cautiously. “Skye Fraser.”
“I know.”
Her eyes narrowed.
Maverick looked toward me. “You didn't warn her?”
“About what?”
“That everybody here already knows who she is.”
Skye slowly turned her head in my direction.
I sighed.
“Operational background.”
“That's a very polite phrase for investigating me.”
Raze grinned. “You should hear what Cipher calls it.”
Storm kicked the side of his boot.
Skye's gaze swept the room again before settling on Trigger.
He gave a slight nod. “Trigger.”
Her gaze moved next to the prospect, who straightened slightly before introducing himself. “Hawkeye.”
Her attention shifted toward the black case resting beside his chair. “That can't possibly be what I think it is.”
Hawkeye looked at the case.
“Depends what you think it is.”
“A crossbow.”
“Aye.”
Skye looked at me.
“He’s American,” I said.
Hawkeye frowned. “So are you now.”
“Irish by birth.”
“Still carry an American passport.”
Skye's mouth curved.
I stared at the prospect.
Raze nearly choked laughing.
Hawkeye returned calmly to the map in front of him as though he hadn't said anything unusual.
“You sure he’s a prospect?” Skye asked.
Trigger answered without changing expression. “Most days.”
The tension in the room eased enough that Skye finally took a drink of coffee. Then she paused, looked at Maverick, and took another.
“Milk, no sugar.”
Maverick nodded toward me. “He told me.”
Her eyes moved back to mine.
It was a small thing. Barely worth noticing. I had heard her order coffee exactly once from a café employee while we crossed the city, and remembering it meant nothing beyond habit. Recon depended on remembering details.
That explanation sounded considerably less convincing when Skye kept looking at me.
Storm rescued me by closing her laptop. “Can we show her what we found before Irish starts pretending he doesn't know why she's staring at him?”
“I wasn't—”
“You were.”
Raze laughed again.
I considered leaving them all in Scotland.
Instead, I pulled a chair away from the table for Skye.
She took it without comment, setting her work bag beside her feet before opening it and removing her tablet, several printed plans, the strip of paper she'd found at Isla's flat, and copies of company records.
Whatever uncertainty she had felt about walking into a room full of strangers disappeared the moment the documents touched the table.
Her posture changed. Shoulders settled. Expression sharpened. This was ground she understood.
Storm noticed it too.
“So,” she said, moving closer. “Show us what Isla found.”
Skye brought up the original Blackridge Hall plans first.
“The west wing is wrong.”
Raze leaned toward the screen. “Wrong how?”
“Architecturally.”
“That clears it up.”
She ignored him and enlarged the drawing. “This is the nineteenth-century floor plan. Blackridge was altered several times afterward, but the structural walls in this section should still align because they're load-bearing. Here is the current renovation plan.”
She placed the images side by side.
Even I saw the difference once she highlighted it.
“The modern corridor is nearly three meters shorter.”
Trigger frowned. “Hidden room?”
“Possibly several. That's what Isla was trying to tell me.”
She pulled out the tracing paper hidden inside the passport and placed it beneath the light.
“West corridor still doesn't balance,” Storm read.
Skye nodded. “That phrase means something very specific between us. Isla doesn't make measurement errors. If she tells me measurements don't balance, she wants me to stop trusting the plan.”
A soft chime came from Maverick's laptop.
Cipher's face appeared on the wall-mounted screen a moment later, Eli visible behind him surrounded by monitors.
“Finally,” Cipher said. “Put Fraser closer to the camera.”
Skye looked offended. “Hello to you too.”
“I've spent six hours trying to understand drawings made by people who apparently believe abbreviations count as language.”
“They do.”
“They shouldn't.”
I sat back and watched the two of them immediately dislike each other in exactly the same way people often did before realizing they would work extremely well together.
Cipher displayed a list of Blackridge invoices.
“These caught my attention. Reinforced interior doors, independent ventilation, security hardware, medical-grade outlets, and enough camera equipment to monitor a prison.”
Skye leaned toward the screen.
“Go back.”
Cipher did.
“No. The ventilation invoice.”
He opened it.
Skye stared for several seconds before reaching for one of her plans.
“This can't service the west wing.”
“Why?”
“Because the duct size is wrong.”
Nobody spoke.
Cipher looked mildly offended on behalf of the ducts.
Skye continued. “This system is far too large for the rooms shown on the official plans. You wouldn't install ventilation capable of servicing nearly double the square footage unless there was additional occupied space.”
Eli moved closer to his screen.
“How much additional?”
“Without the mechanical drawings, I can't give you an exact number.” She studied the invoice again. “But enough for several rooms. Possibly an entire concealed section.”
Cipher started typing.
Skye pointed at another line.
“And those aren't ordinary residential door locks.”
Storm looked at her. “We know they're reinforced.”
“Not just reinforced. That manufacturer specializes in controlled-access hardware. Hospitals, secure residential treatment, institutions.”
My stomach tightened.
“Locks from which side?” I asked.
Skye looked at me.
“That depends on configuration.”
“Guess.”
Her expression changed.
“Outside.”
The room went quiet.
Skye stared at the plan for another few seconds, then slowly leaned back.
“They built bedrooms people couldn't leave.”
No one corrected her.
She looked from Storm to Raze, then Trigger, Maverick, Hawkeye, and finally me.
“You already knew.”
“We suspected,” I said.
“That's why you were watching Alderwick.”
“Aye.”
Her jaw tightened. “And you still haven't told me everything.”
“No.”
Raze shifted away from the counter as though preparing for the argument.
Skye surprised all of us by not starting one.
Instead, she looked back at Cipher. “Show me every property.”
Cipher hesitated.
I expected her to challenge him.
She didn't.
She simply said, “If they used the same contractor, they'll repeat techniques. People always do. Different buildings, same habits.”
Cipher glanced toward me.
I nodded.
One by one, the properties appeared on the screen: Alderwick House, Blackridge Hall, a rural retreat outside Glasgow, two English residential centers, and a private clinic in northern England.
Skye studied each plan as Cipher displayed it.
The change in her breathing came first.
Then she leaned forward.
“Stop.”
Cipher froze on the private clinic.
“What?”
“This wall.”
She pointed toward the screen.
“What about it?”
“It's too thick.”
Raze rubbed his forehead. “We're hunting criminals based on wall thickness now.”
“Yes,” Skye said without looking away. “And you'd be amazed how often buildings tell on people.”
I felt myself smile.
She saw it.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“You're smiling.”
“I've been known to.”
“Based on what I've seen so far, I require evidence.”
Storm laughed loudly enough to startle even herself.
I shook my head and looked back at the plans, but the smile remained longer than I wanted it to.
Skye had noticed my reaction too, and I was beginning to realize just how dangerous it was going to be having a woman this observant working beside me.
Cipher enlarged the clinic plan.
Skye traced the wall with one finger against her tablet. “There's a service corridor here.”
“It isn't shown.”
“Exactly.”
“How do you know?”
“Window spacing.”
Cipher pulled up exterior photographs.
Skye counted them.
“One, two, three, four, five. Now count interior rooms.”
Four.
Even Raze stopped making jokes.
Skye's finger hovered over the fifth window.
“Whatever is behind that wall has outside light.”
Storm leaned closer.
“Could Isla be there?”
The question changed Skye instantly.
Professional calm gave way to something raw before she forced it back under control.
“I don't know.”
Cipher opened the registration record for Croft House Women's Recovery Centre, a privately funded facility with very little public information available. The listed director was Dr. Helena Croft.
The name remained on the screen.
Skye stared at it.
“Isla wrote Croft.”
I turned toward her. “Where?”
She opened a folder on her tablet and searched quickly.
“I thought it was a materials note. She sent me photographs before she vanished. One of the filenames was Croft Linen Revision.” Skye swallowed. “There was no linen supplier named Croft.”
Cipher's fingers started moving again.
Storm stood while Raze set his food aside, the atmosphere in the room changing immediately because a name had finally become a place and a possibility had become something we could actually investigate.
Skye pushed back from the table. “When do we go?”
“Not yet,” I said.
Her eyes flashed immediately. “Callum—”
“We've had the address for thirty seconds.”
“And Isla has been missing twenty-three days.”
“I know.”
“No, you know the number. I know what those days have felt like.”
The room went still.
I let the words land instead of answering defensively.
She was right. I understood missing people and the agony of waiting, but I didn't know Isla or what those twenty-three days had meant on a personal level. Skye did.
I stepped closer to the table.
“Then help me make sure day twenty-four ends with us closer to her instead of both of you missing.”
Some of the anger left her face.
“I'm going.”
“If Croft House checks out, we'll decide roles after reconnaissance.”
“I said I'm going.”
“And I heard you.”
She waited for me to tell her no.
I didn't.
“You understand those buildings better than we do,” I continued. “If there's a hidden section, I want you helping us find it.”
Surprise replaced the argument she had prepared.
“But you don't walk into that place alone.”
She considered me.
“That's different from telling me I can't go.”
“Aye.”
“Then we're learning.”
I almost told her not to push her luck.
Instead, I nodded toward the plans.
“Show me exactly what you'd look for if you were standing inside Croft House.”
Skye came around the table and stopped beside me.
Close enough that her shoulder brushed mine.
Neither of us moved away.
She enlarged the building plan and began explaining sight lines, changes in flooring, ventilation grilles, mismatched plaster, concealed hinges, window spacing, and how an altered building betrayed itself through details people forgot to disguise.
I listened.
Not only because finding Isla depended on it.
Because watching Skye Fraser understand a building was like watching Cipher disappear into code or Hawkeye settle behind a sight.
Competence had always earned my attention.
Hers was beginning to hold it longer than it should.
And as she leaned across me to point toward a hidden section of Croft House, the faint scent of rain and coffee following her movement, I realized the woman I had expected to remove from this investigation had just become one of the people I couldn't conduct it without.
That complicated the mission.
The fact that I was starting to like her complicated it considerably more.