Chapter 6
Axl
My mind is clear, focused on one thing: Robert Gannon is a dead man. He made a critical error. He didn’t just threaten me; he threatened to use me against Sorcha. For that, I’m going to take everything from him, starting with his life. I’ll make it slow. I’ll make it art.
The ankle ties are slowing me down. The angle is awkward, and the ties are thicker.
But I don’t hurry. Rushing gets you caught. I move with a steady, deliberate rhythm, my bloody fingers fumbling in the dark. The only sounds are the drip of water and the rasp of my breath.
The tie on my right ankle gives way. I shift my leg, a small, controlled movement.
One more to go. I’m almost there. The plastic of the last tie digs into my ankle as I twist my leg, using the awkward angle to create tension.
My fingers work at the locking mechanism with a piece of the broken tie from my wrist. It’s slow, tedious work, each scrape of plastic on plastic unnaturally loud in the dripping silence.
My wrists burn, slick with blood, but the pain is a distant hum.
A sharpening stone for the rage building inside me.
With a final, satisfying snap, my leg is free.
I don’t move for a full minute, listening. Nothing but the steady drip, drip, drip from the ceiling. I rise slowly, my muscles screaming in protest. I roll my shoulders, ignoring the fire in my joints and the raw chafe of my skin.
“Now to get out of this dump,” I mutter, scanning the bunker. There is nothing down here except the chair. Good enough.
It’s bolted to the floor, but nothing is permanent if you apply the right amount of force.
I find the weakest point where a leg meets the seat, plant my foot, and pull.
The metal groans in protest. My muscles burn, the raw skin on my wrists screaming, but I ignore it.
I pull again, a sharp, violent twist. The weld gives with a screech that makes my teeth ache.
I get it free. It’s a solid piece of steel, heavy and balanced. A perfect club.
Armed, I move towards the faint outline of the stairs.
Each step up is a careful placement, my senses on high alert.
The air grows marginally fresher, carrying the scent of pine and damp earth.
They think I’m still their prisoner, waiting on their twenty-four-hour deadline.
They have no idea the clock has already run out. For them.
At the top of the stairs, a heavy wooden door blocks my path. Locked, of course. A sliver of light bleeds from underneath. I press my ear to the wood and listen. Silence.
But then I hear the heavy footsteps of the two idiots who visited me earlier and smile.
Shit just got a whole lot easier. The metal of the leg is cold and heavy in my grip.
I step back, wielding it like a baseball bat.
It will likely bend from the first strike, but that’s all I need.
I’m not helpless, just slightly at a disadvantage.
The scrape of a key in the lock is my cue.
I flatten myself against the damp concrete wall beside the door.
I can feel the adrenaline sing in my veins, a familiar, welcome hum.
The door swings inward, and Scarface steps through, his head turning to scan the empty room below.
I swing the chair leg with everything I’ve got. It connects with the side of his knee with a wet crunch that’s immensely satisfying. He screams, a high-pitched sound of shock and agony, and goes down hard. The chair leg is bent, useless now, but it did its job.
The second one, the silent killer, reacts fast. He lunges, a blade in his hand.
I sidestep, letting his momentum carry him past me and into his screaming partner.
He stumbles, and I’m on him, my hands closing around his throat from behind.
He thrashes, trying to bring the knife around, but I squeeze, cutting off his air, feeling the cartilage give under the pressure of my thumbs.
His struggles weaken, and I grab the knife before it can clatter to the ground.
I slash it across his throat, and he drops.
A small, satisfied smile touches my lips. Time to go home.
I barely make it three steps when the front door of this concrete block bursts open. I fling the knife without a second thought but then wince as I see who I’m aiming for.
Luckily, Dad has the reflexes of a cat and is ducking as it whistles past his ear to slam into the wooden door frame next to him.
“Oops,” I say, a lazy grin spreading across my face as I watch him straighten up. He doesn’t even flinch, just gives the quivering knife a passing glance before his eyes land on the mess at my feet.
Sorcha shoves past him, her eyes wide as she takes in the scene—me, covered in my own blood, standing over two bodies. Her gaze flicks to my face, a storm of relief and fury. “You’re okay,” she breathes, and then her eyes narrow. “You absolute fucking idiot.”
“Missed me, wife?” I ask, stepping over the gurgling man on the floor.
Ciar and Cillian appear behind her, a wall of bruised and battered muscle. Ciar looks like he died and came back to life purely by his iron will alone.
Dad steps inside, nudging the dead man with the toe of his expensive shoe. “Who?”
I lock gazes with Sorcha and shake my head. “Robert Gannon.”
I watch as the floor is yanked out from under her, and I regret not breaking it more gently.
Her face goes blank, all the fire and fury draining away to leave something cold and brittle behind. She doesn’t sway, doesn’t cry out. She just stands there, the name hanging in the air between us like a death sentence.
“Robert?” she spits out. The single word is colder than any grave.
“He is making a play for St. Bart’s and wanted us out of Ireland. Gave me twenty-four hours before he started sending you pieces of me.”
“Clearly they don’t know how ticking clocks bore you,” Dad says, slapping me on the back. It’s as close to a hug of relief I’ll get from him. “We opened the cross and discovered the documents that will make Robert’s power play disappear like a fart in a thunderstorm.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Oh?”
“A deed to the entire fucking campus,” Sorcha clarifies. “Ardal Gannon wasn’t just leaving his legacy; he was leaving the whole fucking kingdom.”
“There are complications,” Cillian adds. “We need proof that Sorcha is Oisin’s daughter.”
My gaze stays locked on Sorcha. “DNA?”
She nods. “We should get back. Cian’s sending someone.”
“Cian?” I ask carefully. “We trust him after this?”
“We don’t have a choice right now. His words were genuine. I don’t think he knows about Robert’s moves. Yet.”
“Yet,” Sorcha repeats. “He fucking will do after this test is conducted.”
Iain MacMahon steps over the body I left on the floor, his expression unconcerned. “We’ll get this cleaned up. You need to get back to the house.”
Sorcha nods and takes my hand, lacing our fingers together. “Don’t ever get abducted again.”
“I could say the same thing to you. Twice now, is it?”
“Fuck you,” she mutters, but she smiles and leads me out of the building and into a field.
“Wow, this is deserted,” I say, looking around. “How did you find me?”
She shrugs. “Your dad’s men are good. You should know that.”
“I do,” I agree, squeezing her hand. “But I prefer not to test their response times. I’d have been out in another ten seconds.”
Her fingers tighten around mine, a silent acknowledgement. We walk back towards the cars, leaving the dads to handle the clean-up.
The car ride back is a tense, silent affair.
I slide into the front seat next to Cillian, Sorcha climbing in behind me next to Ciar.
In the rearview mirror, Ciar’s face is a stony mask of pain.
Robert Gannon. Fucking amateur hour. Going after family, making it messy.
He’s about to learn a very hard lesson in what happens when you poke a Rhodes.
It’s not just about St. Bart’s anymore. He made this personal. He threatened my wife.
“So,” I say, breaking the silence as we pull back onto the main road. “What’s this deed look like? Anything fancy?”
Sorcha snorts, a small, choked sound. “Old and needs ironing. We also got an old iron key that unlocks something, fuck knows what.”
“We’ll have fun finding out,” I murmur, and then we settle into a simmering silence.
There is no time to celebrate our reunion and the fact that we are all alive and together.
There is just more shit to do… one foot in front of the other until the entire country, and then some, knows who the queen of this board truly is.