Chapter 3
SAOIRSE
The door closes behind me, and the way Cillian looked at me stays hot on my skin.
I keep my pace steady as I walk the corridor, and I don’t let my face show anything that belongs to the girl from Riot Room. I’m Riley Quinn now, and I’m here to make men trust me with numbers that move more than freight.
My pulse refuses to behave.
Cillian Byrne’s eyes stay in my head as I pass a wall of notices and a faded safety poster that nobody reads. He looked at me like he’s deciding what I cost and what I break, and somehow, I’m hungry to prove myself to him.
Could be my daddy issues speaking for me, though. Years of trying to secure my father’s approval have put me in a place where I’m always eager to show what I’m worth. A man like Cillian would see right through that.
A clerk points me toward a door marked LOGISTICS. I nod and walk in.
O’Driscoll sits behind a desk with two monitors, a landline, a radio, and a stack of printed manifests that look older than the building. He looks up, takes me in, then flicks his eyes past me to the corridor. “You met him?”
“I did,” I reply.
He exhales through his nose and rubs his forehead once. “He takes an interest when he smells a risk.”
“I’m not a risk,” I say.
O’Driscoll’s mouth twitches as he pushes a chair out with his foot. He doesn’t buy it, but he doesn’t challenge it either. “Sit.”
I do as I’m told. He opens a folder and slides a single-page brief across the desk. It has a role outline, a few names, and a set of rules written in plain language.
“You’ll track physical shipments,” he says. “That means you check delivery schedules for trucks and containers carrying goods like whiskey, packaging, and export stock. When a truck or container arrives at the port, you confirm it matches what was scheduled.”
He begins counting off my duties on the tips of his fingers. “When something leaves, you confirm it’s the correct load going to the correct destination. If a shipment arrives late, arrives early, shows up incomplete, or doesn’t show up at all, you flag it.”
He looks at me to see if I’m listening, and I nod. “If paperwork says ten pallets and only nine arrive, you flag it. If a truck leaves without clearance, you flag it. Your job is to notice small problems before they turn into big ones.”
This is all routine stuff, I think to myself, which is good.
He taps one line with his pen. “Seals and handoffs matter. Chain of custody matters. Receipt timing matters.”
He looks up. “Do you know why?”
I keep my tone even. “It reduces theft and questions.”
He nods once. “Good.”
He leans back and folds his hands over his stomach. “You’ll deal with brokers and freight agents, speak to customs intermediaries when a container gets stalled, and log every conversation.”
I nod again. O’Driscoll points to a second sheet. Names. Extensions. Job titles. Shift blocks.
“Brona runs the scheduling desk,” he says. “Kavanagh runs yard security and manifest verification. Roarke handles perimeter and enforcement. You’ll be answering to them when need be.”
I meet his gaze. “Noted.”
He slides a third paper toward me. “You start with Byrne Imports surface contracts. Whiskey. Hospitality clients. Food-grade transport. Clean export accounts. Those loads run through predictable lanes and they keep the port calm.”
A beat passes.
His eyes stay on mine. “If you see other kinds of traffic, don’t question it. Nothing should interest you until you’re told it belongs to your scope.”
I keep my face still. “Understood.”
O’Driscoll watches for a flinch. He gets none.
He nods and stands. “Walk.”
We move through a narrow corridor and into a larger room that overlooks the yard. Glass on one side. Desks in rows. Radios crackle. A printer whines. Men work with their shoulders tight and their eyes fixed.
O’Driscoll gestures to a desk near the wall, not too central and not too hidden. “That’s yours.”
A laptop sits there, along with a phone, battered notebook, and a keycard.
I set my bag down, open it, and take out a slim planner, pen, and a small water bottle. Nothing that hints at Wicklow or my father’s house or the knives I keep in my boots. My recording device stays where it belongs.
A tiny mic sits stitched into the lining of my blazer, right along the seam near my ribs. The transmitter rests under the inside pocket, flat enough to vanish, warm enough to remind me it’s there. My father’s tech man fit it hours before my arrival and checked it twice.
O’Driscoll points at my screen. “Brona will load you into the schedules. You’ll spend today learning how we run time slots at the gates. Make a note of the patterns in who arrives early and who drifts and flag the drifters.”
His voice drops. “Early drivers create cover for late drivers. Late drivers create cover for missing crates.”
“I’ll watch,” I say.
“Good.” He pauses, then adds, “Keep your head down and your tone neutral. People test new hires.”
I glance across the room and catch a few eyes on me, then a few eyes that slide away too fast. That tells me enough.
O’Driscoll looks toward the door, then back at me. “One more thing.”
“Yes?”
He keeps his voice low. “Keep your distance from the boss unless he pulls you in. Don’t chase his attention.”
I give him a small nod. “I don’t chase.”
He studies me like he doubts that statement in a different way than he doubts my résumé.
Brona calls his name from across the room.
O’Driscoll leaves me with a final look, and I exhale slowly and turn on the laptop.
The dashboard loads. Gate slots. Carrier names.
Container IDs. Departure windows. Yard zones.
While I get to work, Brona steps to my desk and drops a folder beside my keyboard.
She’s old, broad-shouldered, hair clipped back, eyes like she has watched men try to bullshit her and fail. She doesn’t offer her hand. “Quinn,” she says.
“Brona,” I answer.
Her brow lifts at the direct use of her name, then settles. “You learn fast.”
“I prefer it,” I say.
She taps the folder. “Start with inbound whiskey loads. Match booking sheets to gate entries. You will find mismatches. List them.”
“Understood,” I say.
She watches my hands as I open the folder. “You’ve worked ports,” she says.
“I have.”
“Then you know the first rule.”
I look up. “Small errors hide big ones.”
Brona’s mouth twists. “Good.”
She points at a line on the schedule. “Spanish freight agent calls at noon. He likes to talk. You let him, then cut him off.”
I nod once.
Brona steps away and I start working.
I match gate logs with booking sheets. I cross-check driver names with carrier lists. I note which loads arrive too clean and too early. I note which ones drift in with no urgency. A pattern starts to take shape within thirty minutes.
This place runs tight.
Men move in lanes. Forklifts obey marked paths. Paper trails line up more often than they should in a criminal port. Security checks happen on time. Nobody laughs while they work. Nobody slacks. Nobody steals small.
That last part surprises me the most.
My father taught me to expect greed and mess. He taught me to expect a rival syndicate built on chaos and violence and lazy men who would sell out their own mothers for speed.
This looks like discipline.
Kavanagh walks past my desk with a clipboard and a grim face. He checks a man’s badge, checks a seal, then checks the seal again. The foreman answers without attitude. That tells me more than any speech.
A radio crackles. Someone calls for medical on the yard floor.
I stand before I think.
Brona looks over. “Sit,” she says.
I sit. I keep my eyes forward. Riley Quinn does not run to injuries on day one.
Still, the room shifts. Chairs scrape. A few men move quickly toward the door.
I watch through the glass.
A young worker sits on the ground near a pallet stack, one hand pressed to his forearm.
Blood shows through his fingers. Another man crouches beside him and speaks into a radio.
The medic arrives within seconds, not minutes.
That is not normal in most operations. That is money spent on keeping bodies functional.
A black SUV rolls into the yard and stops near the scene.
My stomach tightens as Cillian steps out. He walks over and kneels beside the injured worker. The men around them go quiet. Even the forklifts pause.
Cillian says something I can’t hear through the glass. The worker looks up at him, pale and shaken, then nods. Cillian’s hand comes up and presses briefly against the boy’s shoulder. He gestures at the medic, then points toward the office block, and the medic nods.
Then, he stands and turns his head slightly, scanning the yard. His gaze lifts toward the operations windows.
A shiver runs up my spine as my body reacts in a way I hate. My thighs tense and my mouth goes dry. I keep my face calm, yet I know he sees something. He sees everything.
He holds my stare for a second too long.
Then he looks away and walks beside the stretcher as it moves toward the medic bay.
Brona teleports at my desk. “You keep working.”
“I am working,” I answer.
Her eyes track mine. “You’ve met him.”
“Yes.”
“Then don’t get stupid,” she says.
I keep my expression neutral. “I’m not here for romance.”
Brona snorts once and walks off.
The burner my father issued buzzes in my pocket. It’s thin and silent, sealed inside a sleeve that blocks signals unless I open it. Now isn’t the right time, so I don’t answer and work another hour.
I work for another hour. I log mismatches, build a shortlist of recurring drivers, and note which freight agents push for late changes. I draft three questions for Brona that sound harmless and still reveal structure.
At noon, the Spanish agent calls.
I answer on the first ring. “Riley Quinn.”
He speaks fast and warmly and tries to slide past boundaries with charm and pressure. I listen, then cut him off with one sentence. “We can confirm a slot once the amended paperwork clears,” I say.