Chapter 4
CILLIAN
Iwake early and walk the port before the sun hits the east yard.
Kavanagh reports nothing unusual. The Belfast run cleared late but landed clean.
The crates from Vigo arrived early and sat untouched.
That part bothers me. Early arrivals disrupt inspection timing, idle cargo creates gaps in custody, and gaps are where people hide things.
That kind of silence in the system isn’t an accident, and it tells me someone is testing how closely I’m watching.
By seven thirty, I’m back in my office with the manifests spread out in front of me, tracing dispatch stamps and gate times by hand instead of trusting the dashboard.
I skim three logistics updates and spot the same Spanish corridor appearing twice under different clerks, so I send Roarke to check the seal codes on a flagged Vigo container.
If the seals don’t line up, I’ll know this isn’t a one-off mistake but a probe.
I step back from the desk and look at the wall of schedules again. The lanes are tight, the time slots clean, but the anomaly doesn’t belong to the yard or the drivers. It belongs to the paperwork.
Something’s off, not in a way that sets alarms ringing but in a way that suggests someone inside the system understands how it works and is betting I won’t notice the edges.
If I want to close that gap, I need the person who saw it first, not the men who’ve been staring at the same screens for years.
I take out my phone and open a new message to Roisin.
Send Ms. Quinn to the residence. Tell her she’s expected for breakfast at 8:30.
By the time she arrives, I’ve read the day’s reports, showered, dressed, and poured black coffee into a clean ceramic mug. The cook serves toast, eggs, and grilled tomatoes, but I barely touch it. I wait instead.
When Riley walks in, she’s not wearing her port blazer or her company badge. Her hair is tied back, but not in a way that hides the curve of her neck. She wears black pants that fit her too well and a shirt that highlights every curve. I nod toward the seat across from mine.
“You’ve been here one day,” I say.
“Yes.”
“You’ve logged seventeen mismatches and flagged a scheduling pattern no one else noticed in six months.”
“I did,” she says.
Her voice is even, her expression calm. I look at her hands. They don’t shake.
“You’re not an analyst,” I say.
“I am,” she answers. “I’m just a better one than you expected.”
That tone again—flat, confident, not impressed by power and not afraid of being wrong. Most people soften when they sit across from me, but she leans forward instead, picks up her coffee, and drinks without waiting for permission.
“You saw something in the whiskey lane timing,” I say. “Tell me.”
She sets her cup down. “Three shipments from the Spanish corridor arrived a day early in the last two weeks. The drivers were different, the companies were different, but the amendment requests came from the same clerk in our Vigo office. That clerk—Luis Gutierrez—filed changes under different regional tags but reused the same contact number each time.”
I blink once, then lean back. “How do you know?”
“I called the number pretending to confirm a customs delay. He answered with the wrong company name.”
I nod.
“He’s laundering mislabeled containers through multiple carriers,” she says. “My guess is he’s being paid to blend high-value product into legitimate runs. If that’s true, it’s not just money we’re losing.”
“Go on.”
“If he’s working with medical-grade distributors off-books, it explains how clean loads keep getting flagged late in transit. He’s sliding synthetic opioids in under neutral labels—antivirals, hormone injectables, even prenatal supplements.”
I raise a brow and cock my head at her. “Fentanyl?” I ask.
“Too early to say. But if it’s not that, it’s something close.”
I stare at her. She holds still. I haven’t had a woman sit across from me like this in five years. Not since Eva. “You know the problem with fentanyl,” I say.
Riley nods. “It moves fast, pays well, and ruins everything.”
I study her face. There’s no fear in it, only focus. I don’t know who trained her to speak like this or why she’s really here, but every word she gives me is something I can use. That makes her valuable, but also dangerous.
“You’ve been in ports before,” I say.
“I told you that.”
“Where else?”
“Rotterdam. Antwerp. Hamburg. A little time in Lisbon.”
I wait. She doesn’t fill the silence. She doesn’t explain more than I asked. Most people do. She doesn’t flinch and she doesn’t flirt, but something in the way she looks at me is charged.
I’ve fucked enough women since Eva to know what I like. Most were easy to forget. None of them worked my brain while making my cock stand to attention. Riley Quinn talks like every sentence is a hand around my throat, and I’m starting to think she knows exactly what she’s doing.
“You don’t want promotions?” I ask as I lean back in my chair and drum my fingers on the table.
She takes another sip of her coffee and lets her green eyes settle directly on me. “I want control over what matters.”
I nod. I’ve learned what I needed to.
I finish my coffee and push my plate away. “Roarke will escort you back to logistics.”
She stands. “Understood.”
But she doesn’t leave.
“Something else?” I ask.
“You should check the Lisbon manifest from April,” she says. “There’s a carrier listed under ‘Moore Holdings’. That company doesn’t exist legally.”
Then she turns and walks out.
I sit still for a full minute before I move. My appetite’s gone, but my attention’s sharper than it’s been in months.
There’s something about her I still can’t place, and I think I’m going to enjoy finding out.
After a full few minutes, I finish a piece of toast with another cup of coffee and then head to the ops block.
Roarke intercepts me at the side stairs with a clipped update on the Balkan manifest. One driver’s route doesn’t match his clearance slip.
I send him to track it down and tell Brona to hold anything outbound on the Vigo corridor until we get the seal logs confirmed.
The rest of the morning moves on schedule.
Quinn returns to her post like nothing unusual happened.
She works fast, cross-checks schedules, and doesn’t waste time.
I catch her once watching the board, lips tight, head tilted just slightly like she’s mapping ten things at once.
I don’t call attention to it. She’s doing more with three screens and a notepad than most of my men can manage in a week.
I handle the meeting with the Spanish rep over the late Vigo container. He tries to push past the breach. I remind him that he’s a guest, not a partner. He backs down.
At ten past eleven, I get a call. On the other end, Roarke’s voice is short. “Truck two-six got hit on the South Quay loop. One down. Container breached. Gunmen fled east. Witnesses say two bikes, one van. They knew what to hit.”
“Which route?” I ask.
“Clean whiskey. Labeled. Legit.”
“Driver?”
“Doran.”
I exhale once and head out. Quinn’s still at her desk when I pass. She sees me. Her hands still on the keyboard, but her eyes don’t leave my face.
I say nothing and keep walking.
The attack site sits less than two clicks from the secure loop, and the cleanup crew’s already there when I arrive. Roarke meets me at the edge of the taped line, jaw tight, coat unzipped.
“Two shooters, masked. One blocked the front. The other cracked the container. Took nothing.”
“Show of power,” I say.
He nods. “And a message.”
The truck’s still sitting with its rear doors open. The crate inside is untouched, but the seal’s been cut with bolt cutters and tossed. Doran’s body is half-covered. Blood leaked under the wheels.
He was twenty-eight. No priors. Two kids. I’d hired him through the Belfast line because he kept his head down.
“Who?” I ask.
“We think McKenna’s crew. The North Lotts line is squeezing, and they want space. Could be personal. Could be warning.”
I crouch beside the driver’s door, spot the chipped glass, the broken mirror, the blood spatter that hit the cab frame in a high arc. Close shot. No struggle.
“Call the family,” I say. “Make sure they’re seen. Cover everything.”
Roarke nods. “You want names?”
“Not yet. I want location.”
He texts someone. I walk toward the edge of the quay. Two dock workers nearby drop their gaze.
A black sedan pulls in and one of our watchers steps out. “Confirmed sighting on McKenna’s boy. Liam. Drinking at Murphy’s since nine.”
I nod.
Ten minutes later, we’re in the car. I walk into Murphy’s at a steady pace, flanked by two men who know the order of things. The bar is half full. Midday crowd. Working-class regulars. Nobody looks up until we reach the back corner.
Liam McKenna stands to meet me, cocky and slow.
“Cillian,” he says, like we’re on good terms.
I grab his arm and slam it against the wall behind him, hard enough to crack the plaster. He grunts, swings once, wild and high. I drive my elbow into his throat and drop him to his knees.
The room freezes. Liam coughs and spits blood. “It wasn’t me—”
“Who gave the order?” I ask.
“I don’t—”
I kick his knee out, and it snaps loud enough to silence the bartender. Liam screams once before I cut it off with a blow to his jaw. He falls sideways. I crouch beside him, careful and calm. “You hit one of mine on a clean lane,” I say. “You staged it for noise. You wanted bodies.”
His mouth moves, but I don’t care what comes out.
“You just earned some,” I finish.
I stand. “Pull his phone and wallet. Clear the security tapes. No one speaks about this.”
Roarke nods. The others move fast.
The body stays down.
We leave just as quietly as we came.
By the time I get back to the port, the yard’s calm again.
Quinn sees me walk in. She doesn’t say anything, but her gaze lingers on the blood on my knuckles. She doesn’t flinch or smile. I pass without stopping and head directly to my study, busying myself with work.
Hours later, as the sun drops over the cranes and the day shift switches to evening crews, I make the call I’ve been dreading. “Mrs. Doran?” I say when she answers.
She’s crying. I wait until she can breathe.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “Your husband worked hard. He was loyal. This shouldn’t have happened.”
She thanks me through the sobs. I keep my tone steady.
“There will be a full payout,” I say. “His salary will be extended six months. You’ll receive a fund transfer today and a second transfer next month. The children’s school costs are covered.”
She can’t speak.
“You’ll be protected,” I add. “No one will come near your home. You have my word.”
I end the call and send the order through Roarke. Outside, the port lights flicker on, but my attention is on the monitors. One shows Riley still at her desk. So I make another call, this time to Roisin. “Send Quinn to the residence. I’m in the study.”
I’m standing near the far table that I use when I need space from the desk. A folder waits for her—blank manifest, false seal report, and a stack of rerouted tags. I built it as a test. I want to see what she does when the logic breaks on purpose.
She arrives shortly after, ponytail tight with two strands loose at her face, blazer neat and unforgiving on her curves. Her expression gives nothing away, but the muted red on her mouth pulls focus anyway.
“You wanted to see me?” she says.
I nod toward the folder. “Found something in the seal log that doesn’t make sense. I want your read.”
She walks to the table, picks up the report, and reads in silence. I watch her fingers skim the paper, watch the faint tension in her jaw when she catches the irregularity.
“This was re-stamped twice,” she says. “But there’s no record of a middle transit stop. That only happens if the driver swapped cabs mid-route or someone replaced the crate without changing the ID.”
She doesn’t look at me as she says it. Her voice stays calm. Her eyes stay on the paper. I step closer.
“Explain the route logic,” I say.
She does. She outlines how the lane’s too short for fuel shifts, how the manifest doesn’t align with the dispatch window, how the barcode tags don’t match the timestamp from the reader logs.
I keep pushing. I ask three more questions. She answers all of them with certainty.
“You’re too calm,” I say.
She finally looks up. “Should I be nervous?”
“I expected you to be.”
“I don’t react when I’m being watched.”
“That’s a skill,” I say.
“It’s a necessity,” she answers.
We’re close now. No desk between us. No distance either. She keeps her eyes on mine, and I study her face for any flicker of guilt, any sign she’s lying. There’s none. Just precision.
I reach past her and flip the next page. “And this line?”
She glances down. “That’s forged. Not by us. The ink’s different.”
She catches it fast. I wonder what else she’s seen that she hasn’t said out loud.
“Who are you really?” I ask.
Her expression shifts, but only slightly. “The analyst you hired.”
“That’s not the truth.”
“It’s close enough,” she says.
I step closer, just a fraction. She doesn’t move back. Her mouth tightens for half a second, and then she smooths it. “I watched you today,” I say with a hint of roughness slipping into my voice. “You didn’t blink when I walked in with blood on my hands.”
“Would blinking have helped?”
“You’re not normal.”
“Neither are you.”
Her voice doesn’t quaver, but her pulse kicks at the side of her neck again, same as it did that first morning. I see it. I know she knows I see it.
She closes the folder and sets it back on the table. “You have what you needed. I’ll go.”
She turns to leave. I don’t let her.
My hand closes around her arm just above the elbow. Her breath hitches, but she doesn’t pull away.
“Let go,” she quietly says.
“You don’t want me to,” I say.
Her eyes snap back to mine. I step in until our bodies are nearly touching, until the air between our mouths could vanish with a shift.
She doesn’t move. Neither do I.
I feel the tension roll off her skin, feel the way her jaw locks, the way her breath hitches and evens again. She’s angry. She’s aroused. She won’t admit either.
“You’re in too deep already,” I say as my lips curl.
She raises a brow at me, matching me stare for stare. “Am I?”
I shift my grip, not loosening it, just sliding slightly higher, just enough to make her feel it. Her free hand stays at her side. “I don’t trust you,” I say.
“You shouldn’t.”
“But I keep calling you in.”
“Then maybe that’s your problem.”
Her lower lip is fuller than the top. There’s a mark where her teeth pressed into it earlier. I picture her jaw in my hand and her mouth under mine. How would that smart mouth fare once I kiss her like she’s not here on business?
This could be a big mistake. But right now, all I want is to pin her to the wall and find out what else that mouth is good at.