Chapter 7
SAOIRSE
Cillian doesn’t explain his plan or ask if I’m ready before leading me out toward his car. I get in without arguing since I want to see this finished, and the engine starts before my door shuts fully, gravel spitting under the tires while Roarke’s headlights fall in behind us.
“Where are we going?” I finally ask.
“To the man who thought fire would save him,” Cillian replies without giving anything away. Somehow, I have the feeling this has to do with Vigo.
We stop at a narrow office near the river, one light on, blinds half drawn.
It looks forgotten from the street, but the door opens before we knock.
Inside, Luis Gutierrez sits at a metal desk with a bottle of water in front of him.
His shirt is wrinkled, his sleeves rolled unevenly, his eyes red from lack of sleep.
“I moved paper,” Luis says, and his voice cracks before he clears it. He drags a hand down his face and looks at Cillian. “I’ll explain.”
Cillian leans forward slightly and rests his forearms on the desk. “I wait with bated breath.”
Luis nods fast. “I altered digital manifests inside the Vigo clearance system. There’s a private brokerage group operating out of the Vigo port offices, they call themselves Norte Logistics.
They were generating container IDs, digital seal codes, and gate timestamps that mirrored yours down to the second. ”
He swallows and glances at me, then back at Cillian. “They paid me to duplicate container IDs from your clean whiskey shipments and attach those IDs to high-risk pharmaceutical declarations moving through Spain and Portugal.”
Cillian’s posture goes rigid, but his voice stays even. “So my containers looked dirty.”
“Yes,” Luis says quickly. “On record, it looked like your containers changed classification mid-route. The amendments were filed under a legacy freight tag so they wouldn’t trigger manual review.”
I look down at him. “Moore Holdings,” I say.
Luis nods again. “I filed the amendments under that shell tag because it bypasses manual review in Vigo. It’s coded as legacy freight, so it doesn’t get audited the same way.”
Cillian’s eyes move to me for half a second, then back to Luis. “The early arrivals?”
“Timestamped system edits,” Luis answers, shaking his head defeatedly. “I pushed duplicate IDs into circulation before customs synced the logs. Once your containers got flagged twice, your lanes would look unstable.”
“And then?” Cillian prompts.
Luis exhales shakily. “Then Norte would offer their own routing service as a solution. They’d say they could stabilize the corridor. That was the play.”
He grips the edge of the desk. “I made it look like you couldn’t control your paperwork so they could step in and take the corridor. I’m sorry, it was my job.”
“So you altered shipping schedules,” I say, stepping closer to the desk. “You amended time slots and reassigned carriers.”
Luis nods quickly. “Only timing. Nothing else.”
“That’s not true,” Cillian interjects.
Luis presses his palms flat on the metal surface. “The containers were clean when they left Vigo.”
“That’s not what I asked,” Cillian replies.
Luis pauses for a breath to look at the faces surrounding him, then the guns, the floor, finally Cillian. “The problem was the staging.”
I feel it before I understand it. Luis glances at me, then back at Cillian. “The early arrivals were decoys. We booked clean shipments a day ahead, then logged them into the system so the yard ran inspection on schedule.”
“And?” Cillian asks.
“And while the yard was focused on those loads, a separate truck came through on a matched manifest.”
Cillian’s gaze sharpens. “Matched how?”
Luis swallows. “Same container ID. Same barcode.”
I step forward. “That’s impossible unless the code was cloned.”
Luis nods. “It was.”
The room stills. “You’re saying the Vigo office duplicated the digital ID of a legitimate container?” I raise my brow.
“Yes.”
“And the cloned code was attached to a different physical container.”
“Yes.”
Cillian leans back slightly, eyes cold. “So the product never touched my inspected lanes.”
Luis nods again. “It came through a secondary gate with a clean digital trail.”
I feel it click fully now. “That’s why nothing flagged on chemical tests,” I say. “Your inspections were real, but they were looking at the wrong metal box.”
Cillian looks at me briefly, then back at Luis. “What was in the cloned containers?”
Luis hesitates.
Cillian doesn’t raise his voice, and yet, it still sounds like the lashing of a whip. “Answer.”
“Finished synthetic opioids,” Luis mumbles. “Pressed tablets. Small batches.”
Silence stretches before Cillian speaks again, and this time, I can hear the rage suppressed in his voice. “How many runs?”
“Six,” Luis whispers. “Over three months.”
Cillian steeples his fingers in front of him. “Who designed it?” he asks.
Luis shakes his head. “Not me. The clone codes were generated outside Vigo. We received them through an encrypted relay.”
“From where?” I ask.
Luis hesitates again. “A logistics consultancy out of Madrid.”
Cillian’s expression doesn’t change. “Name.”
Luis swallows. “Torres & Vale.”
I know that name. It’s real, registered, and clean on paper. “They contract with multiple European ports,” I say. “If they’re generating clone codes, they have backend access.”
Luis nods fast. “They pitch it as efficiency optimization. They say they streamline dispatch timing. They offered us a side agreement.”
“For a cut?” Cillian asks.
“Yes.”
“How much?”
“Three percent of declared value.”
“Cheap,” Cillian mutters.
“It wasn’t about the money,” Luis blurts. “They promised protection.”
That captures Cillian’s attention. “From whom?”
Luis’s voice drops. “From whoever would eventually notice.”
I hold his gaze.
“Who eventually noticed?” I ask.
Luis looks at me directly. “You did.”
There’s nothing more to say to that. Cillian realizes as much and stands. “If Torres & Vale are cloning IDs, we don’t need Vigo,” he says. “We need their server.”
Luis nods weakly. “They operate through a remote dispatch hub. If you freeze their access key, the clone system collapses.”
“How?” Cillian asks.
Luis points to the half-burned folder. “There’s a master authorization code embedded in each amended manifest. It looks like a routing signature.”
I grab one of the papers and scan the header.
There’s a small string under the dispatch stamp, with the same pattern across the altered loads. “It’s consistent,” I say. “Same signature embedded in each amendment.”
Cillian watches me.
“If we isolate that string and cross-check with standard manifests, we can identify every cloned ID they’ve issued,” I continue. “Then you alert customs in Madrid and Lisbon simultaneously. Once their access node is flagged, they can’t generate new codes.”
Luis nods. “If you move fast, you’ll catch the next shipment mid-route.”
“When?” Cillian asks.
Luis’s eyes grow watery and his mouth trembles.
“When?” Cillian repeats.
“Forty-eight hours,” Luis whispers. “Another run is scheduled.”
Cillian doesn’t hesitate. “Roarke?” he calls.
Roarke steps in.
“Contact Madrid Port Authority,” Cillian says. “Flag Torres & Vale for unauthorized code generation. Quietly. Simultaneously, notify Lisbon customs. We intercept the next shipment and seize the container publicly.”
Roarke nods once and steps back outside.
Luis exhales like he’s just survived something.
Cillian steps closer to the desk.
“If this works,” he says calmly, “Vigo is clean.”
Luis nods. “Vigo was just access.”
Cillian looks at me. “This ends because you caught it,” he says.
That almost makes me blush. It isn’t often that I’m praised for my work. “It ends because the system mattered.”
He studies my face like he’s trying to read what sits behind it.
Inside, something else is unfolding.
I know this wasn’t a random case of corruption. This was structured enough to be impressive, precise enough to challenge him, clean enough to pass inspection.
My father likes operations that test men. He likes setting traps that require solving. If this corridor collapses cleanly and Cillian trusts me more because of it, that serves someone very well.
But I don’t let that thought reach my face. Out loud, the story is simple.
A Spanish consultancy cloned IDs, and a corrupt clerk facilitated it. He won’t have any trouble crushing it.
Cillian turns to the door. “Come,” he says.
I follow him out without looking back at Luis. The night air hits cool against my face, and Roarke is already on the phone, voice clipped while he walks toward his car. “Madrid’s alerted,” he says as we approach. “Lisbon too. Torres & Vale servers are being flagged.”
Cillian nods once. “Lock Vigo access immediately.”
“It’s done.”
We get back into the car, and this time, the drive feels different. The urgency is still there, but it’s focused on closing this loop. “You knew it wasn’t the physical load,” Cillian says without looking at me.
“I suspected,” I answer. “Your yard runs too tightly for six contaminated runs to pass unnoticed.”
He glances at me briefly. “You trust my system.”
“I trust patterns,” I reply.
He huffs something close to a laugh, then his jaw sets again as the phone buzzes in his hand. He answers on speaker.
“Talk.”
Roarke’s voice comes through steady. “Lisbon confirmed a container matching the cloned ID is scheduled to dock in thirty hours. Madrid’s pulled Torres & Vale’s backend access. Their system’s locked.”
Cillian’s fingers tighten slightly on the steering wheel. “And the next run?”
“Frozen,” Roarke replies. “Customs seized it mid-route under digital fraud.”
Silence fills the car for a second.
“So that’s it,” I say quietly. “The clone corridor collapses once the hub is locked.”
“Yes,” Roarke confirms. “Torres & Vale are being audited. Vigo’s cleared itself of internal breach. Gutierrez is cooperating.”
Cillian nods once. “Keep pressure on the consultancy.”
The call ends.
We drive the rest of the way back in silence. By the time we pull into the estate, I’m almost floating on a cloud, even if all of this was far too quick and easy. Cillian leads me to his study, sets his phone down, and pours water for the both of us. “You closed it,” he says.
“We closed it,” I correct.
His eyes hold mine. “You saw it first.”
I shrug lightly. “You built something worth protecting.”
He studies my face like he’s weighing that statement. “Torres & Vale won’t recover from this,” he says. “And if they do, they won’t touch my lanes again.”
“Good,” I answer.
He steps closer, not crowding, but near enough that the space feels charged.
“You earned your place today,” he says.
I can hear my father celebrating somewhere in the background, and it isn’t a good feeling. But the way Cillian’s looking at me now fixes a lot of what’s aching in my heart. “Thanks,” I mumble.
“And you did more than that.”
He reaches out to brush his knuckles lightly along my jaw. “Dinner,” he says.
“That sounds like a reward,” I reply.
“It is.”
We don’t leave the estate. He leads me to a private dining room tucked behind the main hall, and the table is already set with two plates, simple and warm. No audience. No staff lingering.
He pulls out my chair, and I sit without comment. “This isn’t business,” he says as he takes the seat across from me.
“I figured,” I reply.
The meal is quiet at first. He asks about Rotterdam. I give him pieces that are true without giving him the bones. I ask about the distillery. He tells me how he learned to read barrels by smell alone.
The conversation moves easily, and the tension that lived in every glance earlier now sits heavier, slower.
“You could’ve walked away tonight,” he says suddenly.
I raise a brow at him. “From what?”
“From Vigo. From me.”
I hold his gaze. “I didn’t want to.”
He leans back slightly, studying me. “That note didn’t scare you in the slightest, did it?”
I cut into a roasted potato and take a bite. “No.”
“Why?”
I talk in between sips of a full-bodied red wine. “Because whoever sent it wanted chaos, and you don’t reward chaos.”
His mouth curves faintly. “You think you know me.”
“I think I understand you.”
Silence settles between us, but it isn’t empty.
He stands first when dinner is finished, and he steps around the table slowly. I remain seated, watching him. “I trust your mind,” he says.
“And the rest?”
He stops in front of me. “That’s still being decided.”
He offers his hand. I take it.
He pulls me to my feet, and this time, he doesn’t stop at distance. His hand slides to my waist. “You were right about the tasting,” I say.
“About what?” His voice is just a murmur, but it’s full of want and warmth and it does strange things to my legs, my stomach, even my heart.
“That you were watching?”
He steps closer. “I’m still watching.”
My hands rest lightly against his chest. His heartbeat is steady under my palms. “Do you always reward good work like this?” I lightly ask, earning a chuckle from him.
“Only when it deserves it.” He tilts his head slightly, studying my mouth like he’s memorizing the shape. His thumb brushes along my waist, slow enough to make it intentional.
“If you’re lying to me,” he says quietly, “I’ll know.”
“I’m not lying about this,” I answer.
“About what?”
“This.”
He doesn’t ask me to clarify. His hand moves from my waist to the back of my neck, fingers threading into my hair just enough to tilt my face upward. Then, his mouth comes down on mine, hard and certain, and it’s the best thing I’ve tasted this evening.
My hands slide up into his shirt, gripping the fabric. He deepens the kiss, one hand firm at my waist while the other tightens in my hair. My body responds before my mind catches up. I press closer, and he answers immediately, pulling me flush against him.
The world narrows to breath and mouth and hands.
His kiss turns rougher, hungrier, and I match it without thinking. My fingers dig into his shoulders, and his grip shifts lower, strong and claiming.
He breaks the kiss only to drag his mouth along my jaw, then back to my lips.
“Careful,” he murmurs against my mouth.
“Why?” I whisper back.
“Because I don’t do halfway.”
I kiss him again before I can think too hard about it, and he responds instantly, lifting me slightly so I feel the strength in him, the control.
He pulls back first, breathing heavier now. “This changes things,” he says.
“It already has,” I reply.
He studies my face, then brushes his thumb across my lower lip.
For tonight, Vigo is finished. Torres & Vale are exposed. The cloned corridor is shut down. His lanes are clean again. And I’ve moved from analyst to something closer.
He trusts me, which is great since that was the mission. The problem is, it doesn’t feel like one anymore. The lines begin to blur as his mouth comes down on me again, and I cling to him like he is the one solid thing in a world that is dark and dizzy.