3. Declan
Declan
The morning hits like a hangover, even though I only had one drink. Maybe two. Doesn’t matter. The air down by the docks smells of diesel and salt and bad memories.
Conor’s waiting beside a stack of cargo crates, phone in hand, cigarette hanging off his lip. “You look like you slept in the gutter,” he says.
“Didn’t sleep at all.”
“Ah. So, business as usual.” I ignore him and crouch beside the gate. The padlock’s been cut, replaced, then cut again. Sloppy. Whoever did it wanted us to notice.
“Any cameras catch it?”
“None that work,” he says. “Power went out sometime after midnight.”
“Convenient.”
Conor snuffs out his cigarette and flicks it into the puddle. “You think the Russians are poking around again?”
“I think someone wants us to think that,” I say. “The Italians tightened security here last week. Only a handful of people knew the new schedule.”
“And one of those people’s a leak.”
“Maybe.” I stand, watching a cargo ship ease into the bay, cranes groaning above it. The rain hasn’t stopped in days. “Get a list of everyone who had access to those codes. If this is a test, I want to know who’s taking it.”
Conor nods. “What about Liam?”
“I’ll tell him once I have proof. No sense feeding his paranoia yet.”
He smirks. “And what about Ailish?”
“What about her?”
He gives me the look that says he knows exactly where to dig. “She’s been spending more time with the Italians’ liaison—Santo, the pretty one. Word is she’s managing the shipments personally.”
My chest tightens, irrational and instant. “You believe every rumor you hear now?”
“Not every rumor. Just the fun ones.”
I run a hand through my hair, willing the tension in my mind and body to go. It just won’t. “I don’t even understand why she’s so involved. An assistant is one thing, but it’s like her hands are in everything.”
Conor gives me a wary look. “Nadia’s on lockdown for her safety, Declan. That makes Ailish the best bet for everything. Liam’s got her managing patrols and rerouting territory defenses now. You trained her well.”
There's a smirk buried somewhere in that last bit. I make a fist, feel my nails bite into my palm, and pull out my phone.
Since when does your assistant reroute territory defenses?
Liam
Since I said so.
She isn't trained for a war.
The dots appear, then vanish. Twice. Whatever he types, he decides against sending.
An assistant shouldn't be this deep in it. Shouldn't be this exposed. That's the part I can say out loud. The rest of it stays where it belongs.
Then, I force myself to think about the task at hand. I grab the clipboard from Conor before I do something stupid. “Focus on the docks. I’ll handle Ailish.”
“Handle?” Conor grins. “That’s one word for it.”
“Codes,” I tell him. “Today, not tomorrow.”
He’s already heading for his car, phone against his ear, and I turn toward the warehouses before he can see the expression on my face.
Inside, the security lights hum, flickering. I move between stacks of crates marked imported glassware—the kind of label that fools no one. My boots echo on concrete. Something about the stillness feels wrong.
Halfway down the aisle, I find what I’m looking for: a broken seal on one of the containers. I pry it open. The smell hits first—metal and oil. Then I see them: rifles, Russian-made, wrapped in burlap.
“Son of a—”
A noise behind me. I spin, gun drawn.
“Easy, Declan.”
It’s not a threat. It’s Ailish.
Of course it is.
She steps out from behind a stack of boxes, hands raised slightly. The light catches her hair, damp and loose, making her look softer than she wants to be.
“You shouldn’t be here,” I say.
She grimaces. “I’m here for Liam. Though, he forwarded me a message that lets me know you won’t like that answer.”
I mutter under my breath but then gesture at the crate. “You recognize this brand?”
Her expression hardens. “Russians.”
“Looks that way.”
She moves closer, eyes scanning the weapon markings. “How did they get through customs?”
“That’s what I’m asking.”
She doesn’t answer. Her jaw works, calculating. Then, quietly, “Liam needs to see this.”
“Not yet. We can’t walk in without knowing who’s leaking the manifests.”
“And if you’re wrong?”
“I’m not.”
She looks up at me then—really looks—and something shifts between us, that same dangerous current from the other night. “You always have to be right,” she says.
“Someone has to be.”
“Even if it gets you killed?”
“Better me than someone else.”
Her mouth tightens, but she doesn’t argue. For a second, we’re just standing there, surrounded by the ghosts of every fight we never finished.
Outside, a car engine revs and cuts off. We both freeze. Ailish whispers, “You expecting backup?”
I shake my head. Footsteps. Two sets. Heavy, deliberate.
I motion for her to move behind the crates. She hesitates only a heartbeat before slipping into the shadows beside me.
Two men enter—broad, unmarked jackets, Eastern European accents drifting through their low conversation. They head straight for the open container.
One curses softly in Russian. The other answers, voice rough. “He was here. Seal’s broken.”
My pulse steadies into the rhythm of muscle memory. One step left, two down, gun up.
Ailish’s fingers brush my sleeve—a warning, or maybe grounding. She shakes her head, mouthing not yet.
The men finish their inspection and move toward the exit. I let them go. When the sound of their boots fades, I lower the gun. “You should’ve let me take the shot. I can’t believe Liam is letting you play queen.”
“And start a war we’re not ready for?” she snaps back. Her voice trembles, but not from fear. “We need to be smarter than that, Declan.”
“Smarter?” I step closer. “They’re already inside our docks. How much smarter do you want to be before we fight back?”
“Enough to win.”
The words hang there, too sharp, too honest. For a second, I see the same fire that used to burn in her before politics drowned it. She doesn’t blink, doesn’t flinch.
“Fine,” I say finally. “But if the Russians are back, we do it my way.”
“And what way is that?”
“Quietly.”
We make our way out through a side door, rain slicking the pavement. Ailish keeps pace beside me, chin lifted against the wind.
“You’re bleeding,” she says suddenly.
I glance down. A shallow cut across my forearm—probably from the crate latch. I hadn’t noticed.
She pulls a handkerchief from her pocket, steps in close, and wraps it around my arm. The simple motion feels too intimate. Her fingers linger a heartbeat longer than necessary.
“You don’t have to play medic,” I say.
“Someone has to,” she murmurs, echoing my earlier words. “Besides, I thought it was queen I was playing.”
We lock eyes. The rain keeps falling, a steady percussion around us.
When it’s over—whatever that was—we stand there in the rain, pretending we’re just two soldiers comparing wounds.
I clear my throat. “I’ll take these rifles to storage. Keep it quiet until I say otherwise.”
She nods, composure snapping back into place. “I’ll handle the manifests.”
Neither of us moves. Then she turns and walks away, leaving me with the smell of salt and gun oil and the uncomfortable truth that I’m already in deeper than I planned.
The rain follows me all the way back to the safe house, an old garage that smells of oil and gunmetal. The hum of the fluorescents makes the silence worse. I throw my coat over a chair, drop the box of rifles on the workbench, and stand there watching the water drip from the hem of my sleeve.
Every weapon is tagged in Russian. Every serial number is filed off.
I pick one up. Heavy. Clean. New enough that someone’s been running supplies through our docks in the past week. Somebody with access.
I scroll through the manifests on my phone. Five names appear at the bottom of the authorization list—three dock foremen, one accountant, and one liaison. The liaison’s name makes my stomach knot.
Ailish. Of course, it’s her. Or maybe someone is using her codes. Either way, she’ll take the blame when this breaks open. Liam won’t hesitate.
I slam the phone down, take a breath, and call Conor.
He answers on the second ring. “You sound like you swallowed nails.”
“Get me everything on last night’s cargo. Who signed off, who keyed the system, who clocked in early.”
“That bad?”
“Worse. We’ve got rifles with Russian stamps sitting in our warehouse.”
He whistles low. “Liam know?”
“Not yet. I’ll tell him when I have a name.”
“Uh huh. And you already ran the authorization list yourself before you called me, or you wouldn’t be talking like a man who’s decided something.”
“Conor.”
“Five names on that list and only one of them keeps you up at night.” A pause. “Meaning you need evidence it’s not hers?”
I don’t answer. The silence tells him enough.
“Be careful, Dec. If Liam catches you shielding her—”
“Just do what I asked.”
I hang up before he can finish.
By the time I reach Liam’s office that evening, the rain’s stopped, but the air still feels heavy. Guards nod me through without comment. Inside, Liam’s pacing behind his desk, phone to his ear, voice calm in that way that means he’s already furious.
He ends the call, turns, and studies me. “You look like hell.”
“Thanks. We have a problem.”
“I usually assume that when you walk in.”
I toss the photograph of the rifles onto his desk. “Russians. At our docks.”
His jaw sets. “How sure?”
“Sure enough that I nearly shot two of them this morning.”
He examines the picture, expression unreadable. “And you didn’t tell me sooner because…?”
“Because I wanted confirmation. And because I didn’t want you tearing into the wrong person.”
“Meaning?”
“The manifests were logged with Ailish’s code.”
That gets his attention. He sets the picture down slowly. “You’re accusing my head of logistics?”
“I’m saying someone used her access.”
Liam moves to the window, hands behind his back. “You realize what it looks like, Declan? You bringing me contraband tied to her name.”
“I’m aware.”
“Who else has seen the container?”
“Ailish. Nobody else.”
He’s quiet a moment too long. “So the only witness to the evidence is the woman the evidence points at.”