CHAPTER 35
Declan
I know something is wrong the moment I watch Ailish disappear behind the passenger door of that convoy. It starts as a tight itch in my jaw, then a pulse behind my ribs, and by the time the engines rumble to life, I can’t unclench my fists no matter how hard I try.
She kisses me goodbye like it means something, and somehow that only makes the fear sharper. If she had walked away angry, maybe I could ignore it. But she walks away with trust, and that is the most dangerous thing either of us can allow.
I wait exactly sixty seconds—long enough for the convoy to turn the corner, long enough for none of the Italians to sense a tail—before grabbing my keys and heading for the bike parked across the lot.
I don’t tell Rory. Don’t tell Liam. The thought of explaining the feeling in my chest, the certainty that she shouldn’t be out there, would sound like paranoia.
Hell, maybe it is. But I’d rather be paranoid than bury her.
I’d rather lose face with every man under me than feel that cold, bone-deep dread come true.
The bike roars under me as I slip into traffic, keeping a wide berth behind the convoy.
They don’t know I’m here, and they don’t have to.
My job isn’t to interfere. My job is to be present if—when—everything goes sideways.
I stay far enough back that only the shadows might catch a glimpse of me weaving between cars, following the three-vehicle line that carries Ailish into what should be the safest errand she’s had in months.
The Italians organized this route themselves, a show of returning trust. They assigned one of their mid-level handlers and a few grunt soldiers. Plenty for a routine recon pick-up. Not enough for what I think could be waiting.
Ailish’s head turns once. Just a quick glance back through the window. She doesn’t see me, doesn’t know I’m here, but I see her profile and feel something clamp around my chest, hard enough to steal my breath.
She’s doing this for herself. For the baby. For the Irish. She wants to be trusted again. I’m the one fighting that.
I’m the one dragging her back out of fear she’ll vanish into another alley like last time. This is her trying to move forward. I should let her. I should say something better than that awkward, too-heavy kiss. I should tell her—
A flash of movement up ahead snaps me out of the thought.
A dark SUV rolls out from an alley, too slow, too deliberate, and immediately my stomach drops.
The convoy brakes slightly, probably assuming it’s just a cautious driver merging.
But I see the second SUV. Then the third.
All unmarked, all angled wrong, all waiting for a signal I can practically taste on the wind.
My heart slams once, hard.
Ambush.
I don’t warn anyone. There isn’t time.
I park the bike without thinking—letting it topple onto the pavement behind me—and sprint forward.
The first SUV slams into the lead Italian vehicle with the force of a battering ram, metal shrieking, glass exploding like crushed ice across the asphalt.
The second SUV hits the rear, boxing them in with brutal efficiency.
The middle Italian car—the one Ailish is in—jerks violently, trapped between both impacts.
Doors fly open. Men spill out. Gunfire erupts in a crackling burst that swallows the street whole.
In the moment, everything narrows into a single white-hot line: reach her.
I tear toward the nearest attacker, the world roaring around me in a mix of engines, shouting, and bullets.
The first man doesn’t even see me coming.
I grab him by the collar, slam his head into the hood of the closest car hard enough to dent the metal, and steal his weapon as he drops.
The second turns toward me just in time for me to shoot him twice in the chest. Controlled, close-range bursts. Efficient. I barely register the recoil.
The Italians are being shredded. Their formation means nothing under the coordinated strike. Two are already down, bleeding across the road. Another is pinned behind a tire, screaming into a radio that isn’t going to save him.
But I don’t care about them.
I only care about the middle car.
Ailish’s door is open—forced open—and my heart lurches violently as I sprint toward it.
A man stands half-inside, dragging someone out by the arm.
Her arm. I recognize her coat before I recognize anything else.
That pale wool she wore this morning. The one she tugged around her belly absently while mumbling about being too warm and then too cold in the same breath.
I fire. The man jerks, but not enough. He dives behind the car, pulling her with him. She screams my name—“Declan!”—and I swear the sound nearly knocks me to my knees. I push forward, refusing to lose sight of her, but a third attacker steps into my path, raising a rifle.
He doesn’t get a shot off. I lunge, tackling him, slamming him to the pavement.
We grapple, rolling across broken glass and damaged asphalt.
His elbow cracks against my ribs. I twist, grab his wrist, force the gun sideways, and wrench it out of his grip.
A headbutt breaks his nose. A second strike silences him.
I don’t even wait for him to stop moving before I get back to my feet.
I see her again—just a flicker—being lifted into the back of one of the black SUVs. Her hands claw at the door frame. She kicks. She fights. Jesus, she fights. But the attacker in the driver’s seat grabs her by the back of her coat and yanks her all the way inside.
“No—Ailish!”
I sprint after the vehicle, shooting until the magazine clicks empty. Bullets ricochet, glass erupts from the back window, but the SUV keeps moving. Another attacker fires in my direction, covering the escape. I dive behind a wrecked car as the street explodes in sparks.
The SUV peels away, tires screaming.
She’s gone.
I force myself up, breath ragged, heart slamming so violently it hurts. The convoy is reduced to smoking metal and bodies. Blood runs toward the gutter in thin red rivers.
A surviving Italian groans somewhere behind me, clutching his shoulder, but his voice sounds distant—unreal—because my entire world is that SUV turning the corner with the woman carrying my child inside it.
I stagger forward, trying to chase even when my legs tremble. But the SUV is gone. And Ailish with it.
For a long moment, I stand in the middle of the destroyed street, unable to breathe, the gun still heavy in my hand. The last echo of the SUV’s engine fades, leaving only the hiss of leaking fluids and the broken moans of the wounded Italians around me.
Smoke curls from the crumpled hoods. The smell of gasoline clings to the air in thick, oily waves. Ailish’s scream—my name—still rings in my head like a bell struck too hard.
Everything inside me spirals around that one sound, replaying it, twisting it, turning it into something unbearable.
I force myself to move. Standing here means failing her.
I walk toward the wrecked middle car and look into the back seat where she was minutes earlier. Her purse is there, the strap half-torn. Her scarf lies rumpled on the floor mat. The sight of it nearly brings me to my knees.
They dragged her out of this car like she weighed nothing. Like she was nothing. And I let her drive away this morning with a kiss and a gut feeling I didn’t act on fast enough.
A hand grabs weakly at my ankle, and I spin, adrenaline punching through my fog. It’s one of the Italians—the mid-level handler assigned to watch her. Blood seeps between his fingers where he holds his side, and his breaths come in sharp, panicked bursts. I crouch beside him, gripping his collar.
“Where are they supposed to take her?”
His eyes flutter. He shakes his head. “We don’t know—wasn’t supposed to be—” His breathing shudders. “They were waiting. They knew the route.”
Of course they did. Someone leaks. Someone tracks them. Someone realizes exactly who is in the middle vehicle.
He coughs, blood bubbling at the corner of his mouth. “Too many. Four SUVs total. They wanted her, not us.”
I don’t need the reminder. I feel it in the precision of the strike, the calculated angles, the way they box in the convoy without firing wild. This isn’t a warning like the alley attack. This isn’t surveillance. This is an extraction. A kidnapping. A message aimed straight at the Irish.
Straight at me.
“Stay alive,” I say, though I know it’s unlikely. “Medics will come.”
He gives a weak laugh, then grimaces at the pain. “You shouldn’t have let her come. She’s… important, no?”
His eyes are glassy, unfocused. He doesn’t know the truth.
Not the full truth. But it doesn’t matter.
I stand, leaving him as sirens begin to wail in the distance—someone has called it in.
I don’t have time for police or for statements.
Liam will handle the clean-up. The Italians will cover the bodies.
The Russians will be long gone by the time anyone with authority arrives.
I scan the street for any sign of a clue—skid marks, a dropped weapon, anything—and find the dark smear of rubber curving sharply east.
They turned off toward the industrial district. Not the docks. Not the highway. Somewhere with warehouses. Somewhere with blind corners and too many escape routes. Somewhere they can shift vehicles and switch personnel in minutes.
I run back to my bike. The front handlebar is bent from where it fell, but the engine still roars to life.
I peel out from the curb, following the tire marks like my life depends on it—because hers does.
The wind slaps against my face and burns my eyes, but I lean forward, pushing the bike faster.
Every red light is a blur. Every car I pass is a meaningless obstacle.
After five minutes, the marks thin.
After seven, they vanish completely.