20. Lorcan
Lorcan
The Suburban smells of leather and the stale air of a man who hasn't slept in two days. Outside, the Nevada desert runs past in a blur of ochre and burnt orange, the sun hammering the hood.
I look at my hands. Steady, the way they always are. But there's a tremor somewhere underneath the knuckles that won't quit.
My mind is supposed to be on the regional capos and the port security. It isn't.
Atara.
I'm thinking about the way she looked at me in the study.
About how she's already mapped my security protocols better than half my guards.
About the fact that she's locked in the East Wing right now, almost certainly working out how to bury me under a stack of balance sheets.
She's a distraction, and distractions get men killed.
I dropped a variable into a closed system, and for the first time in ten years, I can't account for it.
"Two miles out," Kieran says from the driver’s seat. He doesn't look back at me. He knows better.
"Keep the speed steady," I say, my voice flat. "I don't want a reason for anyone to look twice at this vehicle."
My phone buzzes against my thigh. I ignore it—the Senator's office again, panicking about Cork. Not today.
"Slow down," I say.
"Boss?"
"Stop the car."
We’re on a dusty turn-off near the outskirts of the sector. It’s not the meeting point. My gut is twitching, a low-level static of unease that I’ve learned to trust over the last five years.
"Stay here," I say, opening the door.
The heat hits me like a physical blow. The air is dry and tastes of dust. I step onto the asphalt, my hand hovering near the holster tucked into my waistband.
A girl is riding a pink bicycle along the shoulder.
She’s no older than ten, wearing a bright blue helmet that swallows her head.
She doesn't look like she belongs in this part of the city.
She stops right in front of the SUV, resting a small, grimy foot on the pavement.
She doesn't look scared. She just looks at me with a hollow, practiced grace that makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up.
She reaches into the basket of her bike and pulls out a small, black wooden box. She holds it out to me.
"For the man in the car," she says. Her voice is flat.
I step toward her, my hand tightening on my gun as I take the box from her. "Who gave this to you?"
"An uncle," she says. She doesn't blink. "He said you’d know what it’s for."
I start to reach for her, to get a name, but she turns the bike around in a sudden, jerky movement and pedals away into the scrub brush. I watch her go. There’s nothing on the horizon. Just dust and heat haze.
I walk back to the car, the box heavy and cold in my palm.
"Boss?" Kieran asks, his hand on his sidearm.
"Drive," I say. "And call the scouts. I want a perimeter sweep of this whole fucking sector. Now."
I sit back in the cool dark of the car. I’m not breathing right. I open the box.
Not a bomb. Not a threat.
A ring.
I know it before I let myself know it. Elara's ring. The world tips.
I'm back in the Vegas house, five years ago. The wet thwip of a silenced pistol. Elara's breath turning to a gurgle. Her hand twitching against the tile. This ring sliding off her finger as the blood spread under her hair, dark and slow. And then the silence after.
Silas.
The headache comes in behind my eyes like a driven nail. I want to tear something apart with my hands. I want the throat of the man who held this, who touched it, who put it in a child's basket and sent it across the desert to me.
"Boss." Kieran's voice comes thin and far away. "Boss—your hand."
I look down. I've crushed the box. The velvet is shredded, and the edges of the ring have opened the skin across my knuckles. I didn't feel it.
"Drive," I say.
"We're almost at the site. We can reschedule—"
"Drive!"
The meeting is in an abandoned steel mill at the edge of the industrial park. Dominic is waiting in the middle of the floor, one of my oldest capos, grinning, ready to talk points.
"Lorcan. Good to see you. I was starting to think—"
I don't let him finish. I cross the floor, take him by the throat, and drive him back into a support beam. The crack of it echoes. I lift until his boots leave the ground.
"You think this is a game?" I hiss. "You think you can sit there and talk to me about points while my life is being systematically dismantled? I will put a hole in you right here, Dominic. I will decorate this fucking floor with your brains."
His men go for their guns. Mine are faster. A dozen safeties click off at once.
"Stand down!" Dominic wheezes, his eyes bulging, his hands clawing at my wrists. "Lorcan! It’s me! What the fuck is wrong with you?"
I stare at him. I see the fear in his eyes, but it isn't the fear of a subordinate. It’s the terror of a man who realizes his boss has gone completely insane.
I see the ring, still clutched in my left hand, the diamonds digging into my palm.
I drop him.
Dominic hits the floor, gasping for air, clutching his neck. The room is dead silent. My men are standing there, their guns leveled, waiting for a command that I can't seem to find.
"Get out," I say. My voice is cold.
"Lorcan, what happened?" Dominic chokes out, coughing. "If it’s Silas—if he’s back—"
"It’s personal," I say, turning away. I walk toward the exit, my boots echoing like gunshots on the concrete. "Keep your crews on standby. We’re going to war. But this battle? This is mine."
The drive home feels like an eternity. Every mile is a reminder that the perimeter is thin. That Atara is inside. That the fortress I’ve spent years building is made of glass.
"Boss, perimeter alert!" Kieran shouts as we hit the gates.
"Go! Go!"
We barrel through the main gates just as the compound lights flicker and die. A series of controlled explosions rocks the front lawn—grenades, high-grade ordinance. The ground shakes beneath us.
"They're coming through the service entrance!" Echo’s voice crackles over the radio. "They’ve got breaching charges on the main gate!"
"Hold them!" I yell, pulling my gun from the holster. "Kieran, take the back flank! I’m going to the house!"
I'm out of the car before it stops moving, weapon up, safety off. The air is thick with sulfur and burning rubber. I cut toward the stone fountain by the entrance.
Maeve. Atara. If I’m too late, I don’t survive this night.
A muzzle flash from the tree line. I drop low, the water of the fountain exploding into mist around me as bullets tear through the stone. I don't give them a second chance. I lean out, catching the movement of two shadows shifting near the pillars. Two shots, two drops. The silhouettes go limp.
I don’t check them. I'm already moving toward the foyer.
I hit the front door at a full run, kicking it open with enough force to shatter the lock.
The hallway is a graveyard of shadows. I see two men in tactical vests moving toward the East Wing, their weapons raised.
They don't hear me until I’m on them. I catch the first one in the back, dropping him before he can turn.
The second spins around, his rifle sweeping wide, but I’m faster.
I put two rounds into his center mass, and he hits the floor with a wet thud.
I don’t stop. The fear is a cold, heavy stone in my gut, forcing me forward. I reach the East Wing hallway. Three more figures emerge from the shadows near the study door, their laser sights cutting through the dark.
I slide across the polished marble, my boots losing traction for a second.
I use the wall as a pivot, firing as I rotate.
The first man takes a round to the neck and collapses.
The second tries to return fire, but I’m already closing the distance, slamming my shoulder into him and driving my pistol into his ribs before he can squeeze the trigger.
The third dives for cover behind a pedestal, but I’m on him in a heartbeat, finishing it with a clean shot to the head.
I'm standing over them, chest heaving, the barrel smoking. My stomach turns. I keep moving.
The study door is splintered, hanging off the top hinge. I kick the wood aside and bring the gun up into the room.
The place is wrecked. Shelves down, the desk shoved out of place. Maeve is folded into the corner of the sofa, face in a pillow, crying.
And Atara.
She's planted herself in front of the sofa, feet set wide, a chef's knife clutched in her fist as if she means to use it. Her blouse is torn at the shoulder, her hair a tangle.
She turns, and the blade comes up at my chest before she registers it's me. The look on her face stops me where I stand.
It isn't fear. It’s a cold, vengeful darkness that makes my breath hitch.
I lower my weapon, my hands trembling. "Atara?"
I’m across the room in a blur. I don’t speak; I just pull them both into me.
I wrap my arms around Atara and Maeve, pressing my face into the crook of Atara’s neck.
I’m shaking. I can’t stop it. The sheer, overwhelming relief of holding them, of feeling the warmth of their skin and the steady beat of their hearts, is the only thing keeping me upright.
"I’m here," I whisper against her skin, my voice thick with a terror I’ve never admitted to anyone. "I’m here. You’re safe."
"They're in the compound," she says, her voice eerily calm. "I took one of them out in the hallway. He’s behind the fountain."
I stare at her. I walk toward her, my heart hammering a rhythm that has nothing to do with the war outside. I reach out, my fingers brushing the blade of the knife, and slowly, gently, push it down.
"Atara," I whisper, reaching for her.
She lets the knife fall to the carpet with a dull thud. The moment the steel hits the floor, she collapses. I catch her, pulling her into my chest, her body going limp as the adrenaline leaves her. She’s shivering, her hands clutching my shirt, her face buried in the crook of my neck.
"They were going to take her," she sobs, her voice finally breaking. "They were going to take her, Lorcan. I wouldn't let them. I wouldn't let them take her."
I hold her, my arms wrapped around her and Maeve, pulling them into the center of my life, my focus, my entire world. I bury my face in her hair, breathing in the scent of her, the smell of vanilla and ozone and blood.
"I’m here," I rasp, my own voice thick with a terror I’ve never felt before. "I’m here. You’re safe."
I look at her, really look at her, and the unnerving realization hits me with the force of a train. She isn't the scared student I brought from Ireland. She isn't the girl who cried about her broken phone. She has forged herself into something else. Something harder. Something more dangerous.
She has protected my daughter. She has held the line.
I stare at her, feeling a strange, hollow sensation in my chest. I wanted to own her. I wanted to control her. But she took the rules I gave her and broke them, and in the process, she became the only person in this world I truly fear.
"You did good," I whisper against her skin. "You did so well."
She pulls back, looking at me with those haunted, fierce eyes. "What now?"
"Now," I say, stepping between her and the door, pulling my gun back up, "we show them why they never should have set foot on my land."
I leave them in the study, locking the door behind me with the master key. I don't look back. I can't. Because if I look back, I’ll see the girl who held the knife. And if I see her, I know I’ll never be able to leave her side again.
I step out into the hallway. The cool air of the compound greets me. The sound of gunfire has moved to the inner courtyard. I adjust my weapon, check my magazine, and feel the familiar, cold precision slide back into place.
My war has just become her war.
And God help anyone who stands in our way.