Chapter 42 ARTAN
ARTAN
Trusting an Irishman inside his own bar feels like stepping into a wolf's den and hoping the wolf is house-trained.
We're in the cramped manager's office of the Gold Shamrock, the four of us standing shoulder to shoulder in a space meant for two people maximum.
Luan, Erion, Cormac, and me. All staring at the wall of security monitors mounted above a cluttered desk, screens flickering with black and white footage showing every angle of the massive sports bar below.
The place is absolutely packed. Wall to wall bodies. A Bears game playing on every screen throughout the venue, the commentary bleeding through the office's thin walls. People cheering, drinking, screaming at referees through their beer. Completely oblivious to the predators hunting in their midst.
I don't trust Cormac. Not yet and maybe not ever.
Looking at him now in the blue glow of the security monitors, I can see the resemblance to Luan that I missed before. The green eyes that are too distinctive to be coincidence. The sharp line of his jaw.
But he's still Irish mafia. Still the enemy we've been fighting for months. And the jury is still out on whether his people took Lily. Whether this entire revelation about shared blood is just elaborate theater designed to get us exactly where we are now. Vulnerable. Trusting. Exposed.
This could be an ambush. Could be the moment where everything goes wrong and we all die in a sports bar office while drunk fans scream about touchdowns.
Our men have the bar surrounded outside.
Positioned at every exit. Discreet enough not to alert anyone inside or scare off whoever we're hunting.
But ready. Armed and prepared to rain hell if this goes sideways.
If something happens to us, the Irish won't leave this place alive.
That's the insurance policy we bought with strategic positioning.
We're all watching the screens with predatory focus. Every corner. Every table. Every face in the crowd. Looking for anything out of place. Any tell. Any sign.
Except one camera. The ladies' bathroom has no coverage. A blind spot that makes my skin crawl with unease.
We need to spot whoever took Lily before they realize there's no bag with money waiting in that bathroom. Before they panic and do something irreversible. We're not stupid enough to actually give kidnappers what they want.
Erion breaks the tense silence, his voice tight with barely controlled stress. "Anyone see anything? Anything at all?"
We scan different screens, eyes moving in practiced patterns. I take the left side. Luan takes center. Erion scans right. Cormac watches the entrance.
Nothing stands out. Just people watching football. Drinking cheap beer. Yelling at the TVs mounted every few feet. Normal Thursday night chaos.
Time passes. Each minute feeling like ten. Tension rises in the small space, the air getting thicker. We're all frustrated, the adrenaline with nowhere to go turning into restless energy.
Then I see her.
A woman sitting at the bar. Alone. Not watching any of the TVs displaying the game. Not reacting when the crowd around her explodes with cheers. Just checking her watch obsessively. Taking shots. One after another. Tequila from the look of it. Slamming them back with mechanical efficiency.
Something about her posture catches my attention. Her body language wrong. Tense. Waiting for something.
I know her. Recognition clicks into place with sickening certainty.
Sarah. Lily's brother's girlfriend.
"There," I say, my voice sharp. Point at the screen showing the bar. "That's Sarah. Henry's girlfriend."
They all look at where I'm pointing, bodies shifting to get a better angle.
"She's supposed to be pregnant," Luan says. His voice is flat, deadly.
"Pregnant women don't take tequila shots," Erion adds. The implication hanging heavy.
We watch her check her watch again. The timestamp on the screen reads 8:10. She slides off the barstool with jerky movements. Heads toward the back of the bar. Toward the bathrooms where the money is supposed to be waiting.
We move as one, no discussion needed.
Out of the office. Down the narrow back stairs. Into the overwhelming noise and heat of the bar itself.
The assault on the senses is immediate. Overlapping TV commentary from a dozen screens.
The crowd roaring as the Bears make a play.
Music bleeding under the announcers. A referee's whistle piercing through the chaos.
The smell of grease and sweat and spilled beer.
Bodies pressed together. Heat from too many people in too small a space.
The crowd is thick. Difficult to navigate. Someone stumbles into Erion, spilling beer down his jacket. The crowd surges suddenly when the Bears score a touchdown. Sound explodes around us, deafening and disorienting. Cheers and screams and the thud of bodies colliding in celebration.
We push through with single-minded purpose. Hands moving to our weapons concealed under our jackets. Fingers on grips. Ready to draw. The chaos actually helps, masking our movements, people too drunk and distracted to notice the violence we're carrying.
We position ourselves in the hallway leading to the bathrooms. A narrow corridor away from the main crowd. Darker. Quieter.
Sarah comes out of the bathroom moments later. Her face is furious, twisted with anger and panic. Phone already in her hand. Bringing it to her ear with shaking fingers.
We step out of the shadows. Block the hallway. All four of us appearing like nightmares made flesh.
Guns drawn. Pointed directly at her center mass.
Her eyes go wide. Mouth opens in a silent scream that doesn't make it past her throat.
Luan moves faster than she can react. Makes a shushing gesture, finger pressed to his lips in a mockery of gentleness. Takes the phone from her hand before she can drop it or throw it. Taps the speaker button with deliberate calm.
The dial tone is audible in the relative quiet of the hallway, each ring counting down to revelation.
Erion leans close to Sarah's ear, his pale blue eyes cold as winter. Whispers with menacing softness, "Tell your accomplice everything went well. Tell them you have the money. Say it now or I put a bullet through your skull and call them myself."
The phone connects. A male voice comes through the speaker, slightly distorted but recognizable. "Sarah? Did it work? You got it? Tell me you got it."
Henry. Lily's brother. The confirmation landing like a punch to the gut.
Sarah hesitates, her mouth opening and closing like a fish drowning in air. Her eyes dart between us, looking for escape, finding none.
Erion presses his gun to her temple with deliberate pressure. The click of the safety coming off is loud in the small space.
She speaks, her voice shaking so badly the words almost don't form. "Yeah. Everything went well. I have it. I'm on my way back now."
"Good. Fucking finally. Hurry up. I want to count it. Make sure it's all there."
The call ends. The silence after feels heavier than the noise we just left.
Luan looks at Sarah with an expression I've seen before. The one he wears when he's deciding whether someone lives or dies. When he's weighing utility against threat. His voice when he speaks is cold, empty of anything resembling mercy.
"You're going to show us exactly where Lily is. If you cooperate, we'll consider letting you live."