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Orla spins toward him. "This is your fault. All of it. If you hadn't killed my father?—"

"You're right." Eamon grabs his jacket. "Which is why I'm coming to get her back."

"Like hell."

"She's there because of me. Because I started this mess seven years ago." Eamon checks his gun. "I owe you this."

I step between them. "We all go. Together."

"Why?" Orla demands. "She's not your blood."

"No. But you are mine now. Which makes her mine too."

The words hang in the air. Orla stares at me, something shifting in her eyes.

"We don't have time for this," I continue. "Every minute we waste is another minute they hurt an innocent woman."

Orla holsters her gun. "Fine. But after we get Sarah back, this conversation continues."

"Understood," Eamon says.

We load into my car—unlikely allies bound by guilt and necessity. During the drive back to the city, I call Jackson.

"Donovan's got the girl at his warehouse. West side. Bring everyone."

"How many boys?" Jackson asks.

"All of them."

I hang up and focus on driving. Beside me, Orla stares out the window. In the back, Eamon cleans his gun with methodical precision.

"Your cousin," I ask. "What's she like?"

"Stubborn. Smart. Looks enough like me to fool strangers." Orla's voice tightens. "She's a teacher. Never hurt anyone in her life."

"She'll be okay," I say. "We'll get her back."

"You don't know that."

"I know the Donovans. They want information, not blood. Sarah's safe until they realize she can't give them what they want."

"And then?"

I don't answer that question.

Twenty minutes later, we arrive at an abandoned factory two blocks from Donovan territory. Jackson meets us with weapons and building plans he pulled from city records.

"Eight guys inside the warehouse," he reports. "Your cousin's in the office area with three watching her."

Orla studies the building layout. "Ways in?"

"Three. Front door, loading dock in back, old storm drain on the east side."

I point to the drain. "Eamon and I take the tunnel. Orla stays here with Jackson."

"No." Orla's voice cuts like steel. "I'm going in."

"Too risky."