Page 10

CHAPTER

ELEVEN

The black Escalade follows us for three blocks before I decide to end this shit. Same vehicle, same distance, making every turn we make. Amateur hour surveillance.

"We've got a tail," I tell Sorcha, watching the rearview mirror.

She checks her side mirror without turning around. Smart girl. "How many?"

"One car I can see. Probably more hiding." I take a right instead of heading to the pub. "Let's flush them out."

The Escalade follows. Two seconds later, a white van appears behind it. These fuckers think they're clever.

My phone buzzes. Text from an unknown number: Change of plans. Meet at the warehouse on Pier 7.

"Bullshit," I mutter, showing Sorcha the message. "Someone's trying to herd us."

"Trap?"

"Definitely." I gun the engine, weaving through traffic. "Hold tight."

The Escalade accelerates, closing distance fast. I spot the van moving up on our left. Professional formation, but these aren't cops or feds. The gear's too expensive, the coordination too sloppy.

"Eamon," Sorcha's voice carries warning.

Ahead, a garbage truck blocks our lane. The driver waves like it's an accident, but his positioning screams setup. Behind us, windows roll down on the Escalade.

"Down," I bark.

Gunfire erupts. Our rear window explodes in a shower of glass. I jerk the wheel hard right, tires screaming as we careen down a side street.

"Fuck," Sorcha breathes, brushing glass from her hair.

"Irish mob doesn't usually get this fancy," I say, checking mirrors. "Someone paid good money for professional help."

The van appears at the far end of the street while the Escalade follows behind. They're boxing us in, forcing us toward the industrial district where screams won't carry.

I spot an alley between two buildings. Barely wide enough for a car, but it'll have to do.

"Trust me?" I ask.

Sorcha meets my eyes. "Do I have a choice?"

I aim for the gap. Metal screams against brick as we squeeze through, sparks flying from both sides. We burst into a loading area behind a row of shops.

"There," Sorcha points to an exit.

Before we can reach it, a third vehicle—black SUV—slides into position, blocking our escape. Four men pile out with guns raised. Not street thugs. These bastards move like they know what they're doing.

"Out. Now." I grab my Glock and roll from the car.

Bullets shatter windows as we dive for cover behind a dumpster. I count four shooters, plus however many are still in the vehicles. The gunfire is controlled, disciplined. Someone taught these assholes well.

Sorcha crouches beside me, her own gun steady in her hands. No shaking, no panic. Just cold focus as she returns fire.

"FBI training?" I ask between shots.

"Among other things." She puts two rounds center mass on the closest gunman. He drops hard. "You?"

"Marines. Then the family business."

The remaining shooters advance with covering fire. I estimate twenty seconds before they reach us. The dumpster won't stop rifle rounds much longer.

"Loading dock," I point right. "Better cover."

We move together, me laying down suppressing fire while she advances. Then she covers me. Natural teamwork, like we've done this before.

Behind concrete barriers at the loading dock, I reload and assess. Three shooters left, plus backup in the vehicles.

"This feels personal," Sorcha says.

"Someone wants us both dead. Question is who?—"

A grenade rolls toward our position. We dive in opposite directions as it explodes, ears ringing, vision blurred. The attackers rush forward through the smoke.

I tackle the first one before he can bring his rifle up. My knife slides between his ribs, finding his heart. He drops, gurgling blood.

Sorcha disarms the second gunman with moves that definitely didn't come from basic FBI training. Kicks his knee backward, breaks his wrist, takes his weapon. Efficient and brutal.

The third shooter has a bead on her back. I throw my knife, catching him in the throat. He falls, choking on his own blood.

"Clear," Sorcha calls.

I scan the area one more time. "For now."

We search the bodies. No identification, but the weapons are top-shelf. Someone with serious money wanted us eliminated.

"Professional contractors," I say. "Not local talent."

"Recent enemies, or did we step on the wrong toes?"

"Has to be connected to your investigation. Too convenient otherwise." I check my phone for Cillian's number. "We need to?—"

Fire explodes through my left shoulder. I look down to see blood spreading across my shirt, more pumping out with each heartbeat.

"Shit. You're hit." Sorcha's hands press against the wound.

"Just a graze." But it's not. The bullet tore through muscle, and I'm losing blood fast.

"Liar." She helps me to the SUV the attackers left running. "You need medical attention."

"Family doctor," I give her an address. "No hospitals. No questions."

She drives while I keep pressure on the wound. Each bump sends lightning through my shoulder. By the time we reach Dr. Kelligan's back-alley clinic, the world tilts sideways.

"Jesus Christ, Eamon." Kelligan opens the door, takes one look at the blood. "Exam room. Now."

Kelligan's patched up Kavanagh wounds for fifteen years. Retired army medic who asks no questions and keeps no records. He cuts away my shirt and curses at what he finds.

"Bullet's lodged deep. Tore through the muscle, missed major arteries by inches." He prepares instruments while Sorcha watches. "You're lucky to be alive."

"Doesn't feel lucky," I grunt.

Kelligan works with steady hands, digging out bullet fragments. Sorcha stands close enough that I catch her scent—vanilla and gunpowder. Her eyes stay fixed on my face, watching for signs of distress.

"He always this stubborn?" she asks Kelligan.

"Worse. First time he's brought company." Kelligan glances between us. "Usually bleeds alone in a back alley somewhere."

The comment hits closer to truth than I like. Family takes care of family, but I handle my own problems. Don't show weakness. Don't need help.

Except right now, watching Sorcha's concerned face, needing help doesn't feel weak.

An hour later, I'm stitched up with my arm in a sling. Kelligan warns about infection and limited mobility.

"Keep it clean, keep it still," he orders. "And find somewhere safe to heal. Whoever did this will try again."

I know exactly where to go.

"Safe house," I tell Sorcha as we drive north. "Family property. Completely isolated."

The cabin sits hidden in twenty acres of woods, off any main road. I built it myself over three summers—solar power, well water, enough supplies to last weeks. My private retreat from the family business.

Inside, Sorcha helps me to the couch. The pain medication makes everything soft around the edges, but I stay alert enough to notice her examining the space.

"Cozy," she says, checking window angles and exit routes.

"It's mine. Built it when I needed somewhere to think." I try to shift position and immediately regret it. "Away from family expectations."

She finds the medical kit and checks my bandages. Her fingers are gentle against my skin, but I feel each touch like electricity. When did a federal agent's hands become so distracting?

"How does it feel?" she asks, fingers probing around the wound.

"Like I got shot."

"Smart ass." Her touch lingers longer than necessary. "Any numbness? Tingling?"

"Just where you're touching me."

She meets my eyes, and something passes between us. Recognition of attraction we've been dancing around for weeks. Her hand rests on my bare chest, feeling my heartbeat.

"Eamon," she says quietly.

"Yeah?"

"Thank you. For taking that bullet."

"Part of the job."

"No, it wasn't." Her thumb traces along my collarbone. "You threw yourself between me and that gunman without thinking. You could have died."

I did throw myself in front of her. Instinct overrode training, protection overrode self-preservation. That should worry me, but her touch makes it hard to think clearly.

"Someone has to watch out for you," I say.

"I can take care of myself."

"I know. I've seen you fight." I catch her hand with my good one. "Doesn't mean I'll stop trying to keep you safe."

Her fingers curl around mine. "Even though I'm supposed to be your enemy?"

"Especially then."

We stare at each other in the dim cabin light. Her lips part slightly, like she's considering something dangerous. The space between us charges with possibility.

Then she pulls back, professional mask sliding into place.

"You need rest," she says. "I'll take first watch."

I want to argue, but exhaustion wins. I fall asleep on the couch with Sorcha sitting across the room, gun within reach, watching monitors that show our perimeter.

When I wake hours later, she's moved closer. Close enough to check my breathing, my temperature. Her hand rests on my forehead, cool against my skin.

"How do you feel?" she asks.

"Like I want to kiss you."

The honest answer slips out before I can stop it. She freezes, hand still touching my face.

"Eamon—"

"I know. Wrong time, wrong situation, wrong everything." I sit up carefully. "But I can't stop thinking about it."

Her eyes search mine. "This complicates everything."

"Everything's already complicated." I reach up to cup her cheek. "One more complication won't kill us."

"The people shooting at us might."

"Then we better make the most of tonight."

She leans into my touch, closing her eyes. When she opens them again, they're dark with want.

"This is a terrible idea," she whispers.

"The best ones usually are."

She moves closer, her thigh brushing mine on the couch. The cabin feels smaller, warmer, charged with tension we've been fighting for weeks.

Tomorrow will bring consequences. Questions about who ordered the hit. Decisions about what comes next between us. But tonight, isolated from the rest of the world, we can stop pretending this attraction doesn't exist.

Her hand slides down my chest, careful of my injured shoulder. "We're going to regret this."

"Probably." I pull her closer with my good arm. "But I'm done fighting what I want."

Her lips are an inch from mine when she whispers, "What do you want, Eamon?"

"You," I say, and close the distance between us.