Page 16

CHAPTER

SEVENTEEN

The surveillance footage makes my stomach turn. Agent Byrne meeting with Moran again three months ago. Six months ago. A year. Each timestamp proves what we suspected—this corruption runs deeper than anyone imagined.

"How long has this bastard been selling us out?" Sorcha asks, her voice tight with fury.

I scroll through more files we pulled from Byrne's personal computer. The way she leans over my shoulder, her perfume mixing with the scent of her skin, makes it hard to focus. Even now, hunting corruption, I want her.

"Based on these records? At least three years. Maybe longer."

The evidence spreads across the table like a cancer diagnosis. Bank transfers. Meeting schedules. Communication logs. Byrne hasn't just been feeding information to Moran—he's been running FBI operations to benefit criminal organizations.

"The agent who disappeared before me," Sorcha says, her finger tracing a timeline. The simple touch sends heat through me. "Jessica Martinez. Look at this."

She points to a payment dated two weeks before Martinez vanished. Same amount Byrne received for previous betrayals. Her breast brushes my arm as she reaches across me. My body responds despite the gravity of what we're discovering.

"He sold her out too."

"Then eliminated her when she got too close." I stand, needing distance before I pin her against the wall and forget about evidence entirely. "How many agents has this piece of shit killed?"

My phone buzzes. Cillian: Everything quiet your end?

I text back: Evidence confirmed. Moving to present to AD now.

But as I hit send, something feels wrong. Too quiet. No street noise. No movement in the hallway. My instincts scream danger—the same ones that kept me alive on Boston's streets before the family took me in.

Sorcha notices too. Her hand moves to her weapon, and I fight the urge to pull her behind me, to shield her with my body. "We need to go. Now."

The window explodes inward. Glass shards spray across the room as dark-clad figures pour through. Professional gear. These aren't street thugs—they're trained killers.

"FBI! Nobody move!"

But these aren't real federal agents. The voices belong to Moran's crew wearing tactical gear.

I flip the table, creating cover as gunfire erupts. Sorcha rolls behind the couch, returning fire with controlled precision. Even in combat, she's fucking beautiful—deadly and graceful, everything I want in a woman.

"Back exit!" I shout, laying down covering fire.

She moves first while I hold them off. Street fighting isn't like the movies—it's brutal, fast, and unforgiving. Six shooters. Professional spacing. They've done this before.

I empty my clip and reload, buying Sorcha time to reach the emergency stairs. A bullet tears through my jacket, burning across my ribs. Pain hits but I keep moving. Nothing matters except getting her out alive.

The stairwell offers temporary safety. Sorcha waits at the landing, blood trickling from a cut on her forehead. The sight of her hurt makes me want to go back and kill every one of those bastards.

"You hit?" she asks, reaching for my jacket.

Her fingers brush my chest through the torn fabric. Even now, adrenaline pumping, I want those hands on my bare skin.

"Just a scratch. Keep moving."

We descend fast, but footsteps echo above us. They're following, boxing us in. At the third floor, Sorcha stops.

"There." She points to a service corridor. "Maintenance access to the parking garage."

We push through the door as voices shout orders behind us. The corridor stretches toward the garage, but I hear engines outside. They've surrounded the building like professionals.

"How did they know?" Sorcha demands.

The answer hits me like a punch to the gut. "Byrne. He's been monitoring our communications."

We reach the garage as vehicles screech outside. Black SUVs block the exits. More tactical teams pour from the vehicles. Too many to fight.

"Separate," I tell Sorcha, grabbing her shoulders. Touching her, even like this, sends electricity through me. "You take the evidence, get to your people."

"Like hell. We stick together."

"Listen to me." I pull her closer, close enough to smell her hair, to feel her body heat. "Those files prove everything. If we both get caught, it's over. The corruption continues."

Her eyes flash with stubborn determination. Christ, she's magnificent when she's angry. "I'm not leaving you."

A door explodes open behind us. Muzzle flashes light up the garage. I push Sorcha toward a maintenance tunnel as bullets spark off concrete, my body covering hers for precious seconds.

"Go! That's an order!"

She hesitates for one heartbeat. I see the war in her eyes—duty versus what we have together. Then she nods and disappears into the tunnel, laptop bag clutched against her chest.

The sight of her running tears something inside me. My woman. My partner. Disappearing into darkness while I stay behind to face these animals.

I turn back to buy her time. My gun spits fire, keeping the shooters pinned while she escapes. A tactical team moves to flank me. I shift position, using vehicles for cover.

My ammunition runs low. Three rounds left. Two. One.

I drop the empty weapon and raise my hands as they close in. At least Sorcha got away with the evidence. At least she's safe.

"Eamon Kavanagh," one of them says, removing his tactical mask. I recognize him from surveillance photos—Moran's lieutenant. "You've caused considerable trouble."

"Just getting started, asshole."

He smiles coldly. "We'll see about that."

The warehouse stinks of rust and stagnant water. They've zip-tied me to a metal chair, restraints that bite into my wrists. Blood drips from my split lip onto the concrete floor.

Moran himself arrives an hour later, dressed in an expensive suit that makes him look more like a banker than the piece of garbage he is. But his eyes hold the coldness of a killer.

"The famous Kavanagh enforcer," he says, circling my chair. "Not so tough now."

"Your boys got lucky."

"Did they?" He sits across from me. "Agent Byrne provided excellent intelligence about your location. Told us exactly when you'd be reviewing those files."

The betrayal cuts deep. Byrne played us from the beginning, and I walked Sorcha right into it.

"Where's your girlfriend?" Moran asks.

The word 'girlfriend' doesn't begin to cover what Sorcha means to me. She's everything—partner, lover, the woman who owns my heart.

"Gone. With everything that proves your corruption."

His face darkens. "Agent Quinn escaped with evidence that could destroy my arrangement with certain federal officials. That creates problems."

"Good. I hope it destroys everything you've built."

Moran stands, nodding to his lieutenant. Pain explodes across my jaw as the man's fist connects. I taste blood but don't give them the satisfaction of crying out.

"She'll come for you," Moran says. "Women always try to save their men. When she does, we'll have the evidence and two bodies to dispose of."

"You don't know Sorcha." But even as I say it, I know he's right. She'll come. She'll risk everything for me, just like I'd do for her.

"I know enough." He checks his watch. "Agent Byrne is tracking her phone signal now. We'll have her location within the hour."

My blood runs ice cold. If they find her, the evidence dies with her. All our work, all the proof of corruption—gone. And worse, they'll hurt her. Kill her.

The thought of anyone touching Sorcha makes me want to rip these restraints apart with my bare hands.

"Good luck with that," I say, hoping she's smart enough to ditch the phone.

Moran's smile falters. He realizes I'm not afraid enough.

"Perhaps some motivation will help." He pulls out his phone, shows me a photo. Sorcha entering my apartment building two days ago. "We know where she lives. Where her mother works. Where her sister goes to school."

Rage builds in my chest like a wildfire. "Touch her and I'll hunt you down like the dog you are."

"Protective, aren't we?" Moran laughs. "She's federal law enforcement. The enemy. Yet you're willing to die for her."

"Without question."

"How romantic." He pockets the phone. "Let's see if she feels the same way about a criminal."

Two hours pass before my phone rings. Moran answers it on speaker.

"Eamon?" Sorcha's voice fills the warehouse, and hearing it makes my chest tight with need and fear. "Are you okay?"

Relief and terror war inside me. She's safe but walking into danger.

"I'm fine, baby," I say, letting emotion color my voice. "Where are you?"

"Somewhere safe. With friends."

Moran cuts in. "Agent Quinn. I believe we should discuss terms."

Silence on the line. Then: "You're not getting the evidence."

"Then your boyfriend dies."

"You hurt him, and I'll destroy everything you've built."

The fierce protection in her voice makes me want her even more. My woman. My fierce, beautiful federal agent who'd burn the world down for me.

"One hour. Pier 47. Bring the files or watch him bleed out."

The line goes dead.

Moran turns to me. "She'll come. Love makes people stupid."

"She's smarter than that."

"We'll find out."

But I know Sorcha. She won't trade the evidence for my life—too many future victims depend on exposing the corruption. She'll find another way. She has to.

My phone rings again thirty minutes later. This time, a different voice answers when Moran picks up.

"Who the hell is this?" Moran demands.

"Cillian Kavanagh," my brother's voice cuts through the warehouse like a blade. "I believe you have something that belongs to me."

Moran's eyes widen. He wasn't expecting family involvement.

"Your brother walked into federal business," Moran says. "Not our problem."

"Everything involving my family is our problem." Cillian's tone drops to deadly calm. "Agent Quinn contacted me. Explained the situation. We're coming to get him."

"With what army?"

"The one that's been watching your warehouse for the past hour."

Through the dirty windows, muzzle flashes light up the night. Automatic weapons fire echoes off brick walls. Moran's men shout orders, running toward defensive positions.

Cillian's voice continues over the chaos. "You've got sixty seconds to walk away from my brother. After that, we come in shooting."

Moran draws his pistol, pressing it against my temple. "I've got a gun to his head!"

"Then you better hope your aim's perfect," Sorcha's voice comes from behind him.

Moran spins as Sorcha emerges from the shadows, weapon trained on his center mass. Her FBI tactical vest hugs her curves, making her look like a warrior goddess. Beautiful and deadly, everything I've ever wanted.

"Drop it," she orders.

For a moment, nobody moves. Then Moran's survival instincts kick in. He releases me and drops his weapon.

Cillian and Orla enter through the main door, flanked by family security. My brother cuts my restraints while Orla checks my injuries with gentle hands.

"You came," I say to Sorcha as she secures Moran.

"Did you think I wouldn't?"

"Hoped you'd be smart enough to stay away."

She holsters her weapon and helps me stand, her touch burning through me even now. "Smart was bringing backup."

I pull her against me before I can stop myself, needing to feel her alive and whole in my arms. She melts into me for just a moment, letting me hold her.

"We need to go," she whispers against my neck, her breath making me shiver.

Outside, federal vehicles mix with family cars. An impossible alliance that somehow worked.

"What happens now?" I ask Sorcha as we reach the cars.

She shows me the laptop bag, then looks up at me with heat in her eyes. "Now we present this evidence and watch some federal agents go to prison."

"And us?"

She glances at Cillian and Orla, then back at me. Her hand finds mine, fingers intertwining. "Now we figure out what comes next."

The warehouse burns behind us as we drive away, corruption evidence secure and my woman safe in my arms. Whatever comes next, we'll face it together.

And tonight, I'm going to show her exactly how grateful I am that she came for me.