Page 2 of Cowboy (Fury Vipers MC: Dublin Chapter #4)

Travis opens the package and pulls out a hard drive. I raise a brow. What the hell? What is on it? "We need to get this analyzed. I’m heading back to London. I’ll have Melissa see what she can uncover from it."

Melissa is his daughter. She’s also a damn genius when it comes to computers and hacking. If anyone can uncover what's on the drive, she can.

"And then what?" I ask, a knot forming in my stomach.

“You and Dylan have done your job, son. You got what was needed. And you said it yourself: you weren’t seen. You’re in the clear. Once this shit hits the fan, it’s going to become chaos. The further the two of you are from it, the better.”

I exchange a glance with Dylan, seeing my own uncertainty reflected in his eyes. "Travis, we're already involved. If this is as big as you say, can we really just walk away?"

Travis' expression hardens. "This isn't up for debate. You've done your part; now let The Agency handle the rest. It's for your own safety."

"But—" Dylan starts to protest.

But Travis cuts him off. "No Buts. You two are going to lay low for a while. I'll contact you when it's safe."

I feel a surge of frustration. After everything we've been through, it feels wrong to just step aside. But I know arguing with Travis is pointless. He's made up his mind.

"Fine," I say, my tone clipped. "What do you want us to do?"

“You are to stay low. Do not speak about what happened to anyone. Carry on as normal and if you need to, call me. I’ll be on the first flight back to you.”

"And what if someone comes looking for us?" Dylan asks, voicing the concern I'm sure we're both feeling.

Travis' eyes are cold. "Then you do what you've been trained to do. Survive."

With that ominous statement hanging in the air, Travis gathers the package and heads for the door. He pauses with his hand on the knob, looking back at us. "Be careful, boys.”

“Same goes for you,” I tell him, knowing that shit could go down at any minute. Those men from earlier weren’t shy at shooting anyone they come across. Travis is someone recognizable. If he’s in town, it means shit’s gone down, and it doesn’t take a genius to put two and two together.

As the door closes behind Travis, a heavy silence falls over the apartment. Dylan and I exchange worried glances, the weight of our situation settling on our shoulders.

"What now?" Dylan asks, his voice barely above a whisper.

I shake my head, pacing the small living room. "I don't know. This feels wrong, Dylan. We can't just sit here and do nothing while all hell breaks loose."

"But Travis said?—"

"I know what Travis said," I interrupt, frustration evident in my voice. "But think about it. If this trafficking ring is as big as he claims, with powerful people involved, do you really think we'll be safe just by laying low?"

Dylan runs a hand through his hair, his face etched with concern. "You're right. But what can we do? We're just two guys against what sounds like a massive criminal network."

And therein lies the problem. What the hell can we do? We’re sixteen. We don’t have contacts, other than Travis. The only thing we know how to do is take people out.

“We’re out of options,” I sigh. “It’s fucked up that we can’t do anything but wait until we hear from Travis again.”

“What about going to check out the estate tomorrow morning? It will be daylight an?—”

I cut him off with a shake of my head. “Christ, no. I wouldn’t put it past those bastards from tonight to be waiting for us.”

Dylan runs his hands down his face. “So we just have to sit and wait? You said you couldn’t do that.”

I sigh deeply. “I know. But what choice do we have? We have no one to go to for help, and the last thing we need is attention on us. Travis is right, for now, we stay low. Give it a week or two and then we’ll see what we can do.”

Dylan doesn’t look convinced, but I know that right now, it’s the only choice we have. Lying low for a week or so will give us time to think, time to plan, and maybe we can figure out a way of finding out who the hell shot at us this evening.

“Let’s head on home. Your sister will be wondering where you are,” I tell him. Caoimhe is fourteen. Her and Dylan lost their parents six months ago in a car crash. Since then, they’ve been living with their aunt, but she’s never around, meaning Dylan takes care of Caoimhe.

“Your ma will be wondering where you are,” he returns as we exit the apartment. “Knowing Mary, she’ll be pacing the hall, waiting for you to come home.”

I smile. It’s something my ma does on a regular basis.

She often tells me I’m giving her gray hairs, but she already had them.

She’s used to me being out and doing what I want.

She doesn’t mind as long as I don’t get into trouble and the Gardaí don’t show up at her doorstep.

So far, that hasn’t happened, and I will never tell her what I do for a living.

I think if she found that out, it would send her into an early grave.

“She’s a natural born worrier. She’d be pissed if I stayed home all day. She’d tell me I was under her feet and that it would be better for everyone if I went outside. Besides, she’s working this evening.”

“Lucky you. I think Auntie Trish is home this evening, which means she’ll be a hard-ass on Caoimhe. I don’t know why the woman’s such a bitch.”

Yeah, I don’t either. She volunteered to take Dylan and Caoimhe into her home, and yet she treats them like they’re impositions.

As we walk through the dimly lit streets, I can't shake the feeling of unease that's settled over me. I feel as though we’re being watched, but I’m vigilant in checking behind me and our surroundings. There’s no one here but us.

"Do you think we'll ever get out of this life?" Dylan asks suddenly, his voice low.

I glance at him, surprised by the question. "I don't know," I admit. "Sometimes I wonder if we're in too deep now."

Dylan nods, his expression somber. "I just... I worry about Caoimhe, you know? What if something happens to me? She'd be all alone."

The weight of his words hangs heavy between us. It's a fear I've had myself, though I've never voiced it. What would happen to my ma if something went wrong on a job?

"We'll figure it out," I say, trying to sound more confident than I feel. "We always do, right?"