Page 14

CHAPTER 14

MAEVE

T wo weeks of relative peace. That's all we get after the nightmare in Killarney.

Cormac moves us to a different safe house, a modern fortress on the outskirts of Dublin with bulletproof glass and a security team that works in shifts. Declan never leaves, his shoulder still healing from the gunshot wound. Conor has nightmares about the men who killed Jack, waking up screaming most nights. I hold him until he falls back asleep, watching the shadows under his eyes grow darker.

I try to create some normalcy. We play board games. I teach Conor simple math at the dining room table. Declan shows him how to throw a proper punch in the backyard, over my half-hearted objections. We're going through the motions of family life while living in a prison of someone else's making.

"We need groceries," I announce at breakfast, fourteen days after Killarney. "I can't make another meal with what's left in this kitchen."

"I'll send someone," Declan says, not looking up from his phone.

"No. I need to get out of this house. I need air that doesn't taste like fear."

He looks up then. "It's not safe."

"Nothing's happened in two weeks. Petrov's gone underground since you raided his club. Cormac's men are watching his contacts." I meet his eyes across the table. "If I don't get out of this house, I will be the one that goes crazy."

"I'll go with you."

"You look like you went ten rounds with a freight train. Your face will attract attention." I touch his hand. "One hour. The grocery store five minutes away. I'll take the guard if it makes you feel better."

Declan hesitates, then nods. "Fine. But only the one on O'Connell Street. Finn goes with you, and you keep your phone on."

"Can I go too?" Conor asks. He hasn't left the house either. "I'm bored."

I exchange a look with Declan. Another argument we've had behind closed doors—how much freedom to give our son versus keeping him safe.

"Sure," I say before Declan can object. "You can help me pick out cereal."

Finn drives us in an unmarked car, parking close to the entrance. The grocery store is busy with morning shoppers. For the first time in weeks, I feel almost normal, pushing a cart down aisles filled with ordinary people doing ordinary things.

Conor runs ahead to the fruit section. "Can we get apples? The red ones?"

I don't have to say no anymore, he can have the nice apples, and the fun cereal. But at what cost? "Sure, baby. Pick out some good ones."

I watch Conor's small hands inspect each apple, his face scrunched in concentration. He holds up a particularly shiny one, pride in his eyes.

"This one's perfect, Mom."

The moment shatters.

A man in a black jacket appears from nowhere. His arm shoots out and grabs Conor by the wrist. My son's eyes widen in terror.

"Mom!"

My heart stops. The apple hits the floor with a dull thud.

"Let him go!" I lunge forward, fingers clawing at the man's arm. "Finn! Help!"

Conor kicks and screams. The man lifts him off the ground. Where the fuck is Finn?

"Get your hands off my son!" I punch, claw, kick—anything to make him let go.

Something hard crashes against the back of my skull. Pain explodes through my head. My vision blurs.

Conor's scream cuts through everything. "Mommy!"

I reach for him as my knees buckle. His terrified face is the last thing I see before darkness swallows me whole.

I wake up on the cold tile floor, surrounded by store employees and customers. My head throbs, and panic claws up my throat as I remember.

"Conor!" I try to stand but the world spins. "They took my son!"

A security guard holds me down. "The police are on their way, ma'am."

"I don't need police, I need to find my son!" I push him off and stagger to my feet. My phone rings in my pocket—an unknown number.

"Hello?" My voice shakes.

"Ms. Brennan." The voice is male, heavily accented. Russian. "Your son is safe. For now."

"If you hurt him?—"

"That depends on you. And on Declan Donovan."

I grip the phone tighter. "What do you want?"

"Mr. Petrov wants what belongs to him. The Donovan’s took something valuable. Now he has taken something valuable from them."

My son. My baby. Used as a bargaining chip in this insane power struggle.

"Put Conor on the phone. I need to know he's okay."

A pause, then my son's voice. "Mom?" He sounds terrified but alive.

"Baby, are you hurt? Did they hurt you?"

"I want to come home." He starts crying. "I'm scared."

The Russian takes the phone back. "You have four hours. Bring Declan Donovan to the abandoned shipyard at the north docks. Alone. Or the boy dies."

The line goes dead. I stand frozen in the middle of the grocery store, terror and rage battling inside me.

I need to call Declan. But when I try his number, it goes straight to voicemail. I try again. Nothing.

A store manager approaches. "Ma'am, the police are here."

"I don't have time for police." I push past him and run for the exit. As I reach my car, my phone rings again—Cormac.

"Where are you?" he asks without preamble.

"They took Conor." My voice breaks. "Russians. Petrov's men. They want Declan at the north docks in four hours."

"Where are you now?"

"The grocery store on O'Connell Street. I need to find Declan."

"He's with me." Cormac's voice is tight. "He found Petrov. Things got... complicated."

Cold fear grips me. "Is he hurt?"

"He'll live. I'll send a car for you. Don't talk to anyone else."

Ten minutes later, a black SUV pulls up next to my car. The driver opens the back door without a word. I get in, and we speed away just as police cars pull into the parking lot.

Cormac's compound north of Dublin is a fortress disguised as a country estate. Steel gates, surveillance cameras, armed guards. The driver takes me straight to the main house, where a stone-faced maid leads me to Cormac's study.

Declan is slumped in a leather chair, shirtless, while a man I don't recognize stitches a gash on his arm. His face is bruised, eye swollen, but his expression when he sees me is pure relief.

"Maeve." He tries to stand but the doctor pushes him back down.

"They took Conor." The words come out in a rush. "At the store. They want you at the north docks in four hours or they'll kill him."

Declan goes still, his face draining of color. "Petrov."

"How is that possible? I thought you went to deal with him."

"I did." His eyes meet Cormac's across the room. "He wasn't there."

Cormac steps forward. "We raided his club. Killed six of his men. But Petrov had already cleared out."

"He must have known you were coming," I say.

"Someone warned him," Declan's voice is ice. "The same person who told him about Conor's shopping trip with you."

My blood runs cold. "Someone inside your organization."

Cormac nods grimly. "It appears so."

The doctor finishes with Declan's arm and packs up his bag. Cormac dismisses him with a nod.

Once we're alone, Declan pulls me into his arms. "I'll get him back. I swear to you."

I push away from him, anger replacing fear. "This is your fault. All of it. Your fucking family and their power games."

"I know." He doesn't try to defend himself.

"They want you. Not Conor. You."

"And they'll get me." He looks at Cormac. "I'm going to the docks."

"It's a trap," Cormac says. "You know that."

"I don't care."

"You walk in there alone, they'll kill you both."

"Then what do you suggest?" Declan's voice rises. "I let them murder my son?"

"We need a plan," Cormac says. "One that doesn't end with both of you dead."

I pace the room, forcing myself to think past the panic. "You said someone inside your organization tipped off Petrov. How do we know they're not listening to this conversation right now?"

Cormac's eyes narrow. "My office is swept for bugs daily."

"But the mole could be anyone. One of your guards. That doctor. How do we make a plan when we can't trust anyone?"

"We trust each other," Declan says. "Just the three of us."

Cormac walks to a cabinet and pulls out a bottle of whiskey. He pours three glasses, handing one to me. "Drink. Then we strategize."

I accept the glass but don't drink. My head pounds from where they hit me, and I need to stay clear. "Three hours and forty-five minutes left."

Declan paces the room, his injured arm forgotten. Cormac pulls up blueprints of the shipyard on his laptop. I stare at the clock, counting every fucking minute my son spends with those monsters.

"You'll approach from the east entrance," Cormac points at the screen. "My men will cover the perimeter."

"Too obvious," Declan argues. "They'll expect that."

Their voices blur into background noise as I imagine what Conor must be feeling. Is he crying? Is he hurt? Is he calling for me?

Three hours and thirty minutes left.

"I need a moment alone with Declan," I tell Cormac after we've gone over every detail twice.

He nods and leaves the room, closing the door behind him.

Declan pulls me into his arms again, and this time I let him hold me. "I'll bring him home," he promises.

"I know." I rest my head against his chest, listening to his heartbeat. "But I need you to come home too."

"I will."

I lift my head to look at him. "No matter what happens, I need you to know something."

"What's that?"

"I never stopped loving you either." The words burn my throat. "Not even when I hated you."

He kisses me, fierce and desperate. I cling to him, memorizing the feel of his body against mine, the taste of his lips.

When we break apart, I press my forehead to his. "You'll need a gun."

"Cormac's taking care of that."

"And a vest. Promise me you'll wear a vest."

"I promise."

I step back, steeling myself for what I need to say next. "If something goes wrong... if you can't get Conor out..."

"Maeve—"

"If you have to choose between saving him or yourself, you choose him." My voice doesn't waver. "No matter what. Promise me."

His eyes darken. "I promise."

Satisfied, I nod and move toward the door. "I need to use the bathroom. Give me a minute."

Instead of heading to the bathroom, I find my way to the kitchen. The house is massive, but I follow the sounds of activity until I reach a large, gleaming space where staff prepare dinner.

"Excuse me," I say to a young woman chopping vegetables. "Where does Mr. Donovan keep his car keys?"

She looks up, startled. "Ma'am?"

"Mr. Cormac asked me to move his car. For the security team." I force a smile. "He said the keys would be in the kitchen."

She hesitates, then points to a row of hooks on the wall. "The spares are there. But I don't know which?—"

"Thank you." I grab a random key fob and walk out before she can question me further.

In the garage, I press the unlock button, following the beep to a sleek black Audi. I slide into the driver's seat and start the engine.

The guard at the gate stops me, but I roll down the window with a confident smile. "Mr. Cormac asked me to pick up some medications for his brother. At the pharmacy in town."

He studies my face, then nods. "Be careful, ma'am. Mr. Donovan wants you back before dark."

The gates open, and I drive through, keeping my speed steady until I'm out of sight. Then I floor it.

I'm not going to the pharmacy. I'm going to the north docks, where my son is. Where Declan will walk into a trap in less than two hours.

I know a side entrance to the shipyard from my teen years—back when it was an abandoned playground for bored Dublin kids looking for trouble. If I can slip in unnoticed, maybe I can find Conor before Petrov's men realize I'm there.

It's suicide. It's madness. But I can't sit and wait while the two people I love most in the world face death alone.

Cormac calls my phone five times before I turn it off. Declan will be furious when he realizes I'm gone. But by then, it will be too late.

I spot the abandoned shipyard up ahead, its rusted cranes sticking up like skeletal giants against the darkening sky. I park the Audi a half-mile away and walk the rest of the way, staying close to the fence line.

My old entrance—a gap where the chain-link fence has been cut and bent back—is still there, hidden behind overgrown bushes. I squeeze through, ignoring the way the metal catches and tears my shirt.

The shipyard is massive, a maze of containers, warehouses, and equipment left to rot. I move from shadow to shadow, listening for voices, for any sign of Conor or his captors.

A light glows from one of the warehouses near the water. I creep closer, staying low. Through a dirty window, I can see movement inside. Men with guns. And in the center of the room, Conor is in the middle, on a chair, his hands tied.

I need to get inside, but every entrance will be guarded. I circle the building, looking for another way in.

There—high up on the wall, a ventilation shaft. If I can reach it, I might be able to crawl through.

I find a stack of crates nearby and climb them, wincing at every sound. The metal groans beneath my weight, but the men inside the warehouse don't seem to hear. At the top of the crates, I'm level with the vent. I jump across the gap, grabbing the edge of the vent grid. It comes loose in my hands, nearly sending me crashing to the ground.

I hang there for a moment, heart pounding. When no one comes to investigate, I pull myself up and into the shaft.

It's narrow, filthy, and pitch-black inside. I crawl forward slowly, using my phone's flashlight to see. The shaft leads deeper into the warehouse. I follow it until I hear voices below me.

"The boy is hungry," someone says in heavily accented English.

"He eats when Donovan arrives." Another voice, deeper. "Not before."

"And if Donovan doesn't come?"

A chilling laugh. "Then the boy doesn't need to worry about food anymore."

I bite back a sob. They're going to kill my son if Declan doesn't show up. And they'll probably kill him anyway.

I continue forward until I find another grill. Through it, I can see more of the warehouse floor.

A large man paces nearby—his build and the way others defer to him suggest he's in charge. Not Petrov, but someone important. He checks his watch.

"One hour," he announces. "Get ready."

I need to act before Declan arrives, before they have both of them. But how? I have no weapon, no backup.

The ventilation shaft continues past the grill. I follow it, hoping it might lead somewhere useful. It branches left and right. I choose right and find myself above what looks like an office. Inside, a man sits at a desk, talking on a phone. A gun lies on a table behind him.

I stare at the gun, then at the radio on his desk. Fuck it. It's crazy and I'll probably get us both killed, but what choice do I have?

I wait until the man on the phone gets up and leaves the office. Then I remove the grill and drop down into the room. I grab the gun, checking that it's loaded. Six bullets. Not much, but better than nothing.

I search the desk and find what I'm really looking for—a radio. The same kind the guards are using to communicate. I turn it on, listening to their chatter.

"Perimeter secure. No sign of Donovan yet."

"The boat is ready if we need extraction."

I go to the window of the office, which overlooks the warehouse floor. From here, I can see Conor and his captors clearly. The large man I noticed earlier stands close to my son, his back to me.

I have one shot at this. Literally.

I open the office door a crack, checking the hallway. Empty. I slip out and make my way toward a metal staircase that leads to the main floor. My heart pounds so hard I'm sure they can hear it.

I reach the bottom of the stairs and freeze. Shit. No way to get to Conor without crossing open floor with five guys carrying guns between us. They'll shoot me before I take three steps.

The radio in my hand gives me an idea.

I check my watch. Forty-five minutes until Declan is supposed to arrive. I turn the radio to full volume and set it on the floor at the bottom of the stairs. Then I press the talk button and let it squeal with feedback before running back up the stairs.

Shouts of confusion erupt below. Three men race toward the sound, leaving only two with Conor—the leader and one guard.

I take aim from the top of the stairs, steadying my hand. The boyfriend who taught me to shoot always said to exhale before pulling the trigger.

I breathe out and fire.

The guard drops, clutching his leg. Before the leader can react, I fire again, missing him but forcing him to dive for cover.

"Conor, get down!" I scream, racing toward him.

My son jerks his head up, his eyes wild with hope when he spots me. He pulls against the zip ties on his wrists as I rush to him, knife already out from my pocket.

I race across the floor, dodging a bullet that strikes the concrete near my feet. I reach Conor and drop to my knees beside him, sawing frantically at the zip ties with my knife.

"Mom," he sobs as the plastic snaps.

"We need to go. Now."

"Run!" I grab his arm and yank him up. Bullets fly past us, smashing into the wall. I push Conor ahead of me toward the stairs, my body blocking him from the gunfire.

The leader roars something in Russian, on his feet again and aiming at us.

"I can't lift you," I tell him. "You'll have to climb."

"I can't reach," Conor whispers, tears streaming down his face.

"I'll lift you." I lock my fingers together and he steps into my hands, grabbing the edge of the vent when I push him up. He scrambles inside.

More bullets. I jump for the vent, my arms burning as I pull myself up. My knife clatters to the floor below.

"Crawl fast," I whisper. "Don't stop."

We move through the shaft, the sounds of pursuit growing behind us. When we reach the outer wall, I kick out the grill and help Conor drop to the ground outside.

"Run to those bushes," I tell him, pointing to where I came in. "Stay low."

I drop down beside him, and we run, crouching, toward the fence. Gunfire erupts behind us, bullets pinging off metal.

We reach the fence, and I push Conor through the gap. "Keep going," I urge him. "To that road."

I follow him through, tearing my shirt worse and scraping my side on the metal. We run across open ground toward where I parked the Audi.

The sound of engines roaring to life behind us spurs us faster. They're coming after us.

We reach the car, and I fumble with the keys, hands shaking. The engine starts, and I push Conor down in the passenger seat. "Stay down!"

I reverse onto the road, then stomp on the gas. The Audi shoots forward just as a black SUV bursts from the shipyard entrance.

"They're following us," Conor says, his voice small.

"I know, baby." I press the gas harder, taking a sharp turn onto a narrow side road. The SUV follows, gaining on us.

I reach for my phone to call Declan, but it's not in my pocket. I must have dropped it in the warehouse.

"Fuck!" I slam my hand against the steering wheel.

"Mom," Conor says. "I'm scared."

"I know. But we're going to be okay." I take another turn, hoping to lose our pursuers. "Just stay down."

The SUV stays with us, getting closer. I see the flash of a gun barrel through their windshield.

I swerve as bullets hit the back of the Audi. The rear window shatters, and Conor screams.

"Are you hit?" I cry out.

"No." He's sobbing now. "Mom, please."

I need to lose them. Think, Maeve, think.

Up ahead, the road passes under a railway bridge. Beyond it, the road splits in three directions. If I can make it to the split before they catch us...

The SUV rams us from behind. The Audi lurches forward, almost spinning out. I grip the wheel, fighting for control.

"Hold on!" I shout as we approach the bridge.

I hit the brakes hard just before we reach the tunnel, then swerve left, scraping along the wall. The SUV, going faster, overshoots and has to brake hard to avoid hitting the far wall.

I floor it again, taking the left branch at the split. The SUV recovers and follows, but we've gained some distance.

Where can we go? Not back to Cormac's. They'll expect that.

"Conor, do you remember Aunt Sarah's house? By the ocean?"

He nods, still crying but quieter now.

"That's where we're going."

Sarah isn't really his aunt, but my old roommate from nursing school. She lives in a small house on the coast, thirty miles from Dublin. If we can reach her, maybe we'll be safe for a while.

The SUV is still behind us, but farther back now. I take every turn I can, trying to lose them in the maze of country roads.

Finally, after twenty minutes of white-knuckle driving, they're gone from my rearview mirror. I slow down slightly, my hands cramping from gripping the wheel so tight.

"Are they gone?" Conor asks.

"I think so." I reach over to squeeze his hand. "You were so brave, sweetheart."

"I want Declan," he says, surprising me. "He'll keep us safe from the bad guys."

My heart breaks for him. "We'll find him soon. I promise."

But right now, Declan is probably walking into the trap at the docks, not knowing we've escaped. And I have no way to warn him.