Page 41 of Bloody Knuckles

The SUV weaves through Dublin traffic, eventually turning toward the industrial dock area. Shipping containers stack like building blocks along the waterfront. Cranes stand sentinel against the gray sky. Perfect territory for an ambush—multiple hiding places, few civilians, controlled access points.

We pull into a warehouse complex marked with faded shipping logos. Two more black SUVs waiting, men posted throughout the cavernous space.

"Here we are," Sean announces. "Home sweet home."

I step from the vehicle, noting exit routes, weapon positions, threats. Fifteen men minimum, all heavily armed. No sign of my father—as expected. But no sign of Liam either, which raises more questions.

"Where's my father?" I demand.

"Arriving separately," Sean answers, guiding me toward a small office area partitioned from the main warehouse floor. "Security reasons."

They usher me into the office—desk, chairs, a small surveillance setup monitoring the warehouse perimeter. One door, one window overlooking the main floor. Limited escape options.

"Wait here," Sean instructs, then hesitates. "Are you okay? Your arm..."

"Just a graze," I confirm. "I'll live."

"Good." He pauses at the door. "For what it's worth, I'm glad you're safe. We've all been worried."

The sincerity in his voice gives me pause. Does he truly believe this mission comes from my father? Or is his loyalty to Liam so absolute it’s made him stupid?

Once alone, I immediately search the office. The desk drawers yield nothing useful. No weapons, no phone. The window shows clear sightlines to the warehouse floor where Sean talks with another lieutenant I recognize—Martin Byrne, my brother's right-hand man.

Martin's presence confirms my suspicions. This is Liam's operation, not my father's.

Time passes—thirty minutes, then an hour. A purposeful delay, wearing down my nerves before the big confrontation. A classic interrogation tactic my father taught both Liam and me as teenagers.

The office door opens. Martin Byrne enters, sharp-featured and cold as ever.

"Aoife Gallagher," he greets without warmth. "Welcome back to the family."

"Where's my brother?" I counter, dispensing with pretense.

Martin's lips twitch. "Direct as always. Liam will be here shortly."

"And my father?"

"Unavailable at present."

"Meaning he doesn't know about thisextraction," I reply.

Martin shrugs. "Family politics are complicated. Liam felt it best to secure your safety before involving Patrick. Given your... delicate situation with Donovan."

"Delicate?" I arch an eyebrow. "That's one word for abduction."

"Is it abduction when you're spotted acting as Donovan's date at Kilmainham?" Martin counters, pulling out his phone. "Our source provided quite the interesting account of your behavior."

So, they had someone inside the Donovan gathering. The betrayal web stretches in all directions.

"Stockholm syndrome makes for convincing theater," I reply smoothly. "Survival requires good acting skills."

"Indeed." Martin slides his phone across the desk. "Though acting rarely includes such... enthusiasm."

The screen shows a grainy image—Cormac and me in the alcove at Kilmainham, his body pressed against mine, my hands clearly clutching his shoulders. The kiss captured in perfect, damning detail.

"Surveillance photography?" I keep my voice steady despite the hammering of my heart. "How gauche."

"Evidence." Martin reclaims the phone. "Liam was quite disturbed by these images."

---