Page 43 of Bloody Knuckles

"Come on, Aoife, we don't have time?—"

His words cut off as I drive upward, my right hand plunging the ballpoint pen I'd palmed from the office desk directly into his throat. Not a lethal strike, but disabling—through the soft tissue beneath his jaw, rupturing blood vessels, inducing shock.

Sean drops, hands clutching his throat as blood pumps between his fingers. His scream comes out as a wet gurgle.

"Aoife!" Martin shouts, spinning toward us.

I'm already moving, dropping low, grabbing Sean's fallen weapon. The Glock feels familiar in my hand—similar to the one I practiced with on the family property.

Martin raises his gun. I fire first—one shot. He staggers backward, shock registering before he collapses.

The men on the boat react instantly, weapons swinging toward me. I dive behind a concrete bollard as bullets chip stone around me. Three shooters, semi-automatic weapons, poor cover between us.

The odds aren't great.

A burst of gunfire erupts from behind the shooters. Two drop immediately. The third turns, only to meet a bullet between the shoulders. He pitches forward into the water.

Cormac emerges from the smoke, weapon raised, tactical gear spattered with crimson both his and others'.

For a heartbeat, neither of us moves. Enemy or ally? Captor or rescuer? The roles blur beyond recognition.

Then he's running toward me, closing the distance as shouts echo from within the warehouse. More Gallagher men approaching.

"Boat," he orders, voice gravel rough. "Now."

I don't hesitate, sprinting toward the vessel as Cormac provides cover fire. We leap aboard, Cormac immediately taking control. The engine roars to life as bullets strike the water around us.

The boat surges forward, cutting through Dublin harbor as the warehouse shrinks behind us. Only when we're safely beyond rifle range does Cormac slow, turning to me with cold assessment.

"You killed Sean McKinney." Not a question. "Your father's man."

"My brother's man," I correct, still gripping the Glock. "Using my father's name to deliver me to Liam."

Understanding darkens his expression. "Your brother orchestrated this rescue?"

"To use me against both you and my father." I release a shuddering breath, adrenaline still coursing through my veins. "How did you find me?"

"Tracker in your sweater." He gestures to the bloodstained cashmere. "Safety is a thing for me, and I have trust issues we can get into later."

Of course. I should have expected nothing less from the man who bugged the priest's rosary beads.

"Connor? Declan?" I ask, already knowing the answer.

"Dead." His voice flattens. "Five of my men total."

Guilt surges through me. "I didn't know they were coming. I swear it."

"I know." Cormac navigates toward a small marina at the north end of the harbor. "You wouldn't have killed McKinney otherwise."

The observation hangs between us—acknowledgment of a line crossed. I've killed before, but never someone from my own side. Never someone who'd known me since childhood.

Cormac docks the boat at a private slip. A black Audi waits nearby, engine idling. "We need to move. Your brother will be looking for you."

I follow him to the car, legs unsteady from adrenaline crash. Once inside, he hands me a burner phone.

"Call your father," he instructs. "Confirm it wasn't his doing."

I dial from memory, heart pounding as it rings. My father answers on the third ring.

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