"They're calling it ‘reclaiming misallocated assets.' But it's a hit. They're stripping every front, every shell company, every safe house on the list. Half the crews are already in the vans."
I stand, my chair grating against the tiles.
"Customs?"
"Paid off. They'll sit on their hands while the shipments get ‘seized'. If we move anything through the port, it's gone."
Niamh leans in, fingers laced.
"What about the warehouses on Sheriff Street?"
"First stop," Lena says.
"They've already hit two. No resistance yet, but the third one is ours. If they find what's in it?—"
"They won't," I say, though I'm not sure.
Niamh's voice is almost amused.
"You think Padraig's clever enough to coordinate this without help?"
"Doesn't matter," I say.
"It's already in motion."
There's a knock at the door, soft but insistent—two, then one, then two.
The old code.
I go to the peephole, check, then open.
Fiachra steps in, shoulders hunched against the weather, eyes wild and unfocused.
He reeks of cigarettes and bad coffee.
"They're here," he says.
"Sheriff Street. Four vans, six men per, at least two with shotties. They're not wearing colors, but it's O'Duinn's boys. I saw Liam with them."
"Liam?" Lena asks.
"Liam," he repeats, like it's a diagnosis.
We move fast.
Lena grabs the pistols off the hooks, tosses one to Niamh, keeps the other for herself.
Niamh sets out for the headquarters so she can keep an eye on Keira.
Fiachra checks the clip on the subcompact, slides it into the holster at his ankle.
I check the magazine on the shotgun, then throw it in a duffel with three extra shells.
The street is empty except for the rain, but I feel eyes in every window, every alley.
We pile into the car—a battered Ford with half the paint scraped off—and Lena drives, gunning the engine like it owes her money.
Fiachra rides shotgun, head on a swivel.
