We spread out, each taking a side.
I go for the loading bay, shotgun ready, heart pounding so hard it's almost a voice in my head.
I count to three, then kick the door.
It buckles but holds.
Again, harder.
This time, it pops open, and I'm inside, sweeping left to right, barrel up.
There are four men in the entry, all in work jackets, all with the O'Duinn build—beefy, sallow, eyes flat as pond water.
They look up slowly, then realize what's happening.
None of them expected me to still be in the city.
Just like Keira and I hadplanned at the onset when we decided to go through with this breakup.
I fire once, into the ceiling.
Plaster rains down.
They freeze.
"Back wall," I say.
"Hands up."
They comply, more out of confusion than fear.
Lena and Fiachra take the stairs running.
I hear a scuffle, then a scream.
The lookouts go down without a shot.
I move through the warehouse, past stacks of crates and pallets.
At the far end, two men are crouched by the office door, arguing in whispers.
I step into the light, gun leveled.
"Drop it," I say.
They hesitate, then do.
Fiachra appears at my shoulder, blood on his knuckles but nowhere else.
He smiles.
We gather the men, tie their hands with cable from a spool on the floor.
Lena checks the crates, then gives a thumbs up—nothing touched, nothing missing.
"Now what?" she asks.
I walk to the office, boot the door.
