"Left her?" Fiachra says, sharp.
"Thought she was down for good," the captain replies.
"Blood trail led to the ditch. She held breath, slowed pulse. Smart move."
Fiachra mutters something that sounds like a prayer for vengeance.
"What'd she say?" I ask.
"Van was tagged ‘Murphy's Flour'—bogus. Driver never spoke. Two hostiles. One used a stun agent on the girl. Cloth and chemical. Took her unconscious. Lena tried to fight—got one of them in the thigh with a boot blade. Didn't stop them."
I shut my eyes for half a second.
"She see plates?"
"Scrubbed. Classic wash-and-burn. We found the van dumped near Castlewarden. No prints. No blood. No cameras. Keys still in the dash. Engine cold. Whoever they are, they're practiced."
I stare at the surveillance grid, all squares lit up now, feeds clear and useless.
"Chatter?" I ask.
"Dead silent," the captain replies.
"No syndicate calls, no flagged networks pinging for movement. If this is connected to the Connollys, they're being careful."
"They're always careful," Fiachra mutters.
The captain continues, tone precise.
"We pulled every vendor log for the past month. No ‘Murphy's Flour' deliveries. Not even a shell listing. The logo was a mock-up. The van was clean, but older. Retired from public fleet two years ago. Bought at auction in Meath. Buyer listed as a woman who died in 2019."
Fake IDs.
Paper ghosts.
The kind of work you only see from men who expect no consequences.
I flex my hand once against the steel.
"And Keira?"
"Last conscious ping from her phone was 08:43. Basic check-in text. After that—offline. SIM removed or destroyed."
With a tight nod of acknowledgment, I go to Lena next.
She's in the living room, sitting at the table with her palms up like she's expecting a set of cuffs.
She starts without preamble.
"Two vehicles. The van tailed us for eighteen minutes. The SUV came from the trees—blocked the front."
"You clock them before impact?"
She nods.
"I did. Too late to warn her without tipping them. I tried to get her out."
I don't interrupt.
