“Didn’t peg you as the listen for gossip type. You’re here alone?” She glances down toward my waist and gives me a look. She swaps places with one of her men while he reloads, and Aoife fires off a clip and doesn’t flinch. Her feet spread wide as she leans around the door. Her jaw is set, her grip steady—like she was born for this. Hell, shewas, wasn’t she? For a second, I don’t look out for the angle of my next shot, or hers. Just for asecond, when the wind catches her hair and her mouth pulls tight in focus; when the red tip of her nose is speckled with a sweaty sheen, and her long lashes blink—damn, she’s the kind of beauty that gets men killed. A siren in the depths of the underworld.
I drag my eyes away before the thought can fester. I swallow, angry, and I fire off my entire clip, hitting one of the seven in the stomach. He drops. Shit.
Another one of the men, most likely the guy in charge, says something in another language, and my chest tightens. Cartel? Bromley’s words echo through my mind.
The man then switches to English. “Come out with your hands up, and I will spare your lives.”
I gesture to Aoife for her to holster her weapon.
She shakes her head.
“What?” I whisper. “Aoife, we’re outnumbered, you?—”
“We?” She whisper-laughs. Soon after, her laughter dies, and the smile leaves her lips. It’s devastating. She glances at the crates, then at her men. Her facial expression says it all.Not worth it.
She looks at me. “Not a word, Detective.”
I lick my lips, and she narrows her eyes at me while she reaches behind her and holsters her weapon.
“We’re coming out!” she yells, and steps around the back of the van. Ronan and the other Irishmen follow.
As do I, though I don’t holster my Glock. Adrenaline surges through my arms and down into my fingers, particularly the one on the trigger, and it twitches.
A man in the middle steps forward, holstering his gun, and pulling the ski mask up and over his face. He drags his eyes off Aoife and runs his tongue over the front of his teeth. “We have five minutes before the authorities come.”
“They’re doing better than most men then,” she snips back. “Who the hell are you? And what do you want?”
“Feisty and beautiful. A deadly combination.” He motions for his men to move toward the van. “The cartel thanks you for the weapons.”
Aoife steps forward. “You can’t take those! Wait …”
The men don’t wait. Two climb into one van, firing up the engine, while another two hop in the back, closing the doors behind them.
These men didn’t come to scare, that’s clear, and they let us go. I doubt they want a true war with the Irish. No, they just came to take whatever Aoife had in those crates.
With another step, she allows her hand to hover over her holster.
“No, no, Miss O’Donnell. Wouldn’t want your father to bury his only heir, would you?”
Ronan pulls his weapon, shuffling between the leader and his goons on either side of him. Sirens sound in the distance, and the remaining cartel members scurry to the other van, firing it up and hauling off.
“We need to get out of here.” Ronan’s voice is low and calm, but the threat is still thick in the air, pulsing as though it’s tangible.
“I only have my bike,” Aoife says, her voice sinking quiet. She holds her arms close to her chest. Small, she looks so small right now.
I glance back toward the fence line. “I’ve got my car.”
She nods while digging in her jacket pocket for her keys and tosses them toward Ronan. “Take my bike back to my place. Mark, come with us.”
Ronan dips his chin and takes off between the closest stack of containers as the three of us run toward my car. We dive through the fence and climb in as police drive through the entrance and surround the open container.
Aoife leans forward, placing her hands on the dash, and takes a deep breath. In, out, in, out. She pulls in long, calming breaths, then she hits the plastic. Not hard, but enough to startle Mark in the back seat. A whimper catches in the back of her throat as she tries to clear it away.
“What was in the crates?” I reverse, keeping my lights off until I’ve maneuvered to a side street away from the law.
She looks at me, the rims of her eyes red, then she drops her face into the palm of her hands. “Weapons.”
“Weapons?”
