Prologue
Rhys Quinlan ~ Dublin, Ireland ~ Six Years Ago
Every op blurs the line of morality a little darker, and I can’t tell where the shadows end anymore.
“Where are they?” I ask slowly and deliberately.
Blood trickles from the corner of the dealer’s mouth as I tighten my grip on his collar. Anger surging through me, I force his head back against the concrete wall.
Eyes rolling, he mutters something lost in a choking cough.
“You should be praying, you bastard,” I growl, driving my knuckles into his ribs.
His scream echoes off the walls of Interrogation Room C, and the crack of bone vibrates through my hand.
I’ve done thishundreds of times.
My boss wants answers about stolen arms shipments for a client. I deliver answers. Mercy isn’t in my contract.
This crook spits blood at me in a pathetic attempt at defiance. Gobshites like him always break. They bleed, beg, then bargain. No one’s ever been brave enough to completely challenge me.
Dosser better not have Hep C.Now I need a tetanus shot just to make sure.
“Is that all you got?” I wipe my cheek with the back of my hand, slow, deliberate, and then slam my fist into his jaw.
His head snaps sharply left, teeth clattering from the pain he’s trying to hide.
“Where are they?” I ask again, my voice flat.
“Fuck you,” he mumbles, the words almost incoherent.
I yank him downward and drive my knee into his chest. He cries out, and breath whips out in shallow wheezes.
I should feel satisfaction. Instead, I feel nothing. Detached. No more than if I were squashing a bug or incinerating ants with a magnifying glass.
The door to the interrogation room bangs open, and a harsh light cuts into the dank space.
My boss, a VP at the private security firm I’ve worked for since leaving the Irish Defence Forces, steps into Room C, a phone pressed to his ear.
“Quinlan. I need you,” he calls out.
I eye the dealer with a frown and smash his head against my sore knee one last time, the frustration of his silence bringing me to the brink of losing control. He slumps over, spitting blood.
Wiping it from my trousers, I say, “He’s close. I feel it.”
“Forget this bloke. We’ve got a situation, lad.” His voice cracks in a way that makes my stomach clench.
“Aye?”
“Leinster House.” He covers the mobile phone with hispalm. “There’s been a terrorist attack.”
My heart stutters. “Where is my brother Trace?”
He’s a private security officer for one of the ministers at Leinster.
Shaking his head, my boss quickly replies, “No. Your brother was in the States burning PTO. I just spoke to his handler. He’s on a flight, set to land in around an hour. He’s being assigned an investigative role.”
The pressure behind my eyes eases. “What do you need from me?”
