My training recognizes the wrongness before my conscious mind catches up. There are small things, barely noticeable unless you're paying attention. The mail on the entry table sits at a slightly different angle, and my jacket hangs on the hook with the collar folded wrong. The books on the shelf stand in an order I didn't leave them.
Someone's been inside my home.
My hand goes to my weapon as I clear each room methodically, checking closets and behind furniture for intruders who might still be present. I find nothing. Whoever entered is long gone, but they left evidence of their presence in subtle disarray that says this was meant to be noticed.
Nothing appears stolen, and the electronics remain untouched. The valuables are unmoved, and the personal items are exactly where they belong aside from those small tells indicating search and invasion. This wasn't robbery. This was a message. We know where you live, and we can reach you anywhere. Back off, or next time won't be so polite.
I should call for backup and report the break-in and request increased patrols. I should demonstrate that threatening a police officer brings consequences.
But who would I call? Rhona, who might be involved? MacKinnon, who clearly protects local criminals? The brotherhood that O'Donnell belongs to, whatever the hell that organization actually is?
I'm alone in a hostile environment with no allies and with evidence that someone considers me enough of a threat to violate my home.
Good.
If they're scared enough to send warnings, I'm getting close to something important. If they're worried about my investigation, then my investigation is heading in the rightdirection. Intimidation only works on people who scare easily, and I didn't survive Glasgow's organized crime division by backing down when things got violent.
I double-check all the locks and wedge a chair under the door handle for additional security and set my phone to record any sounds during the night. Then I pull out my laptop and continue documenting evidence while building the case that will eventually take down whoever runs this trafficking operation.
The Cork children's faces haunt me as I work. There are twelve kids who should be safe at home, and their parents probably still hope they'll come back. I have to find out what happened to them. And regardless of what I find, I need to make those who are responsible pay for it.
O'Donnell's face keeps appearing in my mind too. The way he moved with all that predatory grace and casual menace keeps replaying. The warnings he gave sounded almost like genuine concern beneath the intimidation.
He's involved; he has to be. Everything points to him as a key player in whatever operation uses Stormhaven's harbor, but something about him doesn't fit the profile. The intelligence shows in his gaze, and the calculation suggests he thinks several moves ahead. And the way he vanished, twice now, with impossible speed—there's no logical explanation for that.
There's more happening on this island than trafficking, and it's more than I understand or can explain with standard police work. Whatever O'Donnell is involved in, and whatever makes him capable of impossible things, I think the brotherhood is involved too. So is the corruption protecting these operations, and so are those twelve children from Cork.
I'll figure this out. Build the case piece by piece until the charges stick. Even if part of me can't stop thinking about the way he looked at me—like I'm prey and threat all at once, likewhatever pulls me toward him is pulling him toward me just as hard.
I close my laptop and check the locks again. Sleep won't come easily tonight, not with adrenaline still humming through me. Tomorrow I'll dig deeper. Find more evidence. Build the case that brings them all down.
They wanted to scare me into backing off. Probably think their warning worked, that I'll pack up and run back to Glasgow like Murdoch probably wanted to before his "accident."
I won't.
I pull up the Cork manifest one more time, and the numbers burn into my vision. There are twelve children and twelve "units of livestock." I slam the laptop shut.
Those children deserve better than a cop who scares easily. So does this island.
Tomorrow I'll start digging into this brotherhood. Figure out who the hell O'Donnell really is. And find out who's protecting the bastards shipping children like cargo.
They made a mistake breaking into my home tonight. They should have just killed me when they had the chance.
CHAPTER 4
KIAN
The call comes at dawn, Dimitri's voice crackling through my phone with barely contained rage. "Your cop problem just became our problem, O'Donnell. We sent her a message last night. We searched her cottage."
The tiger explodes inwardly, my vision blurs red with protective fury. "You did what?"
"We gave her a warning." Dimitri's accent thickens when he's angry, his consonants going hard. "She ignored it. The boss says she needs to disappear. Permanently. Today."
My hand tightens on the phone until the plastic cracks. The sound of it breaking mirrors something fracturing inside me, rage and possessiveness warring with the need to stay calm, stay in control, stay in character. "I said I'd handle it."
"You're not handling it. She's still digging, still asking questions, still making problems." A pause, heavy with warning. "We gave her a message. She ignored it. The next message comes with blood."
The line goes dead before I can respond, before I can threaten or negotiate or demand more time. I stand there in the grey light filtering through my warehouse windows, rage and something darker coiling through me. They went to her cottage,violated her space, sent their threats directly to where she sleeps. The predator within wants to hunt down every Russian who thought touching what's mine was acceptable.
