But he's still Irish mafia. Still the enemy we've been fighting for months. And the jury is still out on whether his people took Lily. Whether this entire revelation about shared blood is just elaborate theater designed to get us exactly where we are now. Vulnerable. Trusting. Exposed.
This could be an ambush. Could be the moment where everything goes wrong and we all die in a sports bar office while drunk fans scream about touchdowns.
Our men have the bar surrounded outside. Positioned at every exit. Discreet enough not to alert anyone inside or scare off whoever we're hunting. But ready. Armed and prepared to rain hell if this goes sideways. If something happens to us, the Irish won't leave this place alive. That's the insurance policy we bought with strategic positioning.
We're all watching the screens with predatory focus. Every corner. Every table. Every face in the crowd. Looking for anything out of place. Any tell. Any sign.
Except one camera. The ladies' bathroom has no coverage. A blind spot that makes my skin crawl with unease.
We need to spot whoever took Lily before they realize there's no bag with money waiting in that bathroom. Before they panic anddo something irreversible. We're not stupid enough to actually give kidnappers what they want.
Erion breaks the tense silence, his voice tight with barely controlled stress. "Anyone see anything? Anything at all?"
We scan different screens, eyes moving in practiced patterns. I take the left side. Luan takes center. Erion scans right. Cormac watches the entrance.
Nothing stands out. Just people watching football. Drinking cheap beer. Yelling at the TVs mounted every few feet. Normal Thursday night chaos.
Time passes. Each minute feeling like ten. Tension rises in the small space, the air getting thicker. We're all frustrated, the adrenaline with nowhere to go turning into restless energy.
Then I see her.
A woman sitting at the bar. Alone. Not watching any of the TVs displaying the game. Not reacting when the crowd around her explodes with cheers. Just checking her watch obsessively. Taking shots. One after another. Tequila from the look of it. Slamming them back with mechanical efficiency.
Something about her posture catches my attention. Her body language wrong. Tense. Waiting for something.
I know her. Recognition clicks into place with sickening certainty.
Sarah. Lily's brother's girlfriend.
"There," I say, my voice sharp. Point at the screen showing the bar. "That's Sarah. Henry's girlfriend."
They all look at where I'm pointing, bodies shifting to get a better angle.
"She's supposed to be pregnant," Luan says. His voice is flat, deadly.
"Pregnant women don't take tequila shots," Erion adds. The implication hanging heavy.
We watch her check her watch again. The timestamp on the screen reads 8:10. She slides off the barstool with jerky movements. Heads toward the back of the bar. Toward the bathrooms where the money is supposed to be waiting.
We move as one, no discussion needed.
Out of the office. Down the narrow back stairs. Into the overwhelming noise and heat of the bar itself.
The assault on the senses is immediate. Overlapping TV commentary from a dozen screens. The crowd roaring as the Bears make a play. Music bleeding under the announcers. A referee's whistle piercing through the chaos. The smell of grease and sweat and spilled beer. Bodies pressed together. Heat from too many people in too small a space.
The crowd is thick. Difficult to navigate. Someone stumbles into Erion, spilling beer down his jacket. The crowd surges suddenly when the Bears score a touchdown. Sound explodes around us, deafening and disorienting. Cheers and screams and the thud of bodies colliding in celebration.
We push through with single-minded purpose. Hands moving to our weapons concealed under our jackets. Fingers on grips. Ready to draw. The chaos actually helps, masking our movements, people too drunk and distracted to notice the violence we're carrying.
We position ourselves in the hallway leading to the bathrooms. A narrow corridor away from the main crowd. Darker. Quieter.
Sarah comes out of the bathroom moments later. Her face is furious, twisted with anger and panic. Phone already in her hand. Bringing it to her ear with shaking fingers.
We step out of the shadows. Block the hallway. All four of us appearing like nightmares made flesh.
Guns drawn. Pointed directly at her center mass.
Her eyes go wide. Mouth opens in a silent scream that doesn't make it past her throat.
