The silence in the car gets heavier.
"Seamus," Alessandro says.
Hearing the name out loud makes my stomach turn. Seamus Maguire. My godfather. The man who sat at my kitchen table every Sunday. The man who gave me my first knife.
I saw him. I saw his face under the security light. He was meeting with a Russian lieutenant. He sold us out. He soldmeout.
"He's the leak," I say. The words taste like ash. "He gave them the coin. He told them about the tie. He set up the frame."
"Why?"
"Money. Power. Spite. Does it matter?" I grip the wheel until my hands hurt. "He tried to kill you to start a war. He put a target on Rory’s back."
"We'll find him," Alessandro says. "And we'll deal with him."
"I'll deal with him."
The pain in my side flares, a sudden spike that makes my vision blur for a second. I grunt, shifting in the seat.
Alessandro looks at me. Sharp. Assessing.
"You okay?"
"Fine," I lie. "Just stiff."
He doesn't look convinced, but he doesn't press it. He goes back to watching the road.
I drive for another twenty minutes. The blood is soaking into the waistband of my jeans now. I can feel it pooling in the seat. I’m getting cold. The heater in the old Ford is broken, blowing lukewarm air that smells of dust, but the chill is coming from inside me.
I turn onto a dirt road that runs along the riverbank. Weeds scrape the underside of the car. The safehouse is at the end—a single-story brick structure with boarded-up windows and a roof that sags in the middle. It looks abandoned. It looks like a tomb.
I kill the engine.
The silence rushes in, ringing in my ears. No sirens. No traffic. Just the rain drumming on the roof and the sound of my own breathing, which is too fast and too shallow.
"Stay here," I say. "I'll clear the interior."
"I'll clear it with you."
"Stay in the car, Alessandro."
"Killian." His voice is hard. "I just killed a man and engaged in a high-speed pursuit. I am not staying in the car like a frightened spouse."
I don't have the energy to argue. The blood loss is siphoning the fight out of me.
"Fine," I say. "Keep behind me."
I open the door. I have to grab the frame to pull myself out. My legs feel like they belong to someone else—heavy, unresponsive wood.
We walk to the front door. The weeds are waist-high, soaking my jeans. I fumble with my keyring, finding the brass key that I haven't used in two years. My hands are shaking. It takes me three tries to get it into the lock.
The bolt turns with a heavyclunk.
I push the door open. The air inside is stale, dry, smelling of dust and neglect. I sweep the room with the Glock. Empty.
"Clear," I say.
I close the door behind us. I throw the deadbolt. I slide the heavy steel bar into place.
