Shit!
Pulling out my phone, I dial Joe’s number; thankfully, he picks up on the second ring. “Joe, I need you to get over to the Mater and check on Katie ASAP.”
“Why, what’s happened?” His words are muffled by something he’s chewing on; he must already be at lunch.
“AJ Quinn has been abducted.”
42
JOE
To say my morning has been an absolute fucking shit-show is a grossly hideous understatement. It would have been easier if Walsh had cornered me and buggered me up the arse with VapoRub as lubricant.
I tried to keep Katie from finding out about AJ—that is, until we at least had more information to go off. The girl has been through the wars enough as it is without adding an abducted fiancé to the list. I did a great job at keeping things cool and casual for about 0.6 seconds. The instant she logged onto whatever social media app it was that made the blood drain from her face and the heart monitor bounce off the Richter scale—I’m guessing Facebook, it could have been TikTok. I was too busy panicking to pay attention—the jig was up, and my balls were in a vice.
There was no way that I could deny the footage of AJ climbing out of Moore’s turned-over car, and his bloodied body twisting right into the barrel of the gunmen waiting for him. The footage was as clear as day.
I don’t know if it was seeing AJ injured, the abduction itself, or the fact that he can be heard calling her name like a desperate plea for someone to watch over her, right before the van doors were slammed shut and the vehicle sped away, but Katie had to be heavily sedated to calm down after witnessing the traumatic event.
She pulled cannulas from her arms in a frenzy, causing blood to spurt everywhere. She practically rugby tackled a nurse, which, with four broken ribs, bruised and battered, was no small feat. The hospital staff had to call security to restrain her before she could be safely sedated and treated for her injuries.
Since seeing Walsh’s men take her ex-husband away, Éabha has experienced a similar, but less severe, reaction. She hasn’t tackled anyone yet. I’m no fool. I know that despite everything AJ put Éabha through, some warped part of my wife still loves the man—not romantically, of course. The type of love that can only be formed from years of similarly traumatic history and shared experiences.
I’ve tried to keep my mind preoccupied. I’ve tried everything I can think of to keep my fingers busy, but much like an itchy ball sack on a hot summer day, the urge to scratch is impossible to ignore. I keep finding that video, or it keeps finding me. I’m unsure if it’s an unconscious desire to punish myself, or if the damn thing has gone so viral in the last twenty-four hours that it simply cannot be avoided.
Something is just not sitting right with me.
This is too orchestrated.
Too brash.
Not like David Walsh’s usual sloppy signature.
The carpark is dimly lit and silent, except for the flickeringfluorescent light above. I want nothing more than to just stay here. I don’t want to drag my arse into Moore’s office to see whatever the hell he called me in to witness. I’ve got a niggling feeling that whatever it is is going to drive this tension headache I’ve had all day up a notch, or ten.
Steeling myself, still white-knuckling the steering wheel, I take a deep breath and force myself to step out of the car. Passing familiar faces in the corridors as I’m led back to Moore’s office, I can’t shake the feeling of dread creeping up my spine like a slimy, engorged leech. As I enter the office, I see Moore standing by his desk with a grim expression, confirming my suspicions that whatever the hell is going on is far from pleasant.
“Oh God,” I turn my back on my old partner, bracing myself for the bombshell he’s about to drop. “He’s dead.”
“He’s…” Moore trails off, his voice barely above a whisper. “He…” He curses under his breath before finally meeting my gaze. Moore says nothing else, slowly lowering his finger to the mouse pad on his desk and clicking on a video file with his name on it.
Nothing but static fills the screen before a grainy image of a man tied to a chair comes into view. His arms are bound behind his back, and his head is covered with a black hood—much like the way Katie described her abduction.
The figure does not struggle against his restraints. He does not budge a single inch. I take a moment to view his surroundings—dark, dull, and eerily quiet. “It looks like the inside of a warehouse,” I think to myself, noticing the concrete walls and dim lighting.
“Thought so too,” Moore concurs, chewing his lower lip. “We linked in with the criminal assets bureau; they’re checkingWalsh’s records for any properties matching this description. So far, they have seized three houses and frozen his bank accounts; he’s not going to have anywhere to hide for long.”
My gaze focuses on the footage again; something about the angle of the figure’s head gives me the impression that he’s waiting, listening to his surroundings. An AJ Quinn move if I’ve ever seen one. The viper is always ready to strike when the opportunity presents itself.
Why do I want this bastard to win?
Why do I want the man responsible for putting my wife behind bars to be the one to come out on top in this game of cat and mouse?
Better the devil you know, I suppose.
A pair of legs come into view, momentarily blocking out the figure in the chair before they make their way to him, revealing AJ’s snarky, grinning face. “Dinner would have been nice,” he quips, looking up at his captor, completely unfazed by the situation.
A door opens and slams shut somewhere behind the camera. “AJ!”
