The phone vibrates again, then again, and it’s the kind of insistence that only comes with blood on the line.
I pull back and take the phone out, and I glance at the screen.
Roarke.
I answer without looking away from Quinn.
“Talk,” I say.
Roarke’s voice comes through tight and fast. “We’ve got movement on the Vigo clerk, and it’s not clean. He just tried to burn his records, and someone’s pulling him out of his flat right now.”
Quinn’s eyes stay on my face, and she doesn’t ask questions, but I can see her attention lock.
Roarke keeps going. “Two men, unknown plates, and they’re headed toward the quay. It’s a grab, Boss.”
I step back and straighten my shirt cuff like nothing happened. “Hold them,” I say.
“We can’t without a mess,” Roarke answers.
“Make the mess,” I reply, voice cold. “I want him alive.”
I end the call. The room is quiet again, but the moment is gone, replaced by something sharper and more urgent. “Get your coat.”
Her brow lifts. “You’re taking me?”
“I’m not leaving you,” I answer, and my tone doesn’t allow argument. “You wanted clarity, you’re getting it.”
She stands and reaches for her bag without fuss. I move toward the door, then I stop and look back at her.
Her face is calm, but her eyes are lit, and I can see it plain that she’s pulled in. That pleases me. I open the door and gesture once. “Stay close,” I say.
She steps toward me, and her voice is quiet when she answers. “I will.”
7
SAOIRSE
Cillian doesn’t explain his plan or ask if I’m ready before leading me out toward his car. I get in without arguing since I want to see this finished, and the engine starts before my door shuts fully, gravel spitting under the tires while Roarke’s headlights fall in behind us.
“Where are we going?” I finally ask.
“To the man who thought fire would save him,” Cillian replies without giving anything away. Somehow, I have the feeling this has to do with Vigo.
We stop at a narrow office near the river, one light on, blinds half drawn. It looks forgotten from the street, but the door opens before we knock. Inside, Luis Gutierrez sits at a metal desk with a bottle of water in front of him. His shirt is wrinkled, his sleeves rolled unevenly, his eyes red from lack of sleep.
“I moved paper,” Luis says, and his voice cracks before he clears it. He drags a hand down his face and looks at Cillian. “I’ll explain.”
Cillian leans forward slightly and rests his forearms on the desk. “I wait with bated breath.”
Luis nods fast. “I altered digital manifests inside the Vigo clearance system. There’s a private brokerage group operating out of the Vigo port offices, they call themselves Norte Logistics. They were generating container IDs, digital seal codes, and gate timestamps that mirrored yours down to the second.”
He swallows and glances at me, then back at Cillian. “They paid me to duplicate container IDs from your clean whiskey shipments and attach those IDs to high-risk pharmaceutical declarations moving through Spain and Portugal.”
Cillian’s posture goes rigid, but his voice stays even. “So my containers looked dirty.”
“Yes,” Luis says quickly. “On record, it looked like your containers changed classification mid-route. The amendments were filed under a legacy freight tag so they wouldn’t trigger manual review.”
I look down at him. “Moore Holdings,” I say.
