Riley Quinn starts today.
HR sent her to the admin block an hour ago. She’s on track to meet the head of logistics before ten. Supposedly brilliant, supposedly quiet. No family on record, no social footprint, no cause for suspicion. I didn’t approve the hire personally, but I signed off on the role. We’re expanding and the old guard is too slow. I need analysts who understand efficiency, not loyalty.
Still. Something about this timing…
I shake the thought. It’s paranoia talking.
The O’Callaghans don’t send spies. They send soldiers. If Patrick O’Callaghan wanted to hit me, he’d do it the old way—bomb, bullet, or blackout. He wouldn’t send some clean-skirt corporate type to audit shipping records.
Unless he’s gotten smarter.
Unlikely.
I exhale, smoke sharp in my throat. My father would’ve laughed. He used to say the O’Callaghans dressed up their crime like theatre—suits, titles, heirs, all that dynasty bullshit. He never bought into it. Said we were mongrels by comparison, but at least mongrels survive.
He was wrong. I don’t want to survive.
I want to rule.
My phone lights up with a text from Roarke.
Got eyes on the new hire. She’s a bit too clean for my liking.
I reply.
Watch her. Don’t interfere.
Roarke doesn’t respond. He knows the rule. Everyone gets one day of safety—their first. After that, they prove who they are.
I stub the cigarette out on the crate and crush it under my heel. I should head in. The new contract with the Spaniards needs confirming. The Balkan run got stalled at customs and someone’s got to lean on the right inspector.
But I linger another second.
Out on the edge of the dock, a van slows down near the fence.
Same plate.
Wicklow.
I start walking and cut across the gravel, boots grinding against the frost-rubbed stone, and signal Roarke to hold the van at the side gate. Wicklow plates don’t belong here without reason, and I don’t like coincidences. I make a note to check the delivery manifest later. For now, there’s another meeting waiting—HR buzzed a minute ago to say the new logistics analyst showed up early.
I head toward the east side of the yard, past the steel stacks and weld bays, and take the back stairs up to the operations office.
The operations office sits three floors up, squat and windowless, but it overlooks everything that matters—dock lanes, inbound manifests, and the camera feeds we don’t give customs access to.
I shoulder the door open.
It’s warm inside. Too warm. Paper and sweat and old ink, same as always. Two clerks freeze when they see me. O’Driscoll looks up from his desk, glasses low on his nose, pen still in motion.
“Mr. Byrne,” he says, standing halfway. “We didn’t expect?—”
“You should always expect,” I say.
He nods once, swallows whatever excuse he meant to offer, and gestures to the ledger stack on the table beside him. “Signed and batched. Container routes aligned with pre-cleared corridors. No flags.”
I cross to the ledgers and flip through one. Route 44-B is marked for Belfast, expected to transit through Lisburn without inspection. I note the driver’s name. I'll check the feed myself later.
“Barlow called in sick,” O’Driscoll adds. “Kavanagh cleared the manifest without secondary.”
