Kavanagh notices. He says nothing. Smart man.
I don’t say anything either, not at first. I let her come closer.
Quinn, Riley, the new hire from Hamburg. No family on record. No known ties. Shortlisted by Roisin from our admin block, backed by clean references and a crisp CV. Head of Logistics was supposed to give her the rundown this morning.
But this isn’t a logistics analyst. This is a woman who looks like heat and secrets, like whiskey sipped too fast, like danger if you ask the wrong question.
And she’s standing ten feet from my desk, watching me with those same unreadable eyes.
I close the file. “Ms. Quinn, I presume.”
She nods. “Mr. Byrne.”
Her voice is low, smooth. Not soft. She doesn’t smile. That’s the first clue.
“Come in,” I say, motioning her toward the chair across from mine. I don’t offer a handshake. I don’t stand. That would be polite. This isn’t that kind of room.
She takes the seat, legs crossed, hands folded neatly on her lap. It looks practiced, but not fake. She’s done this before.
“You’re early,” I say.
“I’m efficient.”
“You don’t strike me as administrative.”
A flicker of something behind her eyes. “You don’t strike me as someone who does interviews.”
I allow the smallest twitch at the corner of my mouth. Smart. Confident. Possibly reckless.
“You’ve met Roisin?” I ask.
“She walked me through entry protocol. ID, keycard, reporting structure. Gave me the tour.”
“Did she warn you?”
“About what?”
“That I don’t like inefficiency.”
She tilts her head. “Then you’ll like me.”
I study her. She holds the stare like it’s a game she’s played before. No flinch, no nerves. But her pulse kicks once at her throat—just a flicker—and that’s enough.
She remembers me.
Good.
“You worked in Hamburg,” I say.
“I did.”
“Why leave?”
“Cleaner operations. Better opportunity.”
“Cleaner?”
She lifts a shoulder. “No Cartel overlap. Fewer favors owed.”
