Fuuuuck.
“She's pulling files. Right now. If I wait for the team, she'll be gone and so is whatever she's taking.”
Kingston's voice cuts in since Reign’s got me on speaker. “Bronx. Do not fucking do what I think you’re about to do. You sit your ass in that car until the team gets there. We’ll track her once she’s out and then we’ll find out who sent her. We play the long game, remember that.”
On my screen, a countdown timer appears. She set it herself. Three minutes.
In three minutes, she’s gonna take whatever she wants and disappear. And if she gets anything on our family - our operations, our financials, our names - we're fucked. Completely exposed.
Done.
The kind of done that no one comes back from.
“We’ll talk about it over drinks when I get back,” I say.
“Bronx—”
I click to end the call, grab my Beretta, and step onto the gravel road.
“It's a long way home to Ireland, Tierney Blake, and I'm not letting you out of this elevator until you hand it over.”
The words land exactly the way I want them to. Her expression goes from shocked to full of rage. And then realization sets in behind those blue eyes as she processes the fact that I know exactly who she is.
She doesn't panic. Doesn't beg for her life or ask how I know.
She just lifts her chin and says in a cold voice, “You don't know what you're talking about.”
“I know your daddy sent you down here to steal something. I know it’s saved in that USB you’re hiding. And I know you're about thirty seconds from being trapped underground with me and no way out.” I let my “you’re fucked” smile spread across my face. “So let's make this nice and easy.”
“Nothing about this is going to be nice and easy for you,” she says, as cold as ice.
Goddamn, I like her. The Irish accent, dripping with disdain, is doing things to me that are wildly inappropriate for a standoff in a freight elevator. But it's her eyes that really get me. They flare blue fire with absolutely zero fear, calculating at least six different scenarios where she beats me out of here.
“Hand over thedrive, Tierney.”
“Use my name again and I'll put a bullet through your kneecap.”
I lift an eyebrow. “That's not a no.”
“It's not a yes, either.”
The elevator jerks again. The already-tight space closes in and her floral shampoo cuts through the stale air and wafts under my nose. In the mirrored wall panel, I catch her tracking my reflection. She's watching me the way I'm watching her.
But time will tell who’s faster and more lethal.
She's got her gun pointed at my chest, and I've got an Uzi strapped across mine as well as a gun holstered at my hip. But neither of us is going to pull the trigger because we both know we’ll be toast if a single shot ricochets off the walls in this airless metal box.
So we stand down, sizing each other up.
“Who do you work for?” she asks.
“Nobody you need to worry about.” I lean back against the wall.
“Everyone with a gun is someone I need to worry about.”
“That’s fair.” But I don’t give her more than that.
“I'm not here for money, if that’s what you’re thinking,” she says. Her voice changes and the cool confidence slips the slightest bit. “I'm not selling what I took. I need it.”
