‘Rápido,’ someone says.
Petrol fumes hang thick in the air, along with the scent of cigarette smoke. I hear the creak of metal. Strong hands grab my waist. I scream as I’m hoisted off the ground and shoved into the boot. The space is small and tight. I kick and fight, but it’s futile. Someone pushes my legs in roughly and the lid slams shut above me with a deafening bang.
Darkness presses in. The air feels thin. Outside the car doors slam one after another. Four of them. The engine revs and the car lurches forward.
I curl onto my side, my bound wrists digging painfully into my back as the vehicle speeds away from the only safe place I’ve known in years.
Tears slide silently beneath the hood, soaking into the rough fabric as I battle to breathe, to think, to try not to imagine what these men might do to me.
My chest shakes as another sob escapes.
Please, Dominic.
Please find me.
Please.
50
DOMINIC
The BMW tears through the Wicklow back roads as Lewis pushes the engine hard. I sit in the passenger seat, leaning forward with my elbows braced on my knees, phone still clenched in my hand. The metallic stench of Kavanagh’s blood clings to my skin. Outside, the countryside rushes past in dark, indistinct shapes.
My guts twist.
They have Aoife.
I promised I’d protect her, and the first night we get home, she’s fucking snatched. Cold fury coils tighter in my chest. Santiago Cruz is a fucking dead man. And so is every one of his men.
My instincts scream at me to go straight to Belfast, straight to his fucking warehouse and kick down every door between here and the harbour until I find her.
But that’s not how this works.
I force myself to breathe and dial Frankie’s number.
He answers before the second ring.
‘Is it done?’ He demands in that calm, gravel-edged voice.
‘It’s done. Ben’s taking the trash out as we speak. But we have a bigger problem.’ I exhale heavily. ‘He was working with the Colombians. The heroin was theirs, as predicted. What we didn’t predict was that the cunt hadn’t paid for it yet, or that he’d promised them the girls. And they’ve taken my wife as leverage until they get them back,’ I say.
Silence hums down the line.
I drag a hand over my face.
Frankie doesn’t respond immediately. Then he asks the only question that matters. ‘Do you still have the heroin?’
‘No.’
My jaw tightens. ‘I had it incinerated.’
Another beat of silence, then Frankie exhales slowly. ‘Good,’ he says.
I frown. ‘Good?’
‘If you still had fifteen million worth of heroin sitting in your warehouse, Dominic, I’d be questioning your judgement.’
I stare out the window, rage simmering beneath my skin. ‘They threatened?—’
