“Understood.”
“Allow me to make it easier for you,” Fran says, looking awfully pleased with herself. “You, sir, are an Interpol spy.”
He blinks and smiles wanly. “Correct.”
“You were placed within the Welsh mob, inducted as a new hire, but the entire time you were a mole. You had surveillance equipment set up in the warehouse so you could report the interactions of all the Clans when they came to a head.”
“Also correct.”
She looks to Islan, then when her gaze swivels back to him, it’s icy. “You dated my friend because she was your access to the Cowens.”
“Not so,” he says. “We met each other last year, and I was taken with her.” He looks at me. “But I stayed with her to keep her safe, not so I could harm her.”
I snort. “Likely fucking story. Why should I believe that?”
“Because it’s true,” Islan says. “I figured out early on that he wasn’t Welsh mob.”
“Did you?” he asks, as surprised as we are.
“Aye, of course,” Islan says.
“How?”
She flushes pink. “Your accent’s American when you talk in your sleep. It was the first clue.”
He blinks.
Fran eyes him again. “So you had some sort of hero’s goal to keep Islan safe, and that went to hell, but whatever. You’re an Interpol connection, and I have a deal I’d like to cut with you.”
He eyes her curiously. “I’ve been spying on every one of the mobs you’re onto for years,” she says in a low voice. “I have spies for the Welsh, for the Scottish Aitkens, and for several of the McCarthy’s Irish rivals.” She leans in closer. “And I’ll give you bloody everything I have.” She pauses. “And I do mean everything. For Cowen Clan immunity.”
He stares at her, unblinking, then to Islan. “It’s a deal,” he says. “I’ll make sure we grant immunity to the Cowen Clan. I owe it to Islan.” He looks to her. “There’s a reason I came to Ireland.” He looks to me next, then Fran. “But Fran’s already figured it out, haven’t you?”
She nods. “Aye. I suspected as much recently but confirmed my suspicions yesterday.” She stands and goes to the door, speaking to someone who stands in the hall. “Show me the footage on the screens in here, please.”
It’s then that I notice one of Keenan’s men, sitting on a chair that mans the cameras overhead.
She tells him the exact day and time. The monitors flick on. To my surprise, Fran comes to me and holds my hand. I look at her, but her eyes are on the screen.
“Just watch,” she whispers.
The camera pans to the Irish Sea, the very same view Fran and I have from our bedroom upstairs. I look in surprise when a few men walk along the edge. I recognize Kane and his comrades, but to my shock, I see… Leith?
I’m on my feet, Fran’s hand in mine forgotten. “Leith isn’t here,” Islan says, shaking her head. “Bloody hell, what is this trick?”
Fran smiles. “I didn’t want to say anything until I knew. Remember when I ran to the beach? Thought I saw someone? I didn’t understand why Leith would be here and we wouldn’t know. It didn’t make sense. But he wasn’t, was he?”
And then I know. I fucking know. The hair on the back of my neck prickles, and my eyes water. I can’t speak at first, until Fran squeezes my hand. She knows, too.
“It isn’t Leith,” I say, my voice thick with emotion. “Is it?”
Kane shakes his head. “No.” He looks with concern to Islan.
“Oh my God,” Islan says as the realization dawns on her as well. She rises beside me and takes my hand. Her eyes fill with tears, and when she speaks, her voice wobbles. “It’s Tavish. My God. It’s Tavish.” She blinks, and a tear rolls down her cheek. She looks to Kane. “Where is he?”
CHAPTER TWENTY
Fran
