“You’re not pretending to be my girlfriend,” he said firmly. “I won’t paint a target on your head.”
“God, Sean, there’s
always
a target on my head. It was there long before I met you.”
Sullivan cleared his throat. “Her plan’s solid, mate. If
you want to convince Rabbit you’re legit, he needs to believe you’re out for Flannery’s blood. He won’t buy it if you say it’s to protect Oliver, but he will if he thinks you’re trying to protect the sweet, fragile girl you’re in love with.”
Bailey’s snicker triggered one from Liam. Bailey was the furthest thing from sweet
or
fragile, but Liam knew she could play that part if she had to. The woman was a master at transforming herself—he’d witnessed it firsthand in Paris when he’d watched her become Morgan’s teenage daughter to serve as a decoy for Cate. Bailey was capable of altering not only her appearance but also her personality and mannerisms to become someone else.
It was several moments before Sean finally saw reason. “You’re right.” His tone was grudging as he looked at Bailey. “But you don’t need to show up with a broken nose or busted lip. We’ll just tell him Flannery threatened you.”
“It’s more effective if we show it.”
He cursed. “Fine, then put on some makeup. You’re good at that.”
“Makeup works from a distance, or for a short conversation,” she argued. “If I’m going to be spending more than five minutes with the man, it needs to be real.”
“I’m not fucking hitting you, damn it!”
Bailey rolled her eyes. “Okay, then I’ll just rough myself up. Easy enough.”
Liam blanched as he pictured Bailey pulling a
Fight Club
and slamming her face against walls and doors. Christ. The damage could be ten times worse if she pulled a stunt like that.
“No way,” he interjected. “It’ll be safer if you take a strategically placed hit.” Reluctance rose inside him. “I’ll do it.”
Sean’s face turned beet red. “No bloody way, Macgregor. Lay a hand on her and I’ll kill you.” His enraged gaze traveled to D. “Same goes for you, you psycho. You’re not touching her.”
“I guess that leaves me,” Sully said brightly. He was already standing up and cracking his knuckles. “Ready, love?”
“Not you either.” Sean’s teeth visibly clenched as he hooked a thumb at Ash. “Him.”
From his perch on the armchair, the rookie’s head shot up in alarm. “Why me?”
“Because you’re the one I’m least likely to murder,” Sean muttered. “It’s easier to forgive a kid over one of these jackasses.”
“I’m not a kid,” Ash protested. “I’m twenty-three.”
“Don’t worry,” Bailey said helpfully. “I’m certain you can hit like a man.”
Sullivan chuckled softly.
Ash wasn’t as amused. His uncertain gaze shifted from Sean to Bailey. “Fine,” he finally mumbled, getting to his feet. “But only because I agree that this is a solid plan.” His green eyes traveled back to Sean. “But I get a free pass for this, Irish. You’re not allowed to hold it against me.”
“No promises,” Sean grumbled.
With a sigh, Ash approached Bailey and flexed his right hand. “What’ll it be? Black eye? Split lip?”
“Go for the eye,” she advised. “Easier to cover up with makeup if I need to.”
The two of them moved several steps away from the group, Ash’s reluctance clearly etched into his face. He looked as if he’d rather shave his own legs than lay a finger on Bailey, but she flashed an encouraging look and widened her stance as she waited.
A red vein was throbbing in Sean’s forehead. His fists were clenched, like he was two seconds from diving across the room and putting an end to the insanity.
“Ready?” Ash asked, his voice lined with resignation.
Bailey grinned at the younger man. “Do your worst.”
This was a bloody nightmare. After he’d received the news that Ollie had been nabbed, Sean had left Morgan’s crew for a reason—because he’d wanted to keep his mates
out
of it. And now he had not only Bailey to worry about, but also the blasted men he’d been trying to protect. Sully. Ash. Hell, even that bastard D.
And Liam. Couldn’t forget Macgregor, now, could he?
Was it wrong to want to strangle one of your closest mates? Because Sean did. So badly his hands ached. He hated the familiarity between Bailey and the movie-star-handsome mercenary. He’d known they’d become close in Paris, but he hadn’t realized they’d kept in touch, damn it. That they e-mailed and texted and hugged—fucking
hugged
. He’d fought the urge to break every one of Macgregor’s fingers when he’d seen them curled around Bailey’s arm earlier.
Why did
Liam
get to touch her? Bailey had all but hurled herself into the man’s arms, for Christ’s sake. Why did Liam get that fucking privilege when all Sean got was a stolen kiss before she recoiled from him?
In the passenger side, Bailey was on the phone with—who else?—Liam Macgregor. The conversation was
brisk, and then she hung up. “They checked out the perimeter. It’s secure. There’s nobody watching the pub except for Rabbit’s usual sentries. No sign of Flannery’s men.”
“He doesn’t need to watch the bar. Not when one of his men is inside it.”
Sean made the mistake of glancing over at her and a burst of anger went off in his gut. Her right eye was red and swollen, the faint tinge of purple beginning to form beneath it. Ash had clocked her soundly, but not hard enough for it to swell shut. It still made Sean livid to see it.
“Relax,” she said when she noticed his gloomy expression. “It’s just a shiner. I’ve had worse.”
That just made him angrier. There shouldn’t have been even a lick of violence in her past. She was
Bailey
. She was smart, ballsy, and beautiful, and he hated the thought of her getting hurt.
He hated even more that he was allowing her to walk into a lion’s den on his arm.
For Oliver,
a firm voice reminded him.
Sean’s fingers tightened around the steering wheel. Christ, he wanted to kill Rabbit for putting him in this position, and Flannery for twisting it into something even more fucked-up.
“So your dad and O’Hare were tight, huh?” Bailey spoke up, her tone awkward but curious.
Sean let out a weary breath. “He was Rabbit’s second-in-command. They grew up together, best friends since they were six.”
“Were you and Oliver close with him? Your father, I mean?”
“We worshipped him. He was our bloody hero.”
“And your mom died when you were eight.” It was a statement, not a question. “That must have been tough.”
Her knowledge of his past didn’t surprise him, since
Bailey had connections that rivaled his. But it grated a little that she knew about his background when he hadn’t been able to find a damn thing about hers. The file he had contained details about Bailey’s life—after the age of twenty. He knew she’d been recruited by the CIA at eighteen, but not the circumstances that led to it, or anything that had happened to her before that.
“It was tough,” he admitted. “What about your parents? Alive?”
“My mother is.” She didn’t elaborate.
“Where did you grow up?”
“Nice try.”
“What, trying to get to know you?” he said sarcastically. “Lord, the
nerve
of me.”
She shrugged. Checked her phone.
“You can talk to me, you know. I’d never give away your secrets.”
“What’s that saying about secrets?” she said lightly. “Three can keep a secret if two of them are dead.”
“Benjamin Franklin,” he muttered under his breath.
“Nice. You know your American history. I guess that’s because you lived in the States for three years. New York, right?” She sounded smug, as if purposely flaunting that she knew more about him than he did about her.
Sean set his jaw. “One of these days I
will
find out who you are.”
“You know who I am. I’m Bailey.”
“Liar. You pretty much admitted that’s not your name.”
Her noncommittal shrug made him want to steer the car straight into a brick wall. God knew he hit enough of those when he was around this woman.
The infuriating conversation came to an end as they reached the city’s north end. Rabbit’s pub was located in one of the dodgier areas off O’Connell Street, and unlike the other establishments he owned, this particular one
wasn’t a front for money laundering, but a legitimate business. The Garda had raided it on more than one occasion in the hopes of cracking down on Rabbit’s drug network, but O’Hare’s Pub was cleaner than an operating room. Some business was conducted in the back rooms, but money never traded hands, and any plans formulated there were talked about but never documented.
Sean parked at the curb and turned to Bailey. “Any chance of convincing you to wait in the car?”
She just laughed.
Of course not.
They slid out of the car. Sean was thankful for the familiar weight of the pistol at his back and the one in his boot. Bailey was also armed, but neither one drew a weapon as they approached the pub’s red paint-chipped door.
D and Liam were positioned on nearby rooftops with their sniper rifles, and Ash was on the street somewhere, hidden from view. Sean spotted Sully, though. Sitting on the outdoor patio of a neighboring café and reading the paper. No doubt armed to the teeth.
Since Rabbit swept everyone for wires and mics as a rule, Sean and Bailey were going in dark, but he knew the other men were in communication with one another. And fine, maybe he felt a
tad
better knowing they were backing him up.
The interior of O’Hare’s looked like any other Irish pub. Weathered wooden tables and booths, dark paneled walls, and TV screens flashing sports highlights. Only thing noticeably missing was the warm Irish welcome.
The bartender straightened up at their entrance. He was a stocky man with a bushy red beard and an icy glare that would make Satan himself shiver. Rory Smith, a longtime member of the Dagger who was obsessively devoted to Rabbit.
The group crowded around the dartboard turned around too, aiming menacing scowls in Sean’s direction. Nobody spoke. They just glared.
“Evening, lads,” he said wryly.
A dark-haired man rose from the only occupied barstool. Cillian Kelly, Rabbit’s right-hand man, smirked at the newcomers. “Right on time,” he told Sean, his pale blue eyes flicking briefly at Bailey.
“My girlfriend,” Sean muttered.
The smirk turned into a broad smile. “I see.”
He stiffened when the man reached out and gently brushed his thumb beneath Bailey’s eye. She didn’t so much as flinch, but she also didn’t look happy with the uninvited touch.
Sean mentally added Cillian’s name to the list of men whose fingers he wanted to break.
“I didn’t realize you were whaling on your women these days,” Cillian remarked in a dry voice.
“I’m not,” he snapped, then forced himself to temper his hostility. “Where’s Rabbit?”
“Waiting for you.” Cillian swiftly moved toward the back corridor, and Sean and Bailey followed him, only to be stopped when they were out of sight of the main room.
“Spread ’em.” Cillian smiled again, indicating he needed to pat them down.
“Don’t bother,” Sean said coolly. “We’re both armed with nine mils. The lady’s got a knife strapped to her ankle, and I’ve got a second pistol in my boot.”
“Hand ’em over.”
He rolled his eyes. “Do you really think I came here to fuck with Rabbit? I just want my brother, Kelly.”
“Better safe than sorry,” the man chirped. “Or at least that’s what my ma used to say.”
He highly doubted that. Sean had known the guy’s mother, and the broad had always been too sloshed to
form coherent sentences. Ditto for Kelly Senior. With both his parents raging alcoholics, it was no surprise that Cillian had turned elsewhere for guidance and support. He’d found it with Eamon O’Hare, who was more than happy to take lads in and use them as soldiers for his cause.
“We’re not giving you our weapons, Kelly. Deal with it.”
He waited for Cillian to challenge him, but the man chuckled. “Fair enough. But if either one of you draws, I’ll put you down like a rabid dog.”
Cillian took off walking again, heading for the closed door that led to Rabbit’s domain. The moment Sean stepped into the familiar space, he searched it for signs of Oliver, but there were none. Card table, couches, telly. Rabbit wasn’t one for luxuries; the shabby surroundings suited him just fine.
The man himself was sitting at the table, watching them with dark, expressionless eyes. Unlike Flannery, who’d aged tremendously well, Rabbit looked decades older than the early fifties he was. Sean supposed it was easy to stay young when you weren’t getting your hands dirty—Flannery had his thugs to do that for him. But not Rabbit. He’d fought in the trenches with his men, slicing his enemies with knives and crushing them with his meaty fists.
His face bore the weathered wrinkles and scars of his lifestyle, but his lean, muscular body still rippled with power. He wore a plaid shirt, unbuttoned to reveal the wife-beater beneath it, and with his unruly gray hair and unkempt beard, he looked more like a scrub than a kingpin. But anyone who came into contact with Rabbit knew he was deadly as hell when he wanted to be.
He clasped his hands, the fingers of his right hand millimeters from the silenced Glock on the tabletop. “Why are five of my lads dead?”
Sean cocked a brow. “Because one of them was a bloody idiot.”
There was a pause.
Then Rabbit sighed. “Paddy?”
“Who else?” Sean shook his head in annoyance. “The son of a bitch shot a ghost. Yep, turned out there was an undercover garda in the bank. Things went to hell from there.”
Rabbit nodded thoughtfully. “And how is it you got away, lad?”
“That was Gallagher’s idea.” The lie flowed out smoothly, and thankfully there was nobody there to contradict him. “He knew we weren’t getting out, at least not all of us. He ordered me to play a hostage so we could get the package out.”
Another nod. “And the girl? Any reason she was in the bank too?”
Sean had anticipated the question. Flannery had already gotten his hands on the bank footage, so it stood to reason that Rabbit had done the same.
“That was a misunderstanding.” He scowled at Bailey, who played along by wincing. “She tried to stop me from taking the job, and when I didn’t listen she decided I needed
backup
.” He spat out the last word, his disgust on the subject more than evident.
Rabbit’s lips twitched as he studied Bailey’s slight frame. Sean felt like laughing too. Every man who saw her underestimated her. She might look small and innocent, but Bailey was the very definition of
looks could be deceiving
.
“I’m sorry.” Bailey directed the soft, desperate plea at Sean. “I screwed up, baby. I know that.”
“We’ll talk about it later,” he said tightly, before turning back to Rabbit. “Where’s Oliver?”
“Around.” Rabbit shrugged. Made no move to get up.
Sean was aware of Cillian standing behind them with
his gun in hand, but that didn’t stop him from snapping at his former employer. “Well, bring him here. I’m not giving you a bloody thing until I know my brother is safe.”
The older man chuckled. “For Christ’s sake, lad. You know I wouldn’t hurt Ollie. You boys are like sons to me.”
The words didn’t appease him in the slightest. They both knew damn well that Rabbit would slit his own child’s throat if it helped the Irish Dagger.
“Whatever you say, Eamon. But me? I’m not saying another word until I see my brother.”
Rabbit let out an exaggerated sigh. “Tell Doherty to bring the lad,” he instructed Cillian.
Sean heard Cillian’s retreating footsteps but didn’t turn around. The door creaked open as Kelly barked out an order to someone in the hall, and then he promptly resumed his guard duty.
“So does this pretty bird have a name?” Rabbit spoke in a conversational tone, but his gun remained inches from his hand, and the air of danger shrouding the room didn’t dissipate.
“Bailey,” she said nervously.
“Bailey. That’s beautiful.” Rabbit finally left his chair and headed toward them. He wasn’t a tall man—at least five inches shorter than Sean’s six-two frame—but he carried himself with deadly confidence.
Sean’s jaw twitched when Rabbit clasped both of Bailey’s hands in his. “I’m Eamon, luv. But you can call me Rabbit.”
“Nice to meet you,” she murmured.
Rabbit chuckled. “Very polite young lady you found yourself, lad. Should I be offended that you didn’t introduce us before now?”
“That’s because she has nothing to do with my
business. And believe me, I’m not thrilled that she decided to involve herself.” Sean frowned at Bailey, who meekly averted her gaze.
“Well, it looks like you punished her thoroughly for it.” Rabbit didn’t hide his disapproval. He was a violent motherfucker, but he possessed a peculiar moral code—a man didn’t lay a hand on his woman. Ever.
Sean’s lips flattened. “No. Ronan Flannery did.”
Rabbit’s gaze flew to his. He clearly hadn’t expected that, and Sean enjoyed catching him off guard. Before Rabbit could question him, though, the door opened again.
Sean turned around, and all the air in his lungs promptly hissed out.
Oliver.
Thank fucking God.
“Ollie!” Bailey’s relieved exclamation broke the silence, and then she was darting across the room and throwing her arms around Sean’s twin.
He ignored the streak of jealousy that raced through him and distracted himself by studying his brother. Every hair, every feature, assessing his twin for any harm Rabbit might have caused him. But Oliver looked fine. Dark circles lined his eyes and his wavy blond hair was disheveled, but he looked more tired than hurt. And he was alive, which was all that mattered.
The twins’ gazes locked over Bailey’s head. Oliver nodded slightly, and unspoken conversation rapidly flowed between them.