Stifling a groan, he discreetly lifted up the bottom of his shirt to flash the bogus police badge clipped there. “I’m undercover,” he murmured. “And I’m telling you right now—this place needs to be cleared out. A bomb threat was just called in.”
She gave a horrified gasp, and he swiftly covered her lips with one finger. “Don’t raise a panic, love. Just take a breath and help me get these folks off the patio.”
The fear in her eyes was unmistakable, but she nodded weakly and did what he asked. For the next minute, the two of them moved from table to table, urging the patrons away from the pub.
“Walk,” he whispered to each one. “But walk fast, damn it. Get as far away from here as possible.”
By some miracle, they followed his instructions. People started to leave the patio in brisk strides rather than a full-out run, but the rapidly emptying space caught the attention of pedestrians and the patrons inside, and within seconds, pandemonium broke out.
“What’s going on?” A woman hurried out of the bar and grabbed Sullivan’s sleeve.
She wasn’t the only one. People streamed out of the pub, crowded on the patio, gathered on the sidewalk—exactly where he didn’t want them to be, damn it.
Admitting defeat, Sullivan cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted, “Everyone clear the area!
Now!
”
As bodies jostled one another and feet pounded the pavement, Sullivan found himself surrounded by a panicking mob. Frightened voices echoed all around him, flashes of clothing and the scent of perfume, cologne, and sweat. An undulating mass of bodies radiating fear and terror.
Relief crashed over him when he registered the shriek of sirens. Oh, thank fuck. The Garda was on the way.
“Move! Now! Get away from the sidewalk!”
Liam’s voice, shouting at the blur of people bumping into one another and running for their lives.
Sullivan checked his watch—five minutes left. Too many people on the sidewalk. Too many fucking people. He and Liam hurried to usher them away, but every
second that ticked by intensified the urgency and desperation.
Flashing lights and earsplitting sirens broke onto the scene, car doors slamming as uniformed men swarmed the sidewalk and joined the evacuation efforts.
Three minutes.
D was there now, barking orders to the crowd in his gravelly, scary-as-fuck voice.
An armored van whizzed up. Tires screeched and the stench of burning rubber filled the air. The bomb squad. Too bloody late. They were never going to disarm that thing in time.
Sullivan’s pulse drummed a frantic rhythm in his ears as he worked to clear the area. The heat from the throng of bodies caused perspiration to stream down his neck and forehead. From the corner of his eye he saw D pushing a group of young college students toward the street, commanding them to run.
Two minutes, damn it.
Three men in protective gear were already at the sedan, probing the undercarriage.
The street was almost clear. Sullivan looked around in astonishment at the deserted patio, the sidewalk, the road. Garda officers burst into neighboring storefronts where there were still people inside, shouting orders to steer clear of the windows and doors, to take cover in the rear of the buildings.
One minute.
“
Sully.
We need to go.” Liam’s sharp command penetrated his inspection of the scene, and then a strong hand clamped on his arm, dragging him away from the sidewalk.
A high-pitched whine sliced through the roar of voices.
Sullivan halted in his tracks. The dog. The fucking
dog
.
“Go,” he shouted to Liam. “I’m right behind you.”
Liam nearly got hold of Sullivan’s sleeve, but Sully lurched forward, leaving his teammate behind as he sprinted back to the sidewalk. The long-haired retriever was on its feet, circling the lamppost it was tied to as frightened whines tore out of its mouth.
“Sully! Get the fuck back here!” he heard Liam yell, but he ignored the desperate command.
His fingers trembled as he hurriedly undid the knot in the leash. His peripheral caught the bomb unit by the car. He didn’t check his watch. Knew there wasn’t much time left.
“It’s okay, buddy. I got you.” A second later, he heaved the sixty-pound canine into his arms and ran.
Liam stood a couple of hundred feet away, visible relief in his blue eyes as Sullivan came hurtling toward him.
He was halfway to Liam when the explosion rocked the street. There was no time to register the shock or horror or amazement. Next thing he knew, he was flying. Soaring. Suspended in the air as time stopped and white heat suffused his body.
Pain. No,
agony
, ripping through his left arm and fogging his brain, and then he was no longer freefalling. He was just falling. His head bounced off the hard ground like a basketball.
And the lights went out.
Sullivan regained consciousness to find a pair of worried blue eyes staring down at him. He blinked, then groaned, realizing he was lying on one of the twin beds in the hotel room he was sharing with D.
“W-what . . .” His voice sounded hoarse. “What happened?”
“A bomb went off.”
His teammate’s droll response brought a rush of choked laughter from his chest, which sent a shooting pain to his right temple. “No shit, Boston.”
As the threads of grogginess wound together into a state of alertness, he became aware of the throbbing pain in his left shoulder. And the fact that he was bare chested. He glanced at the nightstand and saw scraps of black fabric draped there, along with an eight-inch KA-BAR, the blade gleaming in the sunlight streaming into the room.
“Did you cut my shirt?”
“Yup. Needed to assess the damage.” Liam sighed. “Think you can sit up? ’Cause we definitely need to do something about
that
.”
“About what—” He cursed when his gaze found what Liam was looking at.
The jagged piece of metal sticking out of his arm.
“Aw, shit.” Well, at least the pain made sense now. “You waited until I was awake to pull it out, you bloody sadist?”
“I was worried you might thrash around and I wouldn’t be able to hold you down.”
He wearily sat up, glancing around the room. “Where’s D?”
“Went to O’Hare’s to join Isabel. There’s a chance they might need to drag Reilly outta there. He’s ready to rip Rabbit’s throat out.”
“I’m ready to do it myself,” Sullivan muttered.
That son of a bitch hadn’t tipped off the Garda. He’d sat by and allowed the bomb to go off, killing dozens—
“How many casualties? And how long have I been out?”
Liam rose from the bed and headed for the bathroom. “Thirty minutes or so, and there isn’t an exact casualty count yet,” he said over his shoulder. He ducked out of sight, returning a moment later with a black canvas med kit. “But we know there’s at least ten. Four bomb squad members, two gardai, four civilians.”
Ten people.
Ten
people had died today. Maybe more.
Liam carted the bag to the bed and unzipped it. “Your dog’s all right, though. The owner was running all over the place screaming
‘Winston’
at the top of his lungs. He was bawling his eyes out when he finally found the mutt.”
The news didn’t alleviate even an ounce of Sullivan’s fury.
Ten people dead
trumped
man and dog reunited
, though he supposed he
was
glad he hadn’t risked his life for nothing.
“D and I got you out right before the media showed up. The place is crawling with news vans now, press helicopters, too. They’re calling it a terrorist attack.”
“That’s because it was,” he said darkly.
As his teammate removed supplies from the med kit, Sully examined the shrapnel poking out of his arm. It was a small square of metal, two inches by two inches, and curved at the top. Damn thing was going to leave him with a horseshoe-shaped scar. Bloody wonderful.
He winced when Liam pulled out a pair of forceps and a handful of gauze. “Has the Dagger taken responsibility for the attack yet?”
“No, but I imagine they will soon.” Liam snapped on a pair of latex gloves. “Ready?”
“Fuck, no. Just leave it in. Eventually it’ll just become part of my skin, right?”
That got him a chuckle. “Stop being a pussy. I’ll be gentle, I promise.”
He sighed. “Make it fast. And if I pass out, do me a favor and don’t revive me until you’ve finished stitching me up.”
“Pussy,” Liam taunted again.
Unfortunately, Sully
didn’t
pass out. Instead he almost bit his tongue clear off when Liam clamped the forceps on the top of the jagged piece and began extracting it from Sullivan’s flesh. Slowly.
Black dots flashed in his vision, hot pain shooting from the top of his arm to the soles of his feet.
“Son of a
bitch
,” he ground out.
“Almost there,” Liam murmured.
Several agonizing seconds later, the shrapnel was out, and both men cringed when a flap of Sullivan’s skin folded downward, hanging loosely from his biceps.
Liam snickered. “Christ. That’s fucking gross.”
“You’ve got the worst bedside manner on the planet,” Sullivan grumbled.
“Come on, you’ve gotta admit it’s
gross
.”
“My ego is weeping right now, Boston. You know how important my dashing good looks are to me.”
Liam rolled his eyes. “It’s not like you got shrapneled in the face. Chill.”
Sullivan clenched his teeth as his teammate cleaned the wound. His arm was on fire. Every swipe of that antiseptic-soaked rag brought a streak of pain, and when Liam brought out the tweezers and used them to pick pieces of dirt and debris out of Sullivan’s raw flesh, nausea scampered up his throat and made his eyes water.
By the time Liam busted out the needle and thread, Sully’s entire body pulsed with a dull, relentless ache. His friend stitched him up, then stabbed him with a syringe of antibiotics and sat back to admire his handiwork.
“Look at that,” Liam said with a pleased nod. “That’ll leave a great scar, man.”
He studied the neat, tight line of U-shaped stitches and had to give Liam credit. “Your technique’s gotten better.”
Liam dug into the bag and pulled out a small penlight. Smirking, he flicked it on and shined it right in Sullivan’s face. “All right, Aussie, follow the light.”
The light sent another shooting pain to his temples. “Turn that fucking thing off.”
“We need to check you for a concussion.”
“I don’t have a concussion.”
“You were unconscious for thirty minutes and you’ve got an egg-size lump on the back of your head. Though it’d probably be twice the size if your skull weren’t so damn thick. Now, follow the light or I might decide to rip those stitches out and redo them.”
Scowling, he humored his friend and followed the bloody light.
“Any dizziness? Nausea? Double vision?” Liam prompted as he clicked the penlight off.
“Nope. Because I don’t have a concussion.”
“What’s the date today?”
“October sixth—wanna know how I know that? Because I don’t have a bloody concussion. So take off your Florence Nightingale panties and pull on your man pants, and let’s go help D and Isabel.”
When he tried to get up, Liam planted a palm in the center of Sully’s chest. “You’re not going anywhere. You know the drill—twenty-four hours’ sabbatical to make sure you’re not concussed.”
“I’m not concussed, damn it!”
“Twenty-four hours, Aussie.” The stern look on Liam’s face indicated that arguing would be futile.
“Twelve hours,” he countered.
“Eighteen and that’s my final offer.”
They stared at each other, but Sully knew Liam wouldn’t back down. The guy was stubborn as fuck when he wanted to be. And he suddenly became aware that Liam’s hand was still on his chest. Big and warm, pulsing with power.
Sully cleared his throat and eased backward against the pillows, causing Liam’s hand to withdraw. “Fine. I’ll stay put. But you have to go.”
“Not going anywhere, Sully. What happens if I go and you try to stand up and get dizzy? Crack your head on the corner of the table and do more than pass out this time? Someone needs to monitor you.”
“No, someone needs to back up Reilly,” he shot back.
“Someone will. Ash and Oliver are relieving us.” Liam rummaged in the med kit for a bottle of oxycodone. He shook out two pills and slapped them in Sullivan’s hand, then pointed to the water bottle on the nightstand. “Take these. They’ll help with the pain. I need to call Reilly.”
As Liam went to make the call, Sullivan twisted open the bottle and shoved the painkillers back inside. Then he
leaned his head against the bed frame and closed his eyes, cursing Eamon O’Hare for everything the bastard had put him through today.
* * *
Sean was ready to strangle someone with his bare hands. He’d never experienced rage so visceral as he had while staring at one of the televisions mounted on the wood-paneled wall, watching a parade of gruesome images flash across the screen.
The bomb had gone off.
It had
gone off
. As in, exploded. As in, Rabbit had fucking
lied
to him.
Sean flew across the room like a tornado, directing all that volatile energy at Rabbit, who’d ducked into the back before the chaos had erupted. He heard Bailey’s footsteps behind him but he didn’t turn around. Couldn’t stomach seeing the contempt in her eyes again.
When Macgregor had called to let them know the area wasn’t being evacuated, Sean had had a bitch of a time stopping her from getting in the car and speeding to the scene. He’d known rushing over there wouldn’t achieve a damn thing. They wouldn’t have made it there in time, and they’d had no way of stopping the explosion.
“You son of a bitch!” he hissed as he stormed into the back room. “You didn’t make the call!”
Rabbit looked up from his chair. He had a pint of lager in his hand and a vacant look on his weathered face. The accusation didn’t even penetrate, didn’t evoke a reaction.
It was Cillian who spoke, carefully advancing on Sean the way one would approach a feral animal.
“No,” Cillian said calmly. “We didn’t.”
Sean breathed through his nose, trying to control the waves of fury eddying in his gut. “Why. The. Hell. Not.”
Cillian shrugged. “Because that line of thinking never
helped us in the past. Welcome to the twenty-first century, Reilly.”
Holy bloody hell. Was the man
for real
?
“It’s time to change direction. If we want to make a statement, then we need to actually
make a statement
.”
“By killing innocents?” Sean spat out. “Jesus Christ! They’re reporting
ten
dead. And thirteen injured. What the hell is the matter with you?” He launched the accusation at Rabbit, who just sat there, unmoving, unblinking, un-fucking-concerned.
“Calm the feck down, Reilly,” Cillian snapped. “You’re scaring your woman.”
The last comment held a mocking note, as if Cillian was well aware that Bailey wasn’t afraid—she was livid.
Sean glanced at the doorway, where Bailey stood, as expressionless as Rabbit. Oh yeah, she was furious, all right. He could see it in the barely controlled trembling of her body.
She blamed him for this. It was pretty damn obvious, especially when she turned her head the moment he looked at her.
His attention moved back to Rabbit, and he shot the man an icy glare that could have frozen melting butter in a hot pan.
“I didn’t sign up for this,” Sean announced. “You hear me, old man? I didn’t sign up for this, and I don’t intend on sticking around to see whatever crazy bullshit you plan on doing next.”
Rabbit’s veiled eyes finally revealed a flicker of emotion. Either Sean was imagining it, or that peculiar gleam was actually
pride
, but he was too pissed off to deconstruct Rabbit’s expression.
“I’m done with you, Eamon.” Sean’s incensed gaze shifted to Cillian. “I’m done with both of you.”
“Reilly—” Cillian started.
He was done listening. His boots made furious tracks in the floor as he marched over to Bailey. “Come on, luv, we’re outta here.”
She followed him without a word, her black hair whipping behind her as she matched his breakneck pace down the hall.
Sean ignored every single man in the main room, most of whom looked stricken and shocked by the outcome of the morning’s “scare” tactics. Sean waited for Bailey to collect her laptop and purse, then gripped her arm and ushered her out the door.
They’d just stepped onto the sidewalk when Cillian stalked out of the pub. “Reilly,” he called sharply.
Sean’s hand fell from Bailey’s arm. “Wait in the car,” he told her.
For once, she didn’t argue with him.
“You need to walk your ass back inside,” Cillian ordered.
He damn near snarled at the other man. “You don’t get to give me orders, Kelly. Not after what you did.”
A ghost of a smile appeared. “I did what was necessary. And if you were using that big brain of yours, you’d agree it needed to be done. Now, send your filly home and join us inside. It’s time to discuss our next move.”
Sean laughed. “I told you—I’m done. You can pass that message along to your boss, too. As of this moment, I’m through with being anyone’s puppet.”
Frigid blue eyes locked with his. “If you get in that car, Reilly . . . you
will
regret it. I’m giving you a chance, right here and now, to save yourself. And your brother. And that feisty filly of yours. Come back inside, and I’ll forget all about this little tantrum. I won’t even tell the boss about it.” Cillian’s smile held no trace of humor. “But if you leave, I can promise you this—a world of hurt will come crashing down on you.”
Sean turned away from the other man. “Fuck you, Kelly.” It wasn’t the wittiest parting speech he’d ever come up with, but it was all he had at the moment.
Cillian’s last words, however, sent a chill up Sean’s spine as they softly floated toward his retreating back.
“All right, Reilly. Have it your way, then.”