by Bethany-Kris
Danny’s father was one of Sean’s lieutenants.
Connor paused at that thought, wondering …
He could easily blame this on the Russians, given everything, though they had yet to actually cause problems for him. Sean had only alluded to issues in that regard. None had actually touched Connor, yet.
What was more likely—more realistic—was that Sean had done this.
But even for that, Connor didn’t know why.
Sean never needed a good reason to kill.
Connor voiced those inner thoughts before ending it with, “It could have been Sean.”
“Could be?” Killian asked with a scowl.
The cell in his pocket buzzed, taking Connor out of the conversation. Figuring it was probably Evelyn calling him from the brownstone, he answered the call with a quick, “Hello?”
“I have a job for you, son. Be in Jersey as soon as you can or I’ll make a trip to Brooklyn.”
“Sean—”
The call hung up before Connor could even get in a proper reply. He shoved the phone back into his pocket, frustrated and hating himself for even picking up Killian’s call earlier.
“Can you clean this mess up?” Connor asked Killian.
The other Irishman shrugged. “I can call somebody—it’ll be gone before the hour.”
Connor nodded. “All right. Make sure it’s left somewhere that it’ll be found. For his father, and all.”
“Got it.”
Perhaps Connor should have been more … affected over the death of one of his friends, but this wasn’t the first time that foulness had come into his life without his permission. He had learned over the years that remaining untouched by the emotion of grief was far better than succumbing to it, even if it made him one cold feckin’ bastard.
Besides, if this was Sean’s work, Connor needed to be on his game when he faced his father, and being torn up over finding Danny wouldn’t help.
There was a method to the madness.
Sean meant for something to happen, or he intended to get there, eventually.
Connor had learned that, too.
The hard way.
“Why Danny?” Killian asked, bringing Connor from his thoughts.
“Maybe he’s questioning people he knows I associate with, beyond his level. Danny wouldn’t have a thing to tell, and you know how Sean gets in a right state when he doesn’t get what he wants from a man.”
“But why leave him here, mate?”
Connor scrubbed a hand down his face. “To let me know something—he’s looking, he knows, or something.”
“Grand.”
Yeah, that’s how Connor felt about it all, too.
Grand.
Connor snatched the ringing cell phone up from the truck’s cup holder, checked the caller ID, and cursed a blue streak before answering. “I’m on my way, Sean.”
“No need, something came up.”
The highway became narrower in Connor’s vision. “I’m half way there, now.”
“That’s grand. You don’t need to go far then.” Sean rattled off an address that Connor recognized was part of the shipping district between New York and New Jersey. “They needed an extra pair of hands today, and you’ll do well to get off your arse.”
“I thought you needed to see—”
“Aye, but what does it matter? I can deal with your foolish self on another day.”
Connor blew out a slow breath, glancing at the dashboard clock and noting the time. He wasn’t running particularly late on his father’s time. Unless it was a Tuesday, Sean didn’t make much effort to get out of his own house before noon. It was unusual for Sean to call him, demand his presence, and then retract it later, as it if it weren’t important to begin with.
Something wasn’t right here.
Connor could feel it in his bones.
He’d wanted to see his father face to face, to gauge if Sean thought he knew something about Evelyn’s current whereabouts, or better yet, did know and was planning something. He also had planned on looking for any signs his father had been the one to leave Danny’s dead body on his business’s back doorstep earlier.
Connor couldn’t do those things over the phone—not properly. Sean was a born and bred liar; that was in his very blood. It was exactly who he was, and he did it exceptionally well. But he was also Connor’s father, and sometimes, it was easier for him to notice his father’s tells when the man was lying, rather than overlook them like most people did.
Feck.
He couldn’t help but be suspicious that this could also be a part of Sean’s plan. That perhaps his father believed Connor was waking up, and getting on to Sean’s tricks and games, whatever they happened to be. And so, demanding his presence, then dropping it just as fast, was simply a way to … get him out of the way, so to speak.
Connor tried to relax, if nothing else, to keep the irritation and suspicion out of his tone for the next words he spoke. He wasn’t sure he succeeded, considering his molars ached from how hard his jaw was clenching.
“All right,” Connor said, “then give me a call when you need to see me.”
“Do a fine job today, Connor, and I won’t need to see you.”
“You didn’t tell me what the job was, Sean.”
“I don’t need to. You’ll find out soon enough. They only needed an extra pair of hands, remember, and I’m sure you’ll recognize who is who once you get where you need to go.”
With that, his father hung up the call without another word. Connor wasn’t all too surprised. Sean had never been particularly good with a proper greeting or dismissal, unless he wanted something and needed to pretend to be slightly pleasant.
Feckin’ prick.
Connor drove for another two minutes before he was reaching for his phone again, the nagging feeling poked at his gut over and over like a hot branding iron. He dialed a familiar number, and waited for Killian to pick up on his end.
Thankfully, he didn’t take long.
“Dia dhuit,” Killian greeted, his usual chipper attitude coming off false and strained.
“It’s just me,” Connor said.
A hard breath crackled the phone’s speakers. “Kinda busy here, Connor.”
“Yeah, me too, you feckin’ eejit.”
“Considering I’m in the process of handling a mess that was probably left for you, which of us do you think is busier?”
“I’m not getting into that fight, arsehole,” Connor replied blithely.
“Weren’t you heading over to the boss’s?”
“Stuff changed.” Connor glared at the road ahead of him, adding, “And I’m not even sure why.”
“Well, if you don’t mind, I’m a bit busy at the moment.”
“Did your help show up?”
“Already here, and we’re gone.”
“Grand. Let them do whatever, I need you for something else. It’s important, and I need you to do it alone, if you get my feckin’ drift.”
Killian swore heavily. “You know, if this was your father who left you that wee gift this morning, I’m already putting my arse on the line for you.”
“Good thing you’re a foolish one, then.”
“Why are we even mates?” Killian asked. “I haven’t figured that out yet.”
“Me, either, but here we are.”
“Bastard. What do you need?”
“I don’t know why, but Sean felt the need to get me on the road, far away from Brooklyn, and then decided to let me know he wasn’t going to be where I arrived, like he said he would be. It doesn’t sit right with me.”
“So? Sean’s a prick. That’s not news.”
“A manipulative prick, Killian.”
“Again, not news.”
“Go to the brownstone. You know how to pick a lock properly. Just to be safe—something’s off—I want you to get Evelyn out of there, and whatever shite of hers she has laying around. Hide it in a cupboard or something; shove it in a feckin’ closet, I don’t care.”
“So, she does have a name,” his friend said quietly.
Connor grunted under his breath. “Don’t be surprised if she doesn’t answer to it. Try her with Sasha, if she doesn’t.”
She probably wouldn’t let someone else use Evelyn, not without Connor there, but he couldn’t be one-hundred percent sure, either.
“And how long should I keep her away?”
Connor had to think about that one. “A while, probably all day. You’ve got a flat a few blocks away, take her there. She’ll probably sit in a window and draw. Make sure she eats something, too. If she tries to fight you—which is unlikely, given her nature—just give me a shout on the cell, let her talk to me. I’ll call when you can make your way back.”
“She’s got something to do with your father, doesn’t she?”
“On the surface, no.”
“Beneath the surface?”
“It’s looking more likely every damn day.”
Killian grumbled, “Everyone knows better than to mess with Sean’s … playthings, Connor.”
Connor drummed his fingers to the steering wheel. “I’m not everybody.”
“I’m not sure if that’s a good thing or a bad thing.”
Neither was he.
“Call me if there’s a problem.” Connor almost hung up without a proper goodbye—just like his father would have done—but thought better of it before adding, “And thanks, boyo.”
“Was that gratitude I heard there? First time for everything.”
“Don’t hold your breath while waiting for the next one.”
• • •
Sean had only given Connor a basic address to a shipping yard, without further details that would let him know where exactly inside the compound he would need to go. He decided not to call his father back for more instructions, because he didn’t think he could handle another phone call and keep his cool at the same time.
Unfortunately, once Connor arrived at the yard, did a good loop around the boxes and scattered warehouses, he quickly figured out which one he was supposed to be at. It wasn’t hard. The warehouse was the only one with the doors on the front half-way opened. There were a couple of guys standing guard outside with unhidden guns on their persons, and the rest of the shipping yard looked like a feckin’ ghost town.
Connor quickly parked his truck, stuffed the keys in his pocket, and got out. It was better for him to just get in, get whatever this nonsense was over with as soon as possible, and get the hell away. It irritated him on another level to be there at all, because Sean knew this kind of thing—whatever it was—was not Connor’s style.
If his father needed a spy, fine.
If Sean wanted a second opinion, whatever.
A kill under the radar? Sure.
Connor did not actively work for his father, the O’Neil organization, or anything of the sort. He liked the distance he was able to have by not being considered one of his father’s feckin’ lackeys. Although he wasn’t entirely sure what his father’s actual lackeys thought he was to them, or to Sean, where the business was concerned.
Well, they knew to keep a distance.
Everyone knew that after spending any amount of time with Connor.
Connor checked his impulse to reach for one of three knives he had hidden on his person as he neared the two guards keeping watch over the front entrance of the warehouse. One of the two nodded in his direction, alerting the other who reached for the Magnum at his hip.
Guns didn’t scare Connor, but he didn’t particularly like the damn things. They were bulky, heavy, and not always easily hidden like a knife was. For the weight and profile of one handgun, Connor could hide several knives in the same spot where a gun could fit.
He knew how to use a gun, sure, and even owned a couple that he was fond of, but he didn’t keep one on himself, if he could help it.
A knife, though?
Always.
With one simple cut, Connor could have a man bleeding out on the ground in minutes, practically emptied of blood. He just needed to be close enough to do it, and men who liked guns seemed to favor getting their victim in close to take the shot.
The old saying was true, too.
A man should never bring a gun to a knife fight, or a knife to a gun fight.
Connor was always quick to make sure he could turn it into a knife fight before it ever became a gun fight.
“Who there?” the darker of the two men asked, jerking his prominent chin in Connor’s direction. He recognized the man’s thick accent, and instantly became uneasy, though he hid it well. “Speak, man!”
“Sean sent me over. O’Neil.”
It was all he was going to offer. Either he was in the right spot, or he wasn’t. If he was, then the guards should recognize Sean’s name, and let Connor pass by with no questions asked.
That was exactly what they did.
Neither of the two guards relaxed very much as Connor passed them by and slipped under one of the two half-opened loading doors. The first thing Connor was met with once inside the warehouse was a line of white vans—all with windows tinted too dark to see inside, and all were already running, idling quietly amidst the near silence of the warehouse.
Connor passed the vans, eyeing the rest of the place as he looked for any sign of life inside. Two shipping containers sat off in the corner, another guard standing in front of them with a much larger, more intimidating gun than the handguns the ones outside had been toting on their hips. Likely an AK of some sort. He wasn’t good enough with guns to know which was which on the spot, something he’d eventually have to rectify.
Other than a few scattered boxes, a pile of unopened cases of water, and a single engine double-seater plane toward the back, the warehouse didn’t have much inside to keep safe, or move.
Connor’s gaze skipped back to the guard standing in front of the shipping containers, and he felt that uneasy sensation sink into his gut again.
Feck his father straight to hell, if this was what he thought it was.
He didn’t get to dwell on his thoughts for long, as a door opened toward the back, drawing in his attention as several men walked out. Some tall, a couple short, and all ranging in skin tones from light like his arse, to darker than the one of the two men guarding the place—they barely gave him a second look.
Connor did recognize two of the men—“associates,” his father called them. They only came around a few times a year, and they didn’t stay for very long. Connor didn’t like the men himself, and preferred not to be around them all that much because of their specific business dealings. But as a child and young man, still living with his father, he hadn’t been given much of a choice. It was only once he was older had he been able to keep a healthy distance whenever they showed up.
Sometimes Sean just called them traders.
Others called them handlers.
Either way, the terms used for the men were run-arounds, meant to distract from the soulless, inhumane product they imported, or exported, depending on the deal.
These men—Jonson and Trevor, Connor had learned years ago—catered to a very specific portion of Sean’s business.
Skin.
“I see you finally made your way over here,” Trevor called out to Connor as he headed toward the guard watching the shipping containers. “How long has it been, Connor? You were what, seventeen the last time we saw each other?”
Connor stayed right where he was, refusing to move even an inch for this man or his counterpart. “Something like that.”
“Twenty-six or so now, ain’t you?”
“Something like that,” Connor repeated.
Trevor smirked, passing Jonson a look that Connor couldn’t quite decipher. Connor’s guard went up a wee bit more, and he was suddenly grateful that he had his back to one of the walls of the warehouse, and not the men in front of him.
Feckin’ snakes, all of them.
“No matter,” Trevor continued, coming to stand in front of the guard before handin
g him a set of keys that would likely unlock the two containers. “Your father thought this would be a good … how do you want to say it—run for you, I suppose. You’ll get your hands a little wet before diving in with the best parts.”
Connor’s throat tightened painfully at the man’s words and what they suggested, but he did his best to keep from showing his distress. “Funny, I was told you shower of savages just needed an extra pair of hands.”
Knowing the men probably weren’t familiar with Irish insults, he smirked as it flew right over their heads, entirely unnoticed.
Trevor shrugged. “Open them,” he told the guard. Then, he turned back to Connor. “An extra pair of hands is always needed to keep the skin in line.”
With that, the guard opened the first container, and Connor suddenly wished he could disappear.
The second the container door swung wide open, letting light filter inside, the barely-moving forms only looked toward what they could see. Women. Girls. Dirty, with very little clothing, and a smell that made Connor’s stomach twist into knots. He knew how these trips worked for these girls, because he’d heard the stories. They were given just enough bread and water to make the trip, cat boxes or something similar to expel their waste into, and told to keep quiet, or else. Many wouldn’t be able to speak English, because they came from countries that were too poor to offer it as a language in school, that was, if they could even afford to go.
Many of the women had probably been tricked into their current situation, told they would be brought to America to work in a salon or something similar, but would actually be put into a dank whorehouse on a stained bed to feed a trick’s whim. Sure, some would make it into salons, offering fake massages with happy endings, though those were few and far in between. To get that sort of traction, a girl had to gain attention, by being pretty enough and compliant enough.
It was still feckin’ terrible to Connor.
“Out, now, get moving!” Jonson shouted into the first container.
The women—and some young enough for Connor to consider girls—scattered from the container like wee rats on all fours, disoriented and confused. The lights probably hurt their eyes, they were likely starving or thirsty, and they had no idea of the hell they were about to face.