by Elle Kennedy
“Why does he get to walk out of here?” Paddy’s scornful gaze shifted to Sean, who kept his expression blank.
Gallagher sighed in annoyance, yet again explaining his reasoning for why Sean would be the one playing the hostage, but that didn’t appease the younger man.
“Bollocks,” Paddy muttered again. “I’m not surrendering, you hear me? I’m not going back to the Joy for—”
“Mo thír,” Gallagher interrupted.
That stopped the other man cold. “What?” he said shakily.
“Mo thír, mo onóir, mo chuid fola.”
Gallagher’s face was somber as he spoke in Gaelic, reciting the words that were guaranteed to get Paddy’s attention—my country, my honor, my blood.
And he succeeded. Paddy went equally somber, his shoulders drooping, his fists slowly opening as his hands dangled at his sides.
“Remember those words, Padraig?” Gallagher said softly. “You took an oath.”
Christ, these men and their bloody oath. Sean had recited it himself a long time ago, back when his father was still alive. Rabbit had thrown that fact at him mere days ago, reminding him of the promises he’d made, the loyalty he’d vowed, but Sean had spit it right back in the older man’s face. Any allegiance he’d pledged had become null and void the second Eamon O’Hare had kidnapped his brother.
Gallagher and Paddy, however . . . the oath still meant something to them. Their whole lives revolved around it and the ideology that had been beaten into their skulls since the day they were born.
“Live for the cause, die for the cause,” Gallagher murmured, reciting the final words of the Dagger’s motto.
Paddy was visibly clenching his teeth. He looked pained, upset, but the resignation that Sean had seen in the other men’s eyes now flickered in Paddy’s. “Live for the cause, die for the cause,” he echoed.
Jesus Christ. It was fucking surreal. Sean masked his disbelief as the two men exchanged a tight hug.
“I fecked up,” Paddy mumbled. “I shouldn’t have aimed for the head.”
Gallagher clapped his hand over Paddy’s shoulder. “No, you shouldn’t have.”
Paddy nodded. “I got us into this mess. The alarm wouldn’t have gone off if I hadn’t killed the ghost. It’s only right that I pay the price for my mistake.”
Sean didn’t know whether he was impressed or amused. Jesus, Rabbit had trained his soldiers well. Sean wondered if he could ever inspire that kind of loyalty in someone. His brother, sure. Maybe Jim Morgan, at least before he’d deserted the man.
But any loyalty he’d had from Morgan was gone now. The man was cold, unforgiving. When Sean had abandoned the team, he’d pretty much ensured that they wouldn’t welcome him back with open arms.
Regret constricted his chest, making him want to slam his fist into the nearest wall. Maybe it made him a total pussy, but he’d been honored to earn a spot on Morgan’s team. The life of an information dealer wasn’t too exciting. Oliver enjoyed the work, but Sean had been tired of it. He’d found himself longing for his days as a merc, even more so once he’d started doing odd jobs for Morgan’s team.
Maybe Morgan would take him back when this was all over.
Un-bloody-likely.
Right. Probably too much to hope for.
“Go and get Murphy,” Gallagher told Paddy. “I need him to answer the mobile when the negotiator rings back.” Once Paddy hurried off, Gallagher turned to Sean. “Stay here. I’ll be back to grab you in a few minutes.”
Sean nodded.
The second he was alone, he sank into the nearest chair around the large oval table in the bank’s staff room. Fuck, he needed to get out of here. He felt like a caged animal. Trapped. Powerless. And he didn’t function well in that state.
He glanced around the room, taking in the tidy row of metal lockers, the kitchenette, the closed door of the supply closet. On the back wall was a cork bulletin board littered with snapshots and postcards and notes from customers thanking various tellers for their stellar work.
Sean tore his gaze away from the board and dragged a frustrated hand over his cropped hair. Christ, he couldn’t imagine working a regular nine-to-five. Being a bank teller or a manager, smiling at hundreds of people every day, dealing with their bullshit. He’d kill himself before taking a job like that.
His gaze shifted to the clock over the ancient refrigerator. As he watched the second hand tick by, that sensation of helplessness crept in once more. He’d found some clothes in one of the lockers—ill-fitting trousers, a hooded sweatshirt. He was dressed like a civilian and ready to go, but he couldn’t make a single move until Gallagher returned.
Time seemed to slow down. He heard Gallagher’s muffled voice in the corridor, murmuring something to Murphy, he assumed. Everything went quiet a moment later.
He stared at the clock. Ten more minutes before the negotiator called back.
Footsteps sounded from the hall, then faded.
The clock continued to tick silently.
And then a faint creak echoed from above.
Sean froze for a heartbeat, then shot to his feet and grabbed his weapon from the tabletop, aiming it at the ceiling. The shotgun felt strange in his hands. Heavy, bulky. He was used to carrying handguns or assault rifles on a mission, but the Irish Dagger was old-school.
There was rustling overhead. Then a soft hiss, barely audible.
Adrenaline spiked in his blood, tensing every muscle in his body. Someone was here.
He kept his gaze trained on the ceiling. Studied the air vent situated above the kitchenette counter. Son of a bitch. Was the assault team making a move? O’Brien was in the security room monitoring the exterior cameras, damn it. He hadn’t reported seeing someone enter or leave the premises. Unless the moron had dropped the ball, missed a breach.
And Sean couldn’t alert Gallagher, because the Dagger’s operation was so bloody low-rent that they didn’t even use comms. He had no earpiece, no radio.
Another creak wafted from the direction of the vent. Shit. Someone was up there, all right.
Sean’s boots didn’t make a sound as he moved closer to the vent. He glanced at the cabinet near the door, where he’d left his mask, but it was too far away. Fuck it. At this point, covering his face was bloody unnecessary. If the ERU was making its move, then Sean’s identity would be discovered sooner rather than later.
One intruder, he deduced. It was too quiet for an entire assault team to be up there. Maybe it was recon, a quick breach to better assess the situation inside the bank.
And double fuck—the intruder would have heard Sean and Gallagher talking to Paddy. Outlining their plan to surrender.
He hoped to hell that the fucker didn’t have an open comm, that he hadn’t alerted his team about the plan.
Sean’s back went ramrod straight when another noise broke the quiet air. A metallic grind.
He narrowed his eyes, tensing even more when he saw one of the tiny bolts on the corner of the vent begin to unscrew itself.
Shit.
Shit.
The bolt broke free and fell to the floor with a soft ping. Then the opposite bolt pulled its own magic act.
Sean raised his shotgun. His breathing slowed, heart rate moving along steadily. He just had to wait. Wait for the guy to climb down. Incapacitate him before he even knew what was happening.
But it all happened too fast. The second screw was barely falling toward the floor when the metal hatch swung open and a blur of black catapulted down from the ceiling. The intruder vaulted off the counter in a swirl of speed, hitting the floor in a roll while swinging a black automatic in Sean’s direction.
“Don’t move a fucking mus—” The command died midsentence as a shocked hiss filled the room. “Sean?”
He stared at the woman crouched on the other side of the room, his jaw falling open.
“Bailey?”
Chapter 4
Sean couldn’t fathom what he was seeing. He had to be imagining it. Imagining her.
He blinked rapidly, feeling like a thirst-ridden desert nomad hallucinating a mirage. A beautiful, confusing mirage featuring the woman of his dreams.
Jesus Christ. This was no hallucination. She was actually here. Four feet away from him.
“What the fuck are you doing here?” By some miracle, he managed to keep his voice to a whisper, but he couldn’t conceal his anger. Or his horror.
She was clad in all black—long-sleeve shirt, tight pants, sleek boots. Her hair was pulled into a tight knot at the nape of her neck, emphasizing her classic features and big gray eyes, and she looked as enraged as he felt.
“Me? Goddamn it, Sean! What are you doing here?”
He didn’t answer. Couldn’t answer. His vocal cords were paralyzed, and his brain had turned into a jumble of spaghetti noodles trying to make sense of her presence. How had she infiltrated the bank? And why, for Christ’s sake?
He had no answers for that, and all he was capable of focusing on was the fact that she was here. Bailey was here. His Bailey.
Not yours. Never yours.
The swift reminder brought a jolt of pain. No, she wasn’t his. She was Ollie’s.
“You need to go,” he said urgently. “Right now.”
“I came here for you,” she replied in a fierce voice. “And I’m not leaving without you.”
“Bloody hell, Bailey, you need to go.” He stalked forward and grabbed her arm, trying to drag her toward the kitchenette. “You can’t be here.”
Frustration burned in her eyes. Those beautiful gray eyes that were too big for her face, giving her a perpetual doe-eyed air of fragility. But she wasn’t fragile. She was tough as nails, exceedingly intelligent, and highly trained. She held her weapon with ease, and Sean knew damn well that her lithe, curvy body was probably concealing many more dangerous goodies.
It was so easy to see why his brother loved her.
He banished the thought the second it surfaced, along with the bitterness that coated his throat. Bitterness that transformed right back into rage when Bailey shrugged his hand off her and slammed her fist directly into his solar plexus.
The blow landed with a thud, making him grunt. For such a small woman, she was insanely strong.
“Why are you doing this? What on earth compelled you to rob a bank?”
He gritted his teeth so hard his jaw ached. “You. Can’t. Be. Here.”
“I already am,” she shot back. “So now tell me what the hell is going on. You left Morgan’s crew to join up with O’Hare again? What the fuck, Sean?”
He wasn’t surprised that she’d figured out the Irish Dagger was behind the heist—Bailey had resources a mile long—but he didn’t have time to explain himself to her at the moment. If Gallagher caught her back here . . .
“. . . white flag, so to speak . . .”
The male voice beyond the door made both of them freeze.
Sean cursed under his breath. Shit. Gallagher was talking to Murphy. Which meant that he’d be returning any second to bring his “hostage” to the lobby.
Ignoring his rising panic, Sean reached out and grabbed the bottom of Bailey’s shirt. “Take this off,” he ordered. “Now.”
“Are you kidding—”
He interrupted by yanking the shirt up, nearly ripping the fabric as he desperately tried to take it off for her. She yelped when the neck hole snagged on her ear, but Sean didn’t stop. He peeled off the shirt, breathing hard as he studied the white camisole she wore underneath. It was skimpy, but not indecent. Something a woman might wear to work, rather than the all-black commando outfit she’d been sporting a second ago.
He snatched the gun from her hand and clicked on the safety, then tucked it at her waistband and pulled her camisole down to cover the bulge.
“What are you doing?” she whispered. “Why—” She halted when the sounds of footsteps came from the corridor.
Setting his jaw, Sean curled his fingers over her upper arm and dragged her toward the supply closet. He threw open the door, balled up the shirt he’d taken from her, and shoved it behind a mop bucket. The closet was tiny, crammed with shelves of coffee filters and other random supplies, but it was big enough for Bailey, and he wasted no time pushing her inside.
The footsteps got closer. Gallagher was coming to get him.
“Play along,” Sean commanded. “I’m serious, luv. If you want to stay alive, you need to do everything I say.”
The footsteps neared the door. Bailey’s eyes widened, and then she nodded.
As the squeak of the doorknob sounded from behind them, Sean tightened his grip on Bailey’s arm. He waited. Took a breath. Then wrenched her out of the closet so hard he nearly yanked her arm from its socket.
She cried out in pain, and the door opened at the exact moment Sean shook her violently. Pure venom clung to his tone as he spat out, “You little bitch!”
Heavy boots thudded against the floor as Gallagher appeared beside him. “What in bloody hell is going on?” he roared.
Sean turned to his “leader” in disgust. “I found her hiding in the closet. She’s one of the tellers.”
A wild curse flew out of Gallagher’s mouth. “Does she have a mobile on her?”
“No, thank Christ.”
Gallagher’s face was still covered, but his eyes were blazing with fury, so dark they were nearly indistinguishable from the black fabric of his mask. “Are you fecking kidding me? Who swept this room?”
“Who do you think?” Sean snapped, not the slightest bit guilty for laying another burden of blame at Paddy Lynch’s feet.
“Bloody wanker,” Gallagher mumbled. His features hardened as he turned to examine Bailey. “Stop bawling, bitch.”
Sean glanced over at her again, hiding his astonishment when he noticed her transformation. She’d slipped her hair out of its bun seconds before Gallagher’s entrance, and the black waves now cascaded down her shoulders, tousled, flat on one side, as if she’d truly been hiding in a closet for the past hour.
With the tears sticking to her thick eyelashes and her bottom lip quivering like a leaf on a windy day, she looked terrified and guilty. Like a completely different person. And though Sean had seen her acting skills in action before, they never failed to impress him.
“C’mere.” As Gallagher jerked her away from the closet, it took all of Sean’s willpower not to unleash a right hook at the guy’s jaw for manhandling her like that.
Bailey’s tears fell harder as Gallagher grasped her chin with both hands, forcing her to look at him.
“You’re gonna keep your mouth shut, you hear me? In five minutes this’ll all be over, and until then, you’re going to sit in the lobby with the rest of your colleagues and you won’t say a fecking word, understood?”
She nodded weakly.
He twisted her chin, turning her toward Sean. “See this man?”
Another shaky nod.
“You don’t know him. He wasn’t here. When you see him again in a minute, you will pretend he doesn’t exist.” Gallagher released her abruptly, cursing under his breath.
He’d gripped her face so tightly he’d left red marks on her fair skin. Sean had to swallow his rage and force himself not to tear Gallagher’s throat out.
“If you so much as open your mouth, I will put a bullet in your head,” Gallagher finished. “Understand?”
“I understand,” she whispered.
“Now, shut up and come with me.” Gallagher grabbed her arm and tugged her across the room, his eyes burning with annoyance as he glanced over his shoulder at Sean. “I’ll be right back.”
As they reached the doorway, Bailey turned her head. Just for a split second. Just long enough for Sean to mouth the words, Trust me.
She gave an imperceptible nod, and then she and Gallagher were gone.
Sean stared at the empty doorway, choking on the panic that clawed up his throat like cold, brittle fingers. Everything had been on track, damn it. He’d been moments away from leaving the bank with his skin
intact, and now Bailey had thrown a wrench in his plans. He wasn’t stepping foot outside the building without her.
Damn you, Ollie. She came here for you.
The hot agony that ripped through him nearly knocked him off his feet. Bailey might claim she’d come here for him, but he knew the truth. With the intel at her disposal, she must have figured out that Rabbit had nabbed Ollie. She must have known that helping Sean was the equivalent of saving Oliver.
It stung like hell. But he had no right to be hurt. Of course she loved his brother. Why wouldn’t she? Oliver was the best man Sean had ever known. Hell, he was a bloody saint. Sean had once watched his brother run into a burning building to save a low-life meth cooker they’d been hitting up for intel.
And he couldn’t even count the number of times Ollie had swooped in to rescue him. The guy was perfect. Perfect son, perfect brother, perfect fucking man for a woman like Bailey.
Sean was nothing more than the speed bump that had disrupted their relationship, the asshole who’d given in to his selfish urges and taken what Bailey had been offering to his brother.
But he couldn’t think about that now. Bailey might not belong to him, but at the moment, she was his responsibility, and he was going to bring her back to Oliver safe and sound.
Even if he died trying.
* * *
Bailey didn’t struggle as Sean’s cohort dragged her down the hall as if she were a piece of luggage. The masked man grumbled in Gaelic the entire time, and although she didn’t know the dialect well, she suspected there were a lot of colorful curses being aimed her way. A few seconds later, he pushed her into the lobby, where every pair of eyes immediately flew in her direction.
She noted the line of terrified-looking people on the white-tile floor. She averted her gaze, heeding her captor’s threat that she’d better keep to herself, but she was relieved to see that the hostages were safe. For now anyway.
“We found your little mate hiding in the back room,” her captor snapped at the stocky man sitting at the end of the line.
Bailey quickly masked her alarm, forcing herself to meet the eyes of the man who’d been spoken to. He wore a gray business suit and a name tag publicizing that he was the bank manager. Shit. Sean had told his IRA buddy that Bailey was a teller.