by Elle Kennedy
With Isabel watching O’Hare’s, Sullivan was left playing foot soldier alone. Normally he didn’t mind being the eyes on the street, but today, the back of his neck was tingling and he couldn’t fight the rattled feeling that something was amiss.
“Not sure I blame you,” Liam murmured back. “I wouldn’t want to be sitting ten feet from an IED either.”
Sully’s gaze shifted to the blue sedan parked directly in front of the patio. There were five spaces along the curb; three were occupied. The sedan was sandwiched between an SUV and a hatchback.
It was half past eleven. The lunch crowd would start pouring in around noon, but half a dozen patrons already loitered on the patio. Sullivan was amazed by the number of morning drinkers in this bloody country.
He kept his eye on the sedan, half expecting the thing to blow up at any second and rip him to pieces. One of O’Hare’s men had parked the vehicle more than an hour ago. He’d fed the meter and disappeared around the corner, leaving a ticking time bomb behind him. Literally.
Sean insisted that the Dagger always tipped off the cops, but . . .
Sullivan’s entire body continued to hum forebodingly.
“When’s the call supposed to come in?” The fancy-pants Bluetooth lodged in his ear gave the impression that he was on the phone, but he still spoke in a low voice.
“Twenty to,” Liam answered. “Just stay put. It’ll all be over soon.”
Liam’s voice was reassuring, easing Sully’s nerves. Slightly. His neck was still prickling like a motherfucker.
People began approaching the pub. Students mostly, with the odd older patron here and there.
For the first time in days it wasn’t pouring out. Fuckin’ Ireland. It was October—it should have been cold and rainy, for Christ’s sake. But no, today just had to be dry and cloudless. And warm, damn it. Warm enough that folks were taking advantage of the nice weather and filling up the patio.
“I’m not seeing any Dagger members,” D reported brusquely. “Boston?”
“None. Wasn’t expecting any, though. They’ve got no reason to stick around.” Liam paused. “The area will be crawling with Garda soon.”
It’d better be. Reilly had said the bomb was set on a timer scheduled to go off at noon. Or rather, not go off at noon. Bloody terrorists and their scare tactics.
Sullivan checked his watch: 11:34. Six more minutes and the call would go through.
He absently rubbed his right forearm. Beneath his sleeve was the tattoo that spanned from his wrist to the inside of his elbow, one line of black script that spelled out the name that always brought him comfort.
Liam’s knowing chuckle filled his ear. “I see what you’re doing, dude. Jeez, you can’t go even a second without thinking about that damn boat?”
An uncharacteristic snort came from D. “You kidding me? He’d fuck that thing if he could.”
Sullivan ignored their soft laughter and flattened his palms on the tabletop. His teammates thought he was a pansy-ass for having the name of his sailboat inked on his flesh, but they had no bloody clue. Evangeline the woman had come long before Evangeline the boat. And she was the one from whom he drew comfort.
The feed went quiet. Sullivan pretended to text on his phone. As the minutes ticked down, his agitation doubled, then quadrupled when a guy in a baseball cap approached with a golden retriever and proceeded to tie the dog’s leash around the lamppost two feet from the blue sedan.
As the kid ducked into the pub, Sully let out a soft groan. “Bloody hell. He left the dog out here.”
“Take a breath, Aussie,” came Liam’s quiet reply. “There’s time.”
Sully inhaled deeply. “Is Reilly at O’Hare’s?”
“Affirmative. Bailey’s with him.”
“Get him on the line. Find out what’s going on over there.”
Another glance at his watch revealed it was 11:40. The Dagger would be calling law enforcement now. Should be calling now. And the nearest Garda station was four minutes away by car—Sullivan had checked. Which meant that four minutes from now, sirens would wail, civilians would be evacuated, and a bomb squad unit would speed in to save the day.
“Sean says the call went through,” Liam reported.
The pressure in his chest dissipated. Some of it anyway. No police sirens sounded, but he heard them in his own head, damn it.
Shit. His internal warning system had been triggered. That wasn’t good.
The seconds continued to tick by.
“Something’s wrong,” he hissed. “Call Sean again.”
“There’s still time,” Liam assured him.
His watch read 11:44.
There wasn’t a Garda vehicle in sight.
“You’re wrong, Boston.” He couldn’t fight the urgency in his tone. “This is wrong.”
“Fuck. Your Spidey senses are tingling?”
“Big-time.”
“Maintain your position. Calling Sean.”
Sullivan exhaled in a slow rush, appreciating that Liam hadn’t put up an argument. But Liam knew as well as he did that a soldier’s instincts were too critical to ignore. If one of your teammates had a bad hunch, you bloody listened to it.
Liam’s perplexed voice rippled through the comm a few moments later. “Reilly insists the call was made.”
“Did he make it himself?” Sullivan demanded.
“No, but—”
“Then the fucking call wasn’t made.”
Eleven forty-nine. His frantic gaze flew to the blue sedan. Bloody hell.
“The Garda isn’t coming, Liam. We need to clear the area. Now.” Sullivan inhaled a calming breath. “D, you copy?”
“Loud and clear,” was the grim reply.
“Put in an anonymous call to the Garda. Tell them to send a bomb unit.”
“Roger that.”
“Liam, get your ass down here. ASAP.”
“On my way.”
It was 11:51 now. Nine minutes until the timer reached zero. Nine minutes to clear the street. Or maybe the civilians would be safer inside? Sully’s brain raced a million miles a second as he struggled to find the best way to handle this.
He had no clue how big the bomb was—five hundred pounds of explosives? A thousand? The blast radius would be . . . fuck, it could be anything. Required at least a two-thousand-foot outdoor evacuation distance. No one could be anywhere near the pub—hell, the entire stretch of street—when that bomb went off. But people might have a better chance of survival inside. Easier to avoid injury from flying shrapnel and debris. And how close was the bomb to the fuel tank? The explosion could be ten times worse if the gasoline ignited and released a fucking wall of fire.
Shit. Motherfucking shit.
“Bomb threat’s been called,” D said briskly.
Eight minutes.
Sullivan shot to his feet, knocking his chair over in the process and drawing several confused stares. He couldn’t create a panic. Couldn’t shout, “There’s a bomb!” and watch folks stampede one another to death. It had to be done quietly—but fast.
He grabbed the arm of the passing waitress and brought his head close to her ear. “We need to evacuate this patio, love.”
Her eyes widened. “W-what? Why?”
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 instruction
s. 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.
Chapter 18
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 sh
ooting 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.”