Page 20 of Dublin Beast
It took me less than ten minutes to ID the man I almost met as Edward Mason, or Eddie the Eel as he’s known on the streets.
He’s the nephew of James Mason, the head of the Liverpool crime family. Eddie has a criminal record going back to his rebellious teens.
Assault. Drugs. Extortion. Weapons charges.
No convictions—of course. Because that’s how he got the name Eddie the Eel.
He’s too slippery and slimy to pin anything on.
Fact: Eddie Mason owns the speakeasy.
Over the course of my afternoon, burning through the frustration of the day, I dug into the dummy corporations and shell companies tied to the address of the gentlemen’s club and illegal casino.
I don’t have the inside connections to follow the money through the labyrinth of false fronts and fake names, but I’m good at extrapolating the most likely scenarios and making educated guesses as to how those connections work.
And while the two clubs are technically part of the Mason holdings, Eddie is the point man. And even though the local police have raided the place a half-dozen times, when the dust settles, there’s nothing illegal happening and no charges are laid.
Of course not. That would be too easy.
I shake out my arms and continue to let my mind spin. Jamie Rowan—and likely a dozen other hot bad boys—smooth-talk their targets, and then traipse the women through the nightclub, gentlemen’s club, and the casino.
If the women spark interest, they approach them and then…
I sigh. That’s what I’d know if Hot Irish Guy hadn’t stuck his fists into my business. Patting my face with the towel, I grab my water bottle and head back upstairs.
I became an investigative reporter because I like to unravel mysteries. I’ll figure out how Eddie Mason’s sex trafficking ring works… and how Hot Irish Guy fits in.
* * *
Bryan
I crouch behind a rusted chain-link fence, eyes locked on the small brick house a few yards away. It’s the third one we’ve checked tonight, and I’m running out of patience. My knuckles are white from gripping the fence too hard, my faith in this intel dissolving more with each passing moment.
Kieran’s contact said he knew a few addresses which had been used by local law enforcement as safehouses. He thought one of them might be where Siobhan would be kept. Wrong.
I tighten my grip on the metal, scanning the windows for movement. Nothing. Just like the last place.
Just like the one before that.
Kieran shifts beside me, exhaling quietly. “Sorry, mate. This is shite.”
No argument.
The first place we checked had been a dead end—just an empty house with dust-covered furniture and a padlocked fridge. The second? A bust, too. It was occupied, but not by the people we were searching for. Not unless Siobhan is being protected by an elderly couple watching the telly with the volume cranked so high we could hear it from outside.
Now we’re here. The last of the three.
And if this one doesn’t pan out, I’m back to square fucking one. The thought of striking out again today makes my jaw clench so tight I feel a headache taking root behind my eyes.
I stretch my neck and cast a glance down the block.
Logan leans against the SUV parked a block away, keeping watch while Kieran and I move up. He wasn’t thrilled about tonight’s plan—he’s still running hot about my poor behavior this morning—but I don’t have the luxury of playing nice. Not when there’s so much at stake.
Siobhan not only killed our father, she knows the ins and outs of our family and our business.
She needs to be found.
She needs to be silenced.
