"Clear," Sorcha calls.
I scan the area one more time. "For now."
We search the bodies. No identification, but the weapons are top-shelf. Someone with serious money wanted us eliminated.
"Professional contractors," I say. "Not local talent."
"Recent enemies, or did we step on the wrong toes?"
"Has to be connected to your investigation. Too convenient otherwise." I check my phone for Cillian's number. "We need to?—"
Fire explodes through my left shoulder. I look down to see blood spreading across my shirt, more pumping out with each heartbeat.
"Shit. You're hit." Sorcha's hands press against the wound.
"Just a graze." But it's not. The bullet tore through muscle, and I'm losing blood fast.
"Liar." She helps me to the SUV the attackers left running. "You need medical attention."
"Family doctor," I give her an address. "No hospitals. No questions."
She drives while I keep pressure on the wound. Each bump sends lightning through my shoulder. By the time we reach Dr. Kelligan's back-alley clinic, the world tilts sideways.
"Jesus Christ, Eamon." Kelligan opens the door, takes one look at the blood. "Exam room. Now."
Kelligan's patched up Kavanagh wounds for fifteen years. Retired army medic who asks no questions and keeps no records. He cuts away my shirt and curses at what he finds.
"Bullet's lodged deep. Tore through the muscle, missed major arteries by inches." He prepares instruments while Sorcha watches. "You're lucky to be alive."
"Doesn't feel lucky," I grunt.
Kelligan works with steady hands, digging out bullet fragments. Sorcha stands close enough that I catch her scent—vanilla and gunpowder. Her eyes stay fixed on my face, watching for signs of distress.
"He always this stubborn?" she asks Kelligan.
"Worse. First time he's brought company." Kelligan glances between us. "Usually bleeds alone in a back alley somewhere."
The comment hits closer to truth than I like. Family takes care of family, but I handle my own problems. Don't show weakness. Don't need help.
Except right now, watching Sorcha's concerned face, needing help doesn't feel weak.
An hour later, I'm stitched up with my arm in a sling. Kelligan warns about infection and limited mobility.
"Keep it clean, keep it still," he orders. "And find somewhere safe to heal. Whoever did this will try again."
I know exactly where to go.
"Safe house," I tell Sorcha as we drive north. "Family property. Completely isolated."
The cabin sits hidden in twenty acres of woods, off any main road. I built it myself over three summers—solar power, well water, enough supplies to last weeks. My private retreat from the family business.
Inside, Sorcha helps me to the couch. The pain medication makes everything soft around the edges, but I stay alert enough to notice her examining the space.
"Cozy," she says, checking window angles and exit routes.
"It's mine. Built it when I needed somewhere to think." I try to shift position and immediately regret it. "Away from family expectations."
She finds the medical kit and checks my bandages. Her fingers are gentle against my skin, but I feel each touch like electricity. When did a federal agent's hands become so distracting?
