"He sold her out too."
"Then eliminated her when she got too close." I stand, needing distance before I pin her against the wall and forget about evidence entirely. "How many agents has this piece of shit killed?"
My phone buzzes. Cillian: Everything quiet your end?
I text back: Evidence confirmed. Moving to present to AD now.
But as I hit send, something feels wrong. Too quiet. No street noise. No movement in the hallway. My instincts scream danger—the same ones that kept me alive on Boston's streets before the family took me in.
Sorcha notices too. Her hand moves to her weapon, and I fight the urge to pull her behind me, to shield her with my body. "We need to go. Now."
The window explodes inward. Glass shards spray across the room as dark-clad figures pour through. Professional gear. These aren't street thugs—they're trained killers.
"FBI! Nobody move!"
But these aren't real federal agents. The voices belong to Moran's crew wearing tactical gear.
I flip the table, creating cover as gunfire erupts. Sorcha rolls behind the couch, returning fire with controlled precision. Even in combat, she's fucking beautiful—deadly and graceful, everything I want in a woman.
"Back exit!" I shout, laying down covering fire.
She moves first while I hold them off. Street fighting isn't like the movies—it's brutal, fast, and unforgiving. Six shooters. Professional spacing. They've done this before.
I empty my clip and reload, buying Sorcha time to reach the emergency stairs. A bullet tears through my jacket, burningacross my ribs. Pain hits but I keep moving. Nothing matters except getting her out alive.
The stairwell offers temporary safety. Sorcha waits at the landing, blood trickling from a cut on her forehead. The sight of her hurt makes me want to go back and kill every one of those bastards.
"You hit?" she asks, reaching for my jacket.
Her fingers brush my chest through the torn fabric. Even now, adrenaline pumping, I want those hands on my bare skin.
"Just a scratch. Keep moving."
We descend fast, but footsteps echo above us. They're following, boxing us in. At the third floor, Sorcha stops.
"There." She points to a service corridor. "Maintenance access to the parking garage."
We push through the door as voices shout orders behind us. The corridor stretches toward the garage, but I hear engines outside. They've surrounded the building like professionals.
"How did they know?" Sorcha demands.
The answer hits me like a punch to the gut. "Byrne. He's been monitoring our communications."
We reach the garage as vehicles screech outside. Black SUVs block the exits. More tactical teams pour from the vehicles. Too many to fight.
"Separate," I tell Sorcha, grabbing her shoulders. Touching her, even like this, sends electricity through me. "You take the evidence, get to your people."
"Like hell. We stick together."
"Listen to me." I pull her closer, close enough to smell her hair, to feel her body heat. "Those files prove everything. If we both get caught, it's over. The corruption continues."
Her eyes flash with stubborn determination. Christ, she's magnificent when she's angry. "I'm not leaving you."
A door explodes open behind us. Muzzle flashes light up the garage. I push Sorcha toward a maintenance tunnel as bullets spark off concrete, my body covering hers for precious seconds.
"Go! That's an order!"
She hesitates for one heartbeat. I see the war in her eyes—duty versus what we have together. Then she nods and disappears into the tunnel, laptop bag clutched against her chest.
