"How romantic." He pockets the phone. "Let's see if she feels the same way about a criminal."
Two hours pass before my phone rings. Moran answers it on speaker.
"Eamon?" Sorcha's voice fills the warehouse, and hearing it makes my chest tight with need and fear. "Are you okay?"
Relief and terror war inside me. She's safe but walking into danger.
"I'm fine, baby," I say, letting emotion color my voice. "Where are you?"
"Somewhere safe. With friends."
Moran cuts in. "Agent Quinn. I believe we should discuss terms."
Silence on the line. Then: "You're not getting the evidence."
"Then your boyfriend dies."
"You hurt him, and I'll destroy everything you've built."
The fierce protection in her voice makes me want her even more. My woman. My fierce, beautiful federal agent who'd burn the world down for me.
"One hour. Pier 47. Bring the files or watch him bleed out."
The line goes dead.
Moran turns to me. "She'll come. Love makes people stupid."
"She's smarter than that."
"We'll find out."
But I know Sorcha. She won't trade the evidence for my life—too many future victims depend on exposing the corruption. She'll find another way. She has to.
My phone rings again thirty minutes later. This time, a different voice answers when Moran picks up.
"Who the hell is this?" Moran demands.
"Cillian Kavanagh," my brother's voice cuts through the warehouse like a blade. "I believe you have something that belongs to me."
Moran's eyes widen. He wasn't expecting family involvement.
"Your brother walked into federal business," Moran says. "Not our problem."
"Everything involving my family is our problem." Cillian's tone drops to deadly calm. "Agent Quinn contacted me. Explained the situation. We're coming to get him."
"With what army?"
"The one that's been watching your warehouse for the past hour."
Through the dirty windows, muzzle flashes light up the night. Automatic weapons fire echoes off brick walls. Moran's men shout orders, running toward defensive positions.
Cillian's voice continues over the chaos. "You've got sixty seconds to walk away from my brother. After that, we come in shooting."
Moran draws his pistol, pressing it against my temple. "I've got a gun to his head!"
"Then you better hope your aim's perfect," Sorcha's voice comes from behind him.
Moran spins as Sorcha emerges from the shadows, weapon trained on his center mass. Her FBI tactical vest hugs her curves, making her look like a warrior goddess. Beautiful and deadly, everything I've ever wanted.
