Page 8 of Chase

Harrison looks between us, not speaking but assessing the situation. He’s watched many of our arguments since we were teenagers, so our disagreeing won't come as a surprise. He’s also ripped us apart before we tore limbs from each other in the past.

“How was your night?” he asks Connor, but before he can answer, the private elevator to the boardroom sounds, alerting us to the other members of our little vigilante band’s arrival.

“Thank fuck, saved by the bell. At least I won’t need to listen to your lovey-dovey bullshit,” I mutter. Connor frowns, but then all our attention moves to Damon and Hunter entering the room.

“Morning,” they call in unison.

“Mine is two sugar and milk,” Hunter adds in Connor’s direction. He’s stirring his drink in the mug. “And give me one of those cute biscuits on the side.” Connor flips him the bird, but takes a second cup from the shelf to do as he’s told.

Hunter Devane and Damon McKinney couldn’t be more different. Hunter is the head of the Irish mafia in London, and Chief Constable Damon McKinney is on his payroll. They’re friends and should-be enemies, but both are key players within our little team. Our band of five works together in the shadows to bring some justice in cases where legal routes won’t obtain it. Together, we’ve taken down and disposed of an array of criminals who caused unnecessary pain to the people of London. Being called here today means there’s yet another task to investigate, and finding justice may require blurred lines and sharp knives.

Hunter strolls over to the boardroom table and pulls out one of the black leather chairs. He places a booted foot on the smooth material, then rolls up the leg of his dark jeans to expose three knives strapped to his calf.

“For fuck sake, Devane,” Harrison mutters. “Take your feet off the furniture. Dirty arsehole. Mrs. D just cleaned in here yesterday.”

“Just getting my breakfast,” he replies, pulling a small knife from its resting place. He drops his foot back on to the floor before dusting at the mark on the chair lazily with a hand before sitting down. Connor places Hunter’s coffee beside him then goes to take his own chair.

In the center of the table is a huge basket of fresh fruit. Mrs. D is an angel at keeping us fed and clean. Damon appears at my side, grabbing my shoulder in welcome. We watch on as the knife between Hunter’s fingers flies across the table and spears a plump, red apple. He leans forward, lifting it with the handle of the knife. He spins three hundred sixty degrees in his seat, then takes a bite out of the soft flesh.

“Okay,” Hunter says, gesturing with his free hand. “Does someone want to tell me why we are here?”

The remaining men take their seats, and all eyes move to Harrison, who called this meeting late last night. Harry tends to be the point of information when it comes to cases or new justices needing to be served. His background as an orphan has given him a kind heart and the drive to right wrongs, but his skills as a lawyer make him dangerous to anyone who stands in his way.

“Organs,” Harrison says.

“Organs?” Connor questions. “As in the musical instrument played in a church?”

“No, you fuckwit,” I snap, annoyed by my brother’s stupidity. This fucking woman has gone to his brain and he’s dreaming of musical notes and hearts. “I assume you mean organs from the body?”

“Yes,” Harrison confirms. “There’s a growing black market for organs within London. Demand is increasing, and there are questionable practices in place at a few hospitals.”

“And you have come by this information how?” Damon probes. “There hasn’t been anything passed by my desk in an official capacity, and I am not aware of any chat in the station regarding black market organ sales.”

“A client of the law firm brought it to my attention. His mother sadly passed away last week. She had not permitted her organs to be donated. When the family visited her for one last time, a nurse mentioned the selfless gift of organ donation his mother had made. The loose-lipped nurse went on to say a woman had received her heart, which had in turn saved her life.

“The information, which I assume was told in an attempt to comfort my client on the loss of his mother, shocked him, because his mother had always believed the body should not be tampered with upon death. He requested to see her medical records, and then came to me to be sure there wasn’t any organ donation request he was unaware of. After scouring through the records, it’s clear that donating her organs was against his mother's wishes.”

“And the reason the police haven’t been informed?” Damon asks sharply.

“My client is well known to your lot, and he doesn’t want to attract any unwanted attention,” Harrison tells him. All the men in the room chuckle and nod. That’s the general situation with most of our law firm's clients. They pay us to defend them for a reason, and we charge what we do because we’re bloody good at it.

“My lot,” Damon says with an eye roll. “The way things are going, I won't be part of the boys in blue for much longer.” Hunter slaps his hands on the table and all eyes snap to him.

“About fucking time, McKinney. You need to come fully to the dark side. I told you, you always have a job with me.”

“Maybe. Can we get back to the information?” Damon says, diverting the conversation back to the task at hand and away from his complex career choices.

“Anyway,” Harrison continues. “The client in question asked me to do some research, and after a few calls it turns out that his isn’t the only family who have found their deceased loved ones' organs gone against their wishes. The hospitals in question are claiming paperwork issues, but my gut tells me there’s more to it.”

“Okay, so what do you need from us?” I ask.

“Nothing at the moment, maybe just keep your ears to the ground. But if you could do some digging at the station, McKinney?” Damon nods. “And Devane, maybe ask some of your men on the ground if they’ve heard of any organs being sold?”

“Sold?” Connor interrupts. “How do we know they’ve been sold?”

“We don’t,” Harrison says. “But what I know from the little research I’ve done is that these transplants aren’t on the organ procurement or transplantation register anywhere in the government records I can access, nationally or internationally. There’s no trace of where these organs have gone on any legal medical database. The only details are at the hospital level, which seems to keep its data to itself, and are scarce from what I could find in general.”

“Fuck, so you’re telling me that some maniac is selling hearts, lungs, and kidneys from dead people then sticking them in half-dead people,” I mutter, my stomach churning at the images of dirty operating rooms and backstreet doctors flitting through my mind.

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