Page 122 of Connor's Claim

Arran kept his gaze on the church. “Paired with the fact that Red made a direct threat to take staff from me, now we know why.”

I brooded on it, mentally dismembering each man who showed up to the steps. They weren’t significant in number. Nothing compared with our thriving business. But a single woman hurt under those terms was too many.

“Do ye think Alisha is in there?”

But before he could answer, he stilled. “Incoming phone call. It’s Convict. I sent him a message an hour ago, hoping he could get away.”

He handed me a headphone, then under the cover of his jacket, answered the call.

“Dad, hi, what the fuck is that about Rachel?” Convict asked.

I couldn’t smile, either at his pretence of who he was dialling or at the use of Alisha’s real name. The fact she’d even told it to him spoke volumes. No one called her Rachel.

Arran kept his voice low. “She left earlier this afternoon to find you.”

“Why would she come after me?”

“Weren’t ye a couple?” I asked.

“Ma, good to hear your voice, too. No, we, uh, shared a night together once,” he dropped his voice, “but she turned me down when I asked to cook dinner for her. Figured I screwed up or was out of luck.”

Fuck. If she hadn’t made it to him, where the hell had she gone? I was ready to ask about the new club when Arran grippedmy arm and pointed, hidden beneath the level of the windowsill. Across the road, Convict limped out of the shadows on a patch of scrubby grass to one side of the church.

He was here.

Around his throat, he wore a fucking Four Milers spiderweb motif. That, I despised, but seeing him again gave me a strange burst of sadness. I missed him. From Arran’s soft stare, he did, too.

It also meant he needed to be even more careful over what he said.

He twisted to gaze down the road, unaware that we were twenty yards away. It pained me, too, that he favoured one leg, maintaining the illusion of our beating being worse than the skin-deep display he’d helped direct.

“Could she be inside the brothel Red opened?” I asked.

He shook his head, not that he knew we could see. “Naw. I’d know.”

“Because they’ve taken you to the heart of their new business,” I prompted.

“Exactly. People know me.”

I got his meaning, even if he couldn’t speak openly for fear of being overheard. Red had welcomed him into the fold based on his knowledge of how our warehouse operated. That had worked out better than expected.

“Answer this carefully,” Arran said. “Are some of our women there?”

“Got it in one, Ma. Not Rachel, though. I wish I knew where she was.”

Arran continued, “And Red’s bringing in others. Is he abducting them?”

“Can’t say for sure.” Convict kicked a stone. “Would it…would it be okay if I came home for dinner?”

He was asking for an out. I wanted to give it to him, and Arran undoubtedly did, too, but Convict was our man on the inside. Without question, we needed to bring Red’s new venture down and break up any trafficking routes he’d established, but that involved planning and time. A recall of all crew members and a lockdown of the warehouse.

There was another connection I’d asked him to explore, a link to the murders in the city by who in the Four Milers had access to the sedatives.

Arran gave me a slight but sorrowful shake of the head. He needed him to stay, too.

“Soon,” I said. “We need ye to keep an eye out for Rachel but also to discover who’s knocking out the girls Red’s bringing in, if that’s what he’s doing.”

Convict’s shoulders slumped. “You’ve got it. I’ll find Rachel, if I can.”

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