Page 79 of Dublin Beast

He doesn’t speak. Just scowls. Measuring.

“You called the desk and asked for more towels and a first aid kit?” I offer, with just enough polite confusion to make it sound routine.

I know they did.

I was at the front desk chatting with the girl—Lacey, according to her name tag—when the call came through.

Lacey was flustered, dealing with an angry customer trying to make a last-minute change to their room. She promised she’d drop the stuff off shortly but it didn’t seem like that would be anytime soon.

I offered to take it and drop it off for her.

Aren’t I helpful?

The man’s gaze narrows, lingering on my face a second longer than I’d like. I keep my chin up, breathing slow. Innocent. Harmless. Forgettable.

His eyes drop to the bundle in my arms. He sees the towels, and the white box with the red cross on top. That seems to satisfy whatever mental checklist he’s running.

He opens the door wider and shifts back to reach for my offerings. And just like that, his angle shifts and over his shoulder, across the darkened motel room, I see the mirror above the dresser.

And in the mirror, I see her.

A flash of red hair against a cheap floral bedspread. Her back is to me, but I’d know that hair anywhere. It’s a shade of auburn that doesn’t come out of a box—deep and rich and wildly untamed. She’s lying on her side, facing away, asleep or pretending to be.

But it’s her.

I bite down on the inside of my cheek so hard I taste blood. My hands don’t tremble. My face doesn’t crack.

I’m good at pretending.

He grabs the bundle from my arms without a thank you and starts to close the door. I pivot without hesitation and head back toward the lobby. Not fast. Not suspicious. Just another errand done.

If he’s watching me, I don’t feel it.

The urge to sprint across the lot to Bryan and Kieran nearly rips through me. But I don’t.

I make it to the office door, push it open like I belong there, and step inside. I raise a thumb to Lacey behind the registration desk, then count three breaths, before I slip back out and make my way to the truck.

My stride is casual, though my legs feel like jelly.

I faked out the mercenary who kidnapped the woman this whole operation hinges upon.

And I didn’t get myself killed.

Bryan is fuming when I climb into the back seat. His face is thundercloud dark, his chiseled jaw clenched, his broad shoulders rigid. He looks like he wants to throttle me, but I don’t let him burst my bubble.

“It’s her,” I say, before he can open that furious mouth and ruin my triumphant mood. “Siobhan’s in there. I saw her reflection in the mirror behind the guy who opened the door. She’s lying on the bed.”

He freezes.

The anger dims in his eyes—doesn’t disappear, but it flickers. His jaw remains clenched as his gaze narrows and his fingers flex against his thigh. “I said, no.”

“AndIsaid, it was the fastest and easiest way to get the ID. Whether those are McGuire men, or a tactical force hired by that Gravely guy, they don’t know me. Now, I got what you needed. What’s next?”

CHAPTERTWENTY-ONE

Bryan

Sitting in the back seat, I check my Sig Sauer, snapping the mag back into place with a sharp slap. In the front seat, Kieran does the same, his expression carved from stone. We’ve done this a hundred times before—clean, fast, lethal—but tonight feels different.

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