Page 71 of Dublin Charmer
I’m trapped.
And somewhere in this building, my brother might be too.
I pace the small office, my mind racing. Finn must know I’m missing by now. Will he think I betrayed him? Or will he come looking?
Either way, I need to find a way out of here before Billy returns. Because the look in his eyes told me everything I need to know.
My usefulness for Billy Gravely has reached its end.
Finn
Rain beats against my windshield as Gallagher pulls up to the coordinates Sean sent. The constantthwump, thwumpsound out the wiper’s struggle against the downpour, but I can make out the details of the warehouse. It’s a squat, corrugated metal structure sitting alone at the end of a gravel access road. No signs, no markings. Just the kind of place you’d hide someone you don’t want found.
We park behind a line of motorcycles and trucks already gathered at the adjacent building, an abandoned machine shop with its roof half-collapsed. Inside that building, the Dublin Devils are preparing for war. The smell of gun oil and leather fills the air as thirty men check weapons and adjust tactical vests.
Sean nods when he sees me. “Welcome to the Pleasure Dome.”
“Any sign of her?” I ask, voice tight.
“No. And my guys have had eyes on the place since they followed the guard here. No one has arrived since, so unless they got here first, she’s with Gravely somewhere else.”
“But if our theory is right, her brother’s in there.”
Sean hands me a bulletproof vest. “You sure you’re up for this?”
I strap the vest on. “I’m fine.”
Kieran approaches, his russet hair tied back, face grim. “We’ve got three teams. I’m taking the east entrance, Gallagher’s got the west. You stick with Sean.”
Gallagher pulls a hair tie from the pocket of his leather Devils cut and captures his long black hair. “Hold until my team breaches. Then you guys are good to engage once all hell breaks loose.”
The men around us are checking magazines, chambering rounds. These aren’t just MC members—they’re Sean’s elite. Men who’ve been with the Devils for years. Men who know how to fight.
I check my Browning 19mm, the weight familiar in my hand. I’m no stranger to guns—all Quinn boys learn to shoot before they learn to drive—but my battleground has always been behind screens, not in firefights.
“Remember,” I say, addressing the group, “we’re here for Gio Farina. He’s being held prisoner in a cage somewhere inside. Everything else is secondary.”
“What about Gravely?” someone asks.
“We don’t think he’s here, but if you get a chance to take the fucker down, don’t waste it.”
“It’s open season on him anytime, anywhere,” Sean adds, his voice like ice.
Rain continues to pour as we move into position. The warehouse sits dark and silent, a single light burning above the main entrance. Two guards huddle under the overhang, sharing a cigarette.
Gallagher’s voice comes through the earpiece. “West doors being breached in three... two... one...”
There’s a surreal moment of utter silence and anticipation, and then the world erupts.
As expected, the first shots come from Gallagher’s team taking out the guards at the front. Before the bodies hit the ground, we’re moving, sprinting through the rain toward the building.
I follow Sean through a side door, gun raised. The warehouse interior is cavernous, filled with shipping containers and pallets. Lights flicker on as someone hits the switches, and suddenly we’re exposed.
Gunfire erupts from behind a stack of crates. I dive behind a forklift as bullets ping off metal around me. Sean returns fire, his movements calm and precise.
“Find the cells!” he shouts at me. “We’ll handle this!”
I nod, staying low as I move toward the back of the warehouse. The noises of the gunfight intensify behind me: shouts, curses, the deafening crack of automatic weapons.
