Page 85 of Bit's Bliss
He nodded too. “She’s yours to protect, Bit. It is your responsibility, your pledge to her.”
“Yes,” I repeated.
Tryst moved his hand to my neck. “Ready?”
The elevator door opened, and I squared my shoulders. “Ready.”
“Have a seat so we can get through this as fast as possible,” Decker said when we came inside.
“I’m good.”
He leveled a glare at me, and I sat, watching the screen as Burke’s photo appeared.
“Gentlemen, this is Liam Devaney, aka Tiernan Burke, grandson of Christopher Devaney, who is the founder of the gang of the same name. The Devaney organization is considered to be Ireland’s most powerful crime family. Liam, it seems, was tapped to take over what the Killeens and FAIM left behind after last year’s raid. Either that, or he took it upon himself to go after the combined territories, either with or without permission from his granddaddy. I’ll wager it’s without, which is why he’s gotta build a stockpile of cash.”Another photo appeared beside it. “As you can see, his appearance has been altered since the photo on the right was taken three years ago.”
I had to agree, while the man in the two images appeared to be the same height and weight, otherwise, they looked drastically different. The most remarkable thing about him, his eye color, wasn’t discernible, given the lighting of both photos.
“At the time the second image was taken, Liam landed on several countries’ most wanted lists, including the FBI’s and the NCA’s—the UK’s National Crime Agency. The two agencies put up a reward money amounting to five million dollars each for his capture as well as the same for Christopher Devaney, Senior and Junior, Miranda and Patrick Boyle, and James Dunn.”
Two more images appeared on the screen. There was enough of a resemblance for the woman to be Nancy Burke or someone related to her.
“Is Devaney connected to Grogan?” I asked.
“Affirmative,” Decker responded. “After we’ve located Eberly Warwick, her father, and Michael Oliver, we’ll do a complete briefing on how.”
Three more men dressed in tactical gear walked into the conference room where we were gathered. “This is Sebastian Steel, Bronson Dunning, and Mick Reynolds. Each is among the world’s best in critical-incident response and hostage rescue. What that means is their teams are gonna find the motherfuckers who have ’em and we’re gonna bring ’em home.”
Decker’s eyes met mine, and I nodded.
“We’ve been able to bring in some extra firepower from one of our friends at the NRO. His code name is Grit. You got anything for us yet, buddy?”
“Affirmative, and it’s good news, boys. I’ve got a twenty for you,” said a guy Decker had on speakerphone.
“Bit, you’re with me. Tryst, you too. Everyone else was assigned before you got here.” Decker said when a satellite image appeared on the screen. “Let’s move out.”
25
EBERLY
Once we walked through the door leading to the judge’s chambers, two other men met us, both with guns. Unlike the “bailiff,” they wore masks to cover their faces. Our hands were tied behind us, and we were pulled as much as led down a corridor and out into a parking structure, where we were shoved into a waiting vehicle with blackened windows. Had my wrists not been bound, I would’ve lunged at the driver—Nancy. When her eyes met mine, I saw the same hatred I felt for her reflected back at me.
A hood was put over my head, and I was pushed down on the floorboards. No doubt, they did the same to Uncle Michael.
We drove for a while—maybe twenty minutes—in town, based on the number of times we stopped and waited the length of a signal change. Then they got on a highway. Again, we traveled maybe twenty or thirty minutes before exiting. After several turns, the vehicle stopped and the engine turned off. Doors opened, andI was pulled out, but without enough time to get to my feet, I fell onto the pavement.
“Get her inside, youfeckin’ eegit,” a woman who sounded like Nancy said, except now with a distinct Irish accent. It was the first I’d heard any of them speak.
The way my knee stung, I knew I’d scraped it, but my captor’s rough handling hurt equally bad.
“Eberly—” my uncle began.
“No talking,” another voice said, also with an Irish accent.
We were led outside over uneven grass and dirt, then into what I knew were caves, based on the immediate and significant drop in temperature. The all-too-familiar smell of barrels storing wine confirmed my suspicions that we’d been taken to a vineyard.
After the captor lowered me into a chair, he bound me to it, then removed the hood. “Dad?” I gasped.
His face was ashen, and his eyes were bloodshot as though he’d been crying, and like me, he was bound to a chair. He shook his head slightly, glanced in the direction of the masked man tying my uncle up, then lowered his head.
