Two locations abandoned. Viktor concentrated his forces here. At the harbor. Where Finn is.
We find the command center in the building's central bay. A large space, open, industrial lighting rigged to a portable generator that hums in the corner. Maps pinned to a board: Greek shipping routes, Irish distribution networks, alliance meeting locations circled in red. Communications equipment. Laptops. Photographs. My face, Siobhan's face, Cormac, Lex, Stavros. All of us cataloged. All of us studied.
Someone has been feeding Viktor intelligence for weeks. The detail on these maps is too precise for external surveillance. Someone inside. The thought lands and I file it for later because the priority is the back rooms and the sound coming from behind the last door on the right.
The sound is breathing. Ragged. Wet. The breathing of a man whose lungs are working around damage.
I open the door.
Finn O'Brien is tied to a metal chair. His shirt is torn and soaked through with blood in patterns that tell a story I can read: fists first, then blades, then pliers. His left eye is swollen shut, a dark purple mass that distorts the whole side of his face. Split lip, crusted. Cuts along his forearms where he fought beforethey restrained him. His left hand is bandaged in gauze that was white hours ago and is now dark red, the wrapping failing, blood seeping through. The gauze ends where his ring finger should begin.
The ring finger. Left hand. The finger that carries a promise. Viktor's precision is a signature: he doesn't just hurt, he narrates.
Finn looks up. One eye. Through the blood and the swelling and the restraints and the missing finger, my wife's brother finds me and produces half a grin.
"Took you... long enough."
I cut the restraints. Pull the zip ties with the blade I carry and help him to his feet. He sways. Grabs my shoulder. Stands. The O'Briens stand. Even when they shouldn't be capable of it.
"Your sister is outside."
"Course she is." He winces. Adjusts his grip on my shoulder. "She bring my gun?"
"She brought her own."
Finn almost laughs. Stops because laughing hurts. "That's my girl."
I signal two soldiers to escort him to the perimeter. He walks between them under his own power. His steps are uneven but deliberate. He's been beaten and cut and mutilated and he walks out of the building because he's an O'Brien and that's what O'Briens do.
I don't follow. Because the command center told me two things: someone has been feeding Viktor information from inside the alliance, and Viktor himself is not in this building. The chair where the soldier told us he'd be is empty. The communications equipment is still warm. He was here. Recently.
He's gone.
I find the last Bratva soldier in a side room. He took a round in the thigh during the breach and dragged himself behind a shipping container. He's bleeding but functional. Conscious. Scared.
"Where is Viktor?"
Chapter 28
Siobhan
* * *
Finn comes through the door, and the world stops.
He's walking. Barely. Two soldiers flank him, but he’s under his own power because he’s Finn, and Finn would crawl out of his own grave before he let someone carry him. His face is a map of damage: the swollen eye, the split lip, dried blood at his temple. His shirt is torn and dark, stained with something I don't let myself identify. His left hand is bandaged in gauze gone crimson.
"Oh, God.Finn."
He looks at me. The half-grin. Smaller now, more pain behind it, but present. The defiant humor of a man who has been beaten and bound and mutilated and who still finds the muscle memory for a smile because he knows his sister needs to see it.
"Hey, sis." His voice is rough. Damaged. "Told them you'd come."
I reach him. Don't hug. His ribs might be broken. His body is a catalog of injuries. I'm assessing the way I'd assess a client's crisis: systematically, compartmentally, saving the emotional processing for after the situation is stabilized. I take his goodhand. His right. Grip it. He grips back. Tight. The grip says everything the grin is trying to hide.
"Your finger?—"
He lifts the bandaged hand. Studies it with the specific dark humor of a man who has had hours to process his own mutilation.