Connor stood, made his way through the crowd, Doc beside him.
When McManus was shit-faced or pissed off, he lapsed into almost unintelligible Glaswegian—usually just before beating the shit out of someone. At six foot four and as strong as an ox, McManus threw a bone-crushing punch.
Shields tried to defuse the situation. “Quinn, I can handle this. He’s drunk. You’re drunk. Just drop it.”
McManus ignored her, crowding the city cowboy, who glared at Shields, clearly not understanding that he was in mortal danger. “Why do you wear tight jeans like that if you don’t want men to touch the goods?”
“You’d best bolt yer rocket, lad, or I’ll shove your bawbag up yer arse.”
“What the fuck does that even mean?” The cowboy glared up at McManus, his buddies crowding around him, watching his six. “I can handle you, carrot top.”
Segal, Jones, and Cruz pushed their way through the crowd to flank McManus, Jones and Cruz still holding their pool cues.
Shit.
Connor caught a glimpse of McManus’ fist clenching. He shouldered his way in between the two men. “Break it up! That’s enough! McManus!”
Shields stepped past McManus and took on City Cowboy herself. “You’re obviously not a smart man, so let me put this in terms even you can understand. You just picked a fight with a military guy who is here with the rest of his team. They just got home from an op and are still pumped on adrenaline. These guys fight for a living, so unless you want to go home in pieces, apologize to me and get out of here.”
City Cowboy glared at her and then McManus—and pulled a switchblade from his pocket. “I’m not afraid of him.”
“Oh, look, he’s got a wee knifey.” McManus might have been drunk, but his reflexes were lightning quick. He snatched the knife out of the idiot’s hand, examined it as if he’d never seen a blade before. “I could shave wi’ this.”
Connor met City Cowboy’s gaze. “Listen to her. Save yourself some pain.”
The bar was now silent, the air thick with tension.
City Cowboy’s gaze shifted from McManus to Connor and back again before dropping to the floor. “Sorry.”
“Good choice.” Shields’ contempt was clear. “To answer your question, a womanneverputs on jeans hoping some drunk loser will grab her butt. Thegoods, as you call them, aren’t yours to touch. Women dress to please themselves.”
“What the hell’s going on?” Evan, the bouncer, pushed his way through the crowd. Big and bald, his forearms thick and tattooed with skulls, he was an army veteran and, more importantly at this moment, a friend.
“City Cowboy here grabbed Shields’ butt.” Connor stepped back, made room for him. “We were just working it out.”
Evan grabbed City Cowboy by the back of his shirt and dragged him toward the door. “You’re a fucking idiot, you know that? These guys could flay your sorry ass. You can’t treat women like that. Get the fuck out of here, you piece of shit. Don’t let me see your face again.”
Connor exhaled. “I need a drink.”
August 28
The Hague
Shanti Lahiri foughtto contain her frustration. “If I arrive with an armed escort, it will discourage survivors from speaking with me. These women were raped by military men. They watched soldiers murder their children, their husbands, everyone they knew.”
The first security company they’d hired to protect her had pulled out at the last minute for unknown reasons. Shanti had hoped that meant she wouldn’t have one, but Bram wouldn’t budge.
“I understand it makes your job more challenging, but I won’t send you in without a security detail.” Bram’s voice was infuriatingly calm, his Dutch accent almost imperceptible. “The camps aren’t safe. You know that.”
Two British journalists had been abducted from the Kutupalong refugee camp in Bangladesh last month, taken across the border into Myanmar, and then arrested and thrown in jail. Authorities in Myanmar claimed the two had crossed the border illegally and had been trying to steal state secrets. The charges against them were false, of course. They’d been doing exactly what Shanti was about to do—visiting Rohingya refugees in search of the truth about General Naing and the allegations that he had ordered ethnic cleansing, genocidal rape, and the killing of innocent Rohingya civilians.
The reporters had hoped to expose the truth about Naing in the press, but Shanti was traveling there to collect official witness statements on behalf of the International Criminal Court. She wanted to put Naing in prison.
“It’s not just Naing’s troops. There are reports of sex traffickers and sexual assault—”
“I wrote the brief, Bram. I understand the situation.” She’d been working on this case for almost two years.
Bram leaned back in his chair, looked at her through his bifocals. “We will, of course, insist on the greatest discretion. We want to keep your visit as low-key as possible—no press, no public statements, no social media, nothing on the website.”