Cillian doesn’t move at first, and I don’t either, and the pause stretches long enough to make the interruption feel like a mercyI didn’t ask for. The knock comes again, then the door opens without waiting. Roarke steps in with his phone in his hand, and his eyes flick once to me, then back to Cillian. “Gate three,” he says. “We’ve got your Wicklow plate van, and it’s not a delivery.”
Cillian’s grip loosens, not all the way, but enough to change the immediacy of the moment. Roarke keeps going. “Driver’s claiming he’s got paperwork for admin, but the documents don’t match the port tags, and he’s sweating like he ran here.”
My heartbeat stays even, but my brain goes fast.
Wicklow.
My father’s ridge.
My father’s reach.
I keep my face calm and my hand on Cillian’s wrist, then I let go first, and I step back like I was leaving anyway. Cillian’s eyes stay on mine for one more beat, and the look in them says he hasn’t forgotten what he almost did.
He turns to Roarke. “Where is he?”
“Side gate. Holding pen.”
Cillian nods once and looks at me. “Stay.”
It isn’t a request.
Roarke’s gaze shifts to my blazer, then to my face, then away, like he’s deciding where I fit in a room that’s never had a place for me.
Cillian walks out, and Roarke follows, and I’m left in the study with the folder on the table and the quiet closing in.
I don’t waste time staring at the paper again. I already saw what Cillian wanted me to see, and I already showed him what I can do. Now he’s walking toward a van tied to my father’s territory, and if that van is here for me, then I need to know it before Cillian does.
I step out, shut the door behind me, and walk down the corridor with the same pace I use at my desk.
The building feels different at night. Less noise, fewer voices, fewer bodies to hide behind.
I take the stairs down and cut through the back hall, and the security camera above the landing follows me. I keep my head up and my hands visible.
Two guards at the side exit glance over and don’t stop me. One opens the door without a word.
Outside, the yard lights throw white pools on the concrete, forklifts sit parked like sleeping animals, and the cranes stand still against the dark.
I head toward gate three.
Roarke’s men stand near the holding pen, shoulders square, hands loose at their sides. The van is parked at an angle, engine off, front wheels turned wrong like the driver wanted to bolt and didn’t get the chance.
Cillian stands near the driver door. The driver is a man I don’t recognize, late twenties, cheeks flushed, eyes bright with fear he’s trying to hide. He’s holding a folder with both hands like it’s a shield. Roarke is two steps behind Cillian, and Kavanagh is off to the side with a clipboard, watching the van plate like it’s a name on a grave.
Cillian doesn’t look at me when I approach, but he shifts half a step, and the movement tells me he knew I’d come anyway.
He speaks to the driver. “You’re on my ground.”
The driver swallows. “I’m delivering documents.”
“For whom?”
“Admin.”
Cillian nods once like he’s considering it, then he looks at the folder. “Open it.”
The driver hesitates, then slides it open and holds up printed pages. I can see the top sheet from where I’m standing, and I know the shape of those forms. I’ve seen them on my father’s table, and I’ve filled them out for our contractors when I was younger.
It’s a cover.