The lobby doors glide open, and the guard behind the desk looks up, then past me, then back to me with the kind of polite blank expression that says he has already decided no.
“I need to see Cillian Byrne,” I say. “Now.”
His eyes drop to my coat, my shoes, my face. He doesn’t know me. That helps and hurts at the same time.
“Do you have an appointment?”
“No.”
“Then you can leave a message with reception.”
“It’s not a message.” I step closer and lower my voice. “It’s a live threat. If he leaves this building on the wrong route today, he gets killed.”
That gets a second guard moving from the side corridor, not alarmed, just ready. The first one presses an earpiece and keeps his voice calm.
“Name.”
I hesitate for half a beat, then give him the truth. “Saoirse.”
He waits, clearly expecting a surname.
“Just tell him Saoirse is here and tell him it’s about a contract on his life.”
“No.”
The word lands flat and immediate. He doesn’t even blink when he says it, and I feel heat rise in my face.
“You don’t understand.”
“I understand you’re agitated and making threats in the lobby of a private office.”
“I’m warning him.”
“Then leave what you have and go.”
I look toward the lift bank, toward the smoked glass wall beyond reception, toward the corridor I know leads to internal access. Two months and I still know the bones of this place, shift changes, camera angles, who stands where when senior staff are in the building. I know enough to know I’m out of time.
“Please,” I say, and I hate how raw it sounds. “Just tell Conall. He’ll know the names in the file.”
The second guard comes to my side, not touching me yet. “Ma’am.”
My hand tightens on the folder. I could drop the names and the route right here, loud enough for half the lobby to hear. I could burn the source, blow the operation, start a panic, and maybe still fail if they think I’m lying.
Then the side doors open.
I know his stride before I look. Fast, controlled, no wasted movement, men parting around him without making a performance of it. He has two people with him, one talking from a tablet, the other carrying papers, and he takes three steps into the lobby before he sees me.
He stops.
For one second, the whole room feels held in place.
He looks harder than he did the night he threw me out. Leaner through the face, more guarded in the eyes. His coat is dark, shirt open at the throat, and there is a fresh line of healing skin near his knuckles that wasn’t there before. He says nothing.
The guard nearest me straightens. “Mr. Byrne, she says she has threat information and is requesting immediate access. No appointment.”
His gaze never leaves my face. “I can see that.”
I move before I lose nerve. “Please listen to me.”