Page 11 of The Endless Want

I clear my throat. “I’ll take these rifles to storage. Keep it quiet until I say otherwise.”

She nods, composure snapping back into place. “I’ll handle the manifests.”

Neither of us moves. Then she turns and walks away, leaving me with the smell of salt and gun oil and the uncomfortable truth that I’m already in deeper than I planned.

The rain follows me all the way back to the safe house, an old garage that smells of oil and gunmetal. The hum of the fluorescents makes the silence worse. I throw my coat over a chair, drop the box of rifles on the workbench, and stand there watching the water drip from the hem of my sleeve.

Every weapon is tagged in Russian. Every serial number is filed off.

I pick one up. Heavy. Clean. New enough that someone’s been running supplies through our docks in the past week. Somebody with access.

I scroll through the manifests on my phone. Five names appear at the bottom of the authorization list—three dock foremen, one accountant, and one liaison. The liaison’s name makes my stomach knot.

Ailish. Of course, it’s her. Or maybe someone is using her codes. Either way, she’ll take the blame when this breaks open. Liam won’t hesitate.

I slam the phone down, take a breath, and call Conor.

He answers on the second ring. “You sound like you swallowed nails.”

“Get me everything on last night’s cargo. Who signed off, who keyed the system, who clocked in early.”

“That bad?”

“Worse. We’ve got rifles with Russian stamps sitting in our warehouse.”

He whistles low. “Liam know?”

“Not yet. I’ll tell him when I have a name.”

“Uh huh. And you already ran the authorization list yourself before you called me, or you wouldn’t be talking like a man who’s decided something.”

“Conor.”

“Five names on that list and only one of them keeps you up at night.” A pause. “Meaning you need evidence it’s not hers?”

I don’t answer. The silence tells him enough.

“Be careful, Dec. If Liam catches you shielding her⁠—”

“Just do what I asked.”

I hang up before he can finish.

By the time I reach Liam’s office that evening, the rain’s stopped, but the air still feels heavy. Guards nod me through without comment. Inside, Liam’s pacing behind his desk, phone to his ear, voice calm in that way that means he’s already furious.

He ends the call, turns, and studies me. “You look like hell.”

“Thanks. We have a problem.”

“I usually assume that when you walk in.”

I toss the photograph of the rifles onto his desk. “Russians. At our docks.”

His jaw sets. “How sure?”

“Sure enough that I nearly shot two of them this morning.”

He examines the picture, expression unreadable. “And you didn’t tell me sooner because…?”