Page 67 of Stolen Rebel

“She didn’t. She caught Rowan with a burner phone. Sorcha brought it to me. I got the number from it and went from there.”

“When was this?”

His eyes flick up and to the left. “Monday.”

Three days ago. Fucking Sorcha. The day she insisted on talking to Rowan she knew about the burner and didn’t tell me. Then again, now I’m calmer, I can’t blame her for sharing with Patrick and not me. He’s her priority. Doesn’t mean I won’t take a verbal swipe at her next time our path’s cross and remind her we’re all family now. I open the folder again. Take out the photo. Stare at it, committing it to memory. This guy stole my woman from me, and I’m going to find out why.

“So,” Patrick prompts. “What’s the plan?”

I tap the address on the sheet. “Surveillance. I want eyes on this prick twenty-four seven. Where he goes, who he meets, what he eats for fucking breakfast.” I turn to Darragh. “Can you get a phone tap set up?”

“Give me a challenge at least.” He grins then faces Patrick. “While we’re talking about Murray, I’m working on scrubbing his private cloud as we discussed. Man’s got an encrypted partition, which, if he wasn’t Garda and clearly an utter piece of shit human, I’d be impressed. I’m running a script on it now. Should have it cracked and wiped before the day is out.”

“When I’m ready, I’ll pay him a visit.” I stare at the photograph again. Probably thinks he’s so clever, so protected hiding behind law enforcement. “What I still can’t fathom is what he got out of this? Why stage a murder to frighten a woman then offer to save her by putting her into witness protection?”

“I doubt it’s legit.” Patrick pushes his glasses up his nose. “And you don’t know for certain that the murder she tells you she saw is fake.”

“No, but my gut tells me that it is, and now I have a date, it won’t take long to prove or disprove it. For now, Rowan believes it’s real, that she’s part of some police protection unit.” I rub my chin.

“Maybe he’s in love with her.”

Every possessive instinct in me rears up, vicious and unyielding. I clench my jaw until it aches, glaring at Darragh. “Then he’s about to learn a painful lesson in letting go.”

“You sure about this?” Patrick asks. “Going after a gard, one who could have connections we’re not aware of yet. Could get messy.”

“Since when have we given a shit about messy?” I slot the photo into the folder and tuck it under my arm. “She’s been hiding for five years because of this cunt. Living in fear, looking over her shoulder, pretending to be someone she’s not. That’s about to end.”

“Alright.” Patrick nods once, decisive. “I’ll put a couple of our best lieutenants on it. Rotating shifts. And Liam.” He waits until I look at him. “When you do confront him, try not to kill him before you get answers.”

I huff a laugh. “No fucking promises.”

“Liam.” There’s a warning in his voice now. “We do this smart. Controlled. Patient. You go in rage blind, and you might spook him into doing something stupid.”

I nod. “Surveillance first. Let’s see what crawls out of the woodwork.”

Chapter 31

LIAM

Murders leave trails. Missing persons reports, investigations, eventual death certificates once the body turns up. If the murder Rowan believes she witnessed is real, finding those things is a cakewalk.

I cock my head at Darragh, and we make our way to his office. He sits behind his desk while I pour us a drink. His fingers fly over the keyboard. Takes him less than five minutes to confirm what my instincts already told me.

“There was no murder on January twelfth five years ago.”

“You’re certain? Not even one that a member of our rival gangs could’ve hidden?”

“Positive. Your gut was right on the money.”

I chew the inside of my lip and drop into the chair across from him. “So someone went to a lot of trouble to make her believe she saw something that wasn’t real.”

“Yup.” Darragh leans back, fingers lacing behind his head. “This isn’t two lads with a fake blood capsule having the craic. You’d need something convincing enough that a woman like Rowan, young, yes, but also smart, would believe with absolute certainty that she’d witnessed a man die.”

“Professional actors?”

“Could be. Or people with enough training to pass for professional. Amateur theater, bit part players maybe.” He turns back to the screen and starts typing.

“What are you looking for?”