Page 99 of Ruined By a Devil

A smile pops on my face as soon as that realization hits me.

But the thing is, I am not finished with Nolan Devlin. In fact, I am far from being finished with him.

“He was spotted in Boston,” Cain says from the driver’s seat. He hasn’t taken his eyes off the restaurant entrance. “Elijah’s guy at the port confirmed it an hour ago. The guy saw him walk out of a shipping office near the northern docks on Tuesday. Said he looked thinner. Hair dyed dark.”

“And?” I ask.

“And nothing,” Cain says, his jaw tightening. “By the time our guys kicked the door in, the office was scrubbed. All the computers were smashed and Nolan was already gone. He doesn’t stay in one place for more than twelve hours.”

I stare at the rain running down the glass. Nolan is starving, but he is smart. He knows how important it is to be moving constantly. We keep getting notices, blurry camera feeds, whispers from dock workers, but every time we close the net, it comes up empty. He keeps moving and every time we arrive a few hours too late.

“Chasing him across the country isn’t working,” Cain says, reaching into his jacket and pulling out a small camera, resting it on the steering wheel. “So we stop chasing him, we let his blood trail lead us to him.”

I look across the street at a black town car pulling up to the valet stand in front of the restaurant. The valet opens the rear door with an umbrella and two women step out into the rain.

“His aunt and his cousin,” Cain says, lifting the camera, the shutter clicking rapidly, capturing their faces under the streetlights. “They stayed out of this business. Nolan’s father kept them clean, bought them a house in the suburbs. They act like they don't know anything.”

“But they do,” I say.

“Nolan is running out of cash,” Cain replies, lowering the camera. “He can’t use his old accounts and he needs money to pay the men he took with him.”

We watch the two women walk into the restaurant. They look comfortable, wearing expensive coats and carry designer bags. They have absolutely no idea they are bait.

Cain reaches for the door handle. He pulls up the collar of his dark coat.

“Where are you going?” I ask.

“Inside,” Cain says, his eyes fixed entirely on the restaurant doors. “I’ve been sitting outside this place for three weeks. They come here every Thursday night. They sit at the same table in the back. I'm going to grab a drink at the bar, get close, and listen.”

“If they spot you, the connection burns,” I warn him.

“They won't spot me," Cain says, his voice is cold, carrying that familiar Kavanagh edge. “I’m going to follow them home. I'm going to track every phone call they make, every bank withdrawal they sign, and every piece of mail they send. Nolan will reach out to them eventually. He has no one else left.”

I look at my brother. The focus hungry for black in his eyes matches my own. Nolan Devlin put a gun to my wife's head. He abducted her. He made her believe I wouldn't get to her in time. And for the first time in my entire life, I understood what absolute helplessness feels like. The debt is permanent.

My phone buzzes again and I take it out.

Did you actually eat?

Cain looks over. “She’s checking up on you again?”

“Shut up, Cain,” As much as I care about my family, my brothers can sometimes be a real pain in the ass.

I type back a short reply.

No.

Her response comes immediately, making my heart sink.

Malachi.

Busy.

You said that six hours ago.

I stare at the message, unsure what to type back. She’s right and I can’t really argue with her about it.

Then another one appears before I get to respond to the first one.