Chapter 38

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Cass gasped, her fingers pausing on the keyboard as a sense of dread slithered down the base of her neck.

“Cass? What’s wrong?” Eveline asked, her hand landing on Cass’s arm.

“Something’s wrong. I can feel it.” She pushed back from her desk and was out of her office in half a heartbeat.

Irish should be back from his walk. He said he wouldn’t be long, but it’d been over an hour since he’d come to see her.

Cass needed him to wrap her up in his arms and tell her everything was okay, with nothing to worry about.

Except, when she got to his desk, it was empty. A half-drunk cup of coffee sat beside his monitor. A pen rested across a pad where he’d scribbled

What is his next move?

It didn’t take all her CIA training to work out the question Irish had sought was about her uncle.

“Where is he?” she yelled at anyone who was nearby.

Ox came rushing out of his office. “Cass? Talk to me.”

She whirled, as if Irish would magically appear.

He didn’t.

“Irish. Dylan. Where. Is. He.” Hysteria bubbled up inside of her, warring with the feeling of dread that hadn’t passed.

If anything, it’d gotten worse.

“Cass, he went for a walk. I’m sure he’ll be back soon,” Angel said, his voice calm and gentle.

She didn’t want calm and gentle. She needed answers. “He should be back. He’s been gone too long. Why isn’t he back?”

Hands gripped her biceps, gentle, but strong at the same time. “Cass, I need you to look at me.”

Cass met Ox’s gaze, noting the concern shining them. She was also aware Eveline was beside him, and everyone was looking at her. “Something’s happened,” she whispered. “I can feel it. ”

Her boss nodded. “Okay, let’s go into the conference room.”

At least he hadn’t dismissed her concerns. Not that he would. If she knew anything about Ox—and she knew a lot, as she’d worked for him for a long time—he didn’t dismiss anything anyone was feeling, thinking or saying. He listened, considered, then went into action.

As if she were outside of herself, Cass was aware of them moving and her being seated. A glass of water appeared in front of her, but if she picked it up, it would spill everywhere. Her hands were shaking too much.

In the background, she heard Ox murmuring to someone. Something about camera feeds. Pinging a cellphone. It should be her doing that. That was her job, but it was as though she was now in a trance. There but not there.

What was happening to her?

Why couldn’t she focus?

Where was Irish?

She wanted him beside her. Holding her hand. Giving her strength to face whatever was happening.

“Cass? You’re safe. You’re okay.”

Those were the words that Irish always said when she had a bad headache, but the voice saying those words wasn’t the deep, smooth tone of Irish .

Somehow, she made herself look at who was speaking.

Ox’s gentle smile filled her line of vision. The fog she’d fallen into drifted away like clouds on a windy day.

The clacking of a keyboard registered, along with the low buzz of conversation.

She blinked a couple more times and sat up straighter. While the fear still lurked in her soul, it was replaced by awareness and knowledge that Irish needed her to get her shit together.

“There she is.” Ox smiled. “You good?”

“No, but I need to be.” She looked up at the large TV screen affixed to the wall. Eveline had split the view into two. One screen showed a frozen image of the foyer of the building. Another had the image of the building’s entrance from the opposite side. Eveline had done what she would’ve had she been asked to.

“Right. Tell me what happened?” Ox sat forward, his hands clutched together, resting on his knees.

“I’m not sure. It was really weird.” Cass quickly explained the feeling that’d overcome her and how she instinctively knew that something was wrong with Irish.

Ox didn’t interrupt her, just took it all in. “If you feel like something’s wrong then, something is. We’ve all had our gut instincts lead us into the right direction and keep us from danger.”

While she’d known that her boss wouldn’t have laughed away her concerns, hearing it was completely different to thinking it. The fog that had shrouded her had disappeared, and her mind was whirring with all the things they needed to do. “Eveline, may I?” She canted her head at the keyboard in front of her friend.

“Of course.” The brunette passed it to Cass.

This is what she needed to do. Get her mind on a solution for the problem, not contribute to it by getting overly emotional.

There was nothing wrong with feeling the way she was feeling, but to help Irish, she needed to lock it down—like he’d do for her if the roles were reversed.

With a few taps, Cass had the footage Eveline had secured playing.

Silence descended around the room as they watched Irish step out of the building and turn right. The moment he went off screen, she switched it to the camera from the store front that faced them.

There he was, walking down the street, hands in his pocket with his head lowered, probably because of the bright sun. “Any pings on his cell phone, Ev?” she asked as she used her skills to hack into the cameras from all surrounding buildings as well as the traffic ones.

The picture on the TV split until most of the cameras she had accessed were playing. “Oh fuck,” Angel murmured at the exact time her stomach hollowed out.

Her eyes remained glued to the screen as the scene unfolded.

Two men came up alongside Irish. To the average onlooker there was nothing sinister about it. They way one slapped Irish on the back, it gave the impression that they all knew each other.

Then the other man placed his hand on Irish’s neck.

Her man flinched. He’d been injected with something.

“Ramirez has made his move.” Ox slammed his fist onto the table as they watched the two men bundle Irish in the back of a van.

The shock that had consumed Cass returned, threatening to drag her under again, but she pushed back, no matter how much she wanted to fall into it. “Why did they go after him? Why not me? Didn’t Isaac say that Gomez wanted me? Why did he take Dylan?” Something wet splashed on her the back of her hand, and she reached to find tears streaming down her face.

Why did everyone she love always get taken from her?

Irish groaned as another kick slammed into his ribs, the pain so sharp that breathing in and out was becoming difficult.

He’d been woken up this way, and ever since, he’d taken the kicks and punches without anything more than the occasional sharp inhalation, but that one—that one hurt. He definitely had a couple broken ribs.

His head snapped to the right as a fist connected with his cheek bone.

Blood pooled in his mouth, and he spat it out on the ground.

They could give it their best, but they weren’t going to break him.

Irish wasn’t going to beg them to stop.

Ramirez had gotten him, and Irish had guessed why—he wanted to lure Cass to him. Wanted to trade her for him. No way was Irish going to let that happen. If he had to die to save her, he would.

“Enough!”

Irish recognized Issac, or Javier’s, familiar voice

“Fuck off, Javier. You’re not involved in this.” The man fired off in Spanish—one of the three languages Irish could speak.

Through his swollen eyes, he made out the man who’d been hitting him, stomping over to where Isaac was standing.

“Mr. Rook said he was mine.”

Who the fuck is Mr. Rook?

Was he Ramirez, or was there someone else involved that they didn’t know about?

“I know. But I want to join in the fun.” The way Isaac spoke was completely different from how he’d been at Alliez’s offices the day before.

He was every inch Javier Cortez at the moment.

“Why?”

“Because these fuckers have been a pain in our asses for months. It’s a joy to finally get one of them.” Isaac spat on the ground in front of where Irish was bound to a chair.

If Irish didn’t know who he really was, he’d believe he really meant every word. No wonder Isaac had been able to work his way through the organization into the position he currently held.

“They think they’re so much better than us. But they’re weak,” Isaac mocked and kicked the chair with enough force it clattered to the ground.

Irish’s head bounced against the hard floor. His vision clouded, and he clung onto his consciousness by a thread.

The other man in the room laughed. “They are fucking weak. Let’s play, Javier.”

“Let’s,” Isaac agreed.

Irish braced himself for the onslaught. Being on the ground put him in a more vulnerable position than he had been when he’d been upright. He tightened his already throbbing muscles for the kicks and punches, but found himself up again as Isaac hauled the chair from the ground.

“I want to see your face when I punch you. On the ground, you can hide like the coward you are.” Isaac goaded, getting right in his face.

“Give it your best shot, asshole,” Irish taunted in Spanish, so they both knew that no matter what they said, he’d understand it.

Isaac laughed. “Did you hear that? He speaks our language. Well, good for him. Doesn’t mean we’re going to take it easy on him, does it Jorge? ”

Jorge’s response was to laugh and sucker punch Irish in the stomach.

A breath whooshed out of him, and he attempted to suck more in, but his lungs stuttered, and he coughed—against his will. He didn’t want to show them any weakness, even an involuntary one.

Irish wasn’t prepared for the follow-up punch against the side of his head, and this time, he couldn’t help but fall into the dark depths of unconsciousness.

At least for now, he would be pain free.

Fight, Dylan. Hang on, we’re coming from you.

Cass’s voice floated around him, and he could swear she was standing beside him, whispering in her ear.

“Cass,” he mumbled, wishing he could touch her. Feel her hands on him. When he tried to lift his arms, they wouldn’t move.

Slowly, awareness returned, along with it the pain in his ribs and the side of his face, and a continual throb in his head.

“Ahh, sleeping beauty awakens. It’s about time.” Heavily accented English filled the room, and Irish didn’t have to open his eyes to know that they’d been joined by Gomez Ramirez.

“You made a big mistake, Ramirez.” Irish’s words were slurred, so they lacked the impact he’d been going for.

“I’m not sure why you think that. You’re exactly where I want you. You’re all fools.”

The thumping in Irish’s head made thinking—or focus of any kind—difficult. With Ramirez in the room, he needed to keep his cool.

He twisted his hands. The rope dug a little farther into his wrists. His legs were bound with cable ties, making movement impossible. “What do you want?”

Ramirez came to where he was situated in the middle of the room. A different room from the one he’d been in before.

Fuck, he’d been so out of it, he’d been unaware they’d moved him.

Irish’s eyes were more swollen than they had been before he’d been knocked out. Through the cracks, he could make out that Isaac was in the room as well as Jorge.

Were there other men in the building?

Isaac hadn’t been one of the men who’d accosted him on the street, so that would mean there was another person lurking around.

Whoever they were, the undercover agent hadn’t known they were in place, which meant Ramirez was doing things without telling his supposed right-hand man.

Where was he?

Was Irish at the house that the DEA and Fox and Jag had been watching?

Unlikely.

He strained his ears hear anything beyond where he was being held, but it was as though the room had been soundproofed because he could only hear was his own breathing. Although, every breath was a stab of agony in his middle. If he didn’t need to breathe, he wouldn’t.

“I want what I’ve always wanted—my niece.”

“Then why take me, if you want her?”

Ramirez backed away. “Because you are the way I’m getting her. Are we ready?”

“Yes. Everything is set up.” Isaac squatted beside Irish.

What was he about to do?

“Hang tight,” Isaac murmured while he fiddled with the rope.

A slight easing of pressure against Irish’s wrists suggested Isaac was loosening the bindings.

Or was he imagining it? He wanted to shift his hands around to test his theory, but he held back. If the ropes were looser, he wasn’t going to let Ramirez or Jorge know what Isaac had done.

Irish might not like the man too much, but he wasn’t going to do anything to jeopardize his assignment.

“Javier, get back here. What are you doing?” Ramirez demanded.

“Making sure the ropes are secure, Mr. Rook.”

There it is. Confirmation Ramirez is Mr. Rook.

Irish filed that information away. He couldn’t guess if Isaac had given it to be helpful or if he always addressed the man with that moniker in situations like this.

Not that it mattered. Isaac had told him to hang tight. That could only mean something was happening, and he had loosened the ropes in preparation for whatever was going to go down.