by Elle Kennedy
“Shit,” Bailey said. She needed those blueprints now. If the holdup was still in progress when she landed, she had every intention of finding a way into that bank.
“It might take a while. I’m working as fast as I can, though.” There was a pause. “Is there really no way to talk you out of this?”
“Nope.” Her tone was light, but the tension weighing on her chest was heavier than a block of cement.
A part of her still questioned her decision to hightail it out of England to rescue Sean Reilly, but no matter how many times the rational part of her brain tried to point out that she didn’t even like the man, she hadn’t been able to talk herself out of it.
She and Sean might not be bosom buddies, but he’d helped her out in the past. Helped her colleagues, too. And yes, he was annoying and arrogant and so reckless she wasn’t sure how he was still alive, but he wasn’t a criminal. He didn’t rob banks, for fuck’s sake, which meant that his presence at Dublin National was part of something . . . bigger. Something that could very well get him killed.
“You know what?” she told Paige. “Forget about the blueprints. I have another source I can hit up for those. I want you to focus on accessing all the security cameras in the area. I want to know where every member of law enforcement is positioned. Try to access the cameras inside the bank, too.”
“Copy that.”
Bailey hung up and ran a hand through her hair, once again going over the details of the robbery. It was Sean’s voice she’d heard on the TV. She was certain of that. But why the hell was he inside the bank? What had that idiot gotten himself into?
“Ten minutes until descent,” the pilot called from the cockpit, twisting around in his seat to give her a thumbs-up.
She nodded in return. She hadn’t flown with Greg before, but Paige had, and the woman said he could be trusted. Bailey found it ironic—she had an easier time trusting a man she’d known for less than an hour than she had trusting Sean Reilly, a man she’d known for years.
Her gaze drifted out the window as she considered everything she knew about Sean. He’d been born and raised in Dublin, but he’d lived all over the world, including New York for a few years. He’d had a variety of unsavory professions—mercenary, information dealer, errand boy for an Irish gangster. His dad had been IRA and trained his sons to be soldiers for the cause, but Sean and his brother had strayed from the group, choosing their own path.
Could he be working for O’Hare again? Bailey knew that Eamon “Rabbit” O’Hare had been heavily involved in Sean’s life when he was a kid. Sean’s dad had been the Irish Dagger leader’s right-hand man. But in the five years she’d kept tabs on Sean and Oliver, there hadn’t been any indication that they were still in contact with the Irish gangster.
A frustrated groan crawled up her throat, but she choked it back. Why was she running to help him, damn it? They’d slept together. Once. And the bastard had lied to her. Didn’t matter that he’d owned up to it immediately after. He’d still come to her hotel room that night pretending to be someone else. Just because she’d known who he was certainly didn’t excuse his deception. She should be celebrating that he was in trouble, not rushing to get him out of it.
The phone buzzed in her hand, providing a much-needed distraction from her turbulent thoughts. “Hey,” she said when Rafe’s voice echoed in her ear. “What are we looking at over there?”
“We’ve got a dozen gardai front and back. Blockade on the street, but a looser formation at the rear. Two snipers street side, positioned on the rooftops. But there’s got to be another one in the back. Haven’t made him yet.”
“I’m working on getting us more intel,” she told him. “Stay in position. I’m landing in five. Rendezvous in thirty.”
“Gotcha.”
Rafe disconnected abruptly, but just knowing he was backing her up filled Bailey with relief. She’d worked with him a handful of times over the years, having met him when she was still with the CIA and Rafe was working in Spanish intelligence. He’d left his agency after a falling-out with a supervisor and had gone private, now operating out of the UK. She was damn lucky he’d been in Dublin when she’d SOS’d him. With Paige refusing to help, and the rest of her colleagues halfway across the globe, Bailey desperately needed Rafe’s assistance.
But she needed someone else too. Someone she had no desire to get tangled up with again.
Anger and annoyance rippled through her as she scrolled through her contact list and pulled up the number. Goddamn Sean for putting her in this position. She was sticking her neck out for him, and knowing him, he probably wouldn’t express an ounce of gratitude for what she was about to do.
She hesitated for a beat, then dialed. Because hell, she was already in this deep.
The call didn’t connect right away. Instead, a series of clicks met her ears, which told her the call was being rerouted several times before reaching her contact. She knew the drill, though. It was the same on her end, calls bouncing from tower to tower to make it impossible for anyone to trace her. She’d always received great satisfaction from the knowledge that nobody could pinpoint her location, not even her former employer, a man with endless resources. But now, thanks to Sean, she was practically waving a flag around and begging her past to find her.
A moment later, a female voice came on the line. Absolutely delighted and more than a little smug. “Hey, stranger.”
Bailey clenched her teeth. “Gwen. I need a favor.”
The other woman’s peal of laughter only grated harder. “Really, Bailey? Two years without a word, without so much as a postcard, and this is what I get? No ‘How are ya?’ No ‘How’s the old gang doing?’”
“There is no old gang,” she muttered. Gwen knew damn well that Bailey had been a loner during her time at the company. She worked solo. Period. Her only contact with the other operatives had come from occasionally bumping into them on the rare occasions she stopped by headquarters to be debriefed.
“I don’t have much time,” she added tersely. “I’m cashing in on that favor you owe me. You know, the carte blanche you promised me when I rescued your ass from that hellhole in Uganda?”
“I was hoping you’d forgotten about that.”
Despite herself, Bailey smiled. “Do I ever forget anything?”
“No. You don’t.” Gwen paused. “What can I do for you, honeybunch?”
“Before I tell you, you have to promise that you’ll do it in a way that doesn’t put me on Daniels’s radar.”
“Still playing cat and mouse with our boss, huh?” Gwen’s tone grew mocking, and Bailey could practically see the smirk on her face.
“Your boss, Gwen. Not mine. And I mean it—this has to be on the DL. I don’t want Daniels to know I’m back on the grid.”
“All right. Tell me what you need.”
“A detailed layout of Dublin National Bank, Fleet Street branch. Interior and exterior, entry and exit points, ventilation system, anything you can get your hands on. I need to know every inch of the place.” She paused. “Also, any intel you might have on the hostage situation that’s going down there right now.”
There was a pause, followed by another thoroughly amused laugh. “Since when do you get involved in local crime bullshit?”
Bailey ignored the taunt. “You’ll have to go through black channels, Gwen. I mean it. There can’t be a paper trail.”
“Sweetie, we both know I never leave a trail. I’m insulted you’d even suggest it.” Gwen chuckled again. “But I am flattered that you think my sources are superior to yours. You can easily find this information on your own.”
“Not as fast as you can,” she said irritably. “Can you do it?”
“I’ll see what I can do. Call you back in a jiffy.”
Gwen hung up, and Bailey released a sigh. She hated that she’d been forced to reach out to that crazy bitch.
Truth be told, Gwen scared the shit out of her. The woman was charming, highly skilled, and insanely dangerous. Her darede
vil attitude reminded Bailey a lot of her colleague Juliet, but while Juliet was all about self-preservation, Gwen had never seemed to care whether she lived or died. The woman operated without a parachute. She lived and breathed danger, got off on the adrenaline of it, and that made her a massive liability.
If Gwen told Daniels about Bailey’s call . . .
No, she had to trust that her old colleague would hold up her end of the deal and refrain from tipping off Daniels. Because if he got wind that she’d surfaced again . . . the bastard would be on the next flight out, coercing her into coming back to work for him. Or worse—trying to lure her into his bed again.
Not that he’d succeed. Bailey was done with the man, professionally and romantically. Daniels had recruited her when she was eighteen years old. He’d been her mentor. Her friend. Her lover.
Sleeping with him had been a mistake, though, only serving to illustrate that she hadn’t put her past behind her like she’d thought. She’d left one controlling bastard and replaced him with another, but she’d be damned if she let Isaac Daniels have any power over her again.
Fuckin’ Sean Reilly.
He owed her a frickin’ fruit basket for all the trouble she was going to for him.
* * *
Gwen called back five minutes after the chopper landed in the private airfield outside the city. The car Bailey had arranged for was waiting by the hangar, and she lifted the phone to her ear as she slid into the backseat of the sedan. She’d hired a driver so she’d be able to study any schematics Gwen and Paige sent over.
“I’m e-mailing you the blueprints,” Gwen said briskly.
Bailey hissed out an excited breath. “Are they up to date?”
“They’re the most current plans my source could find. Best I could do on such short notice.”
Bailey responded with reluctant gratitude. “Thank you. Anything I need to know about this robbery?”
“I didn’t find much more than what the news is reporting.” Gwen paused. “But there are a few whispers that this is the work of the Irish Dagger.”
Shit. That was exactly what Bailey had been afraid of.
What the hell was Sean involved in?
“Okay. Thanks again, Gwen.”
“We’re square now,” the woman said before Bailey could disconnect. “Next time you call me, it had better be to catch up. Oooh, we should go for drinks and—”
“Good-bye, Gwen.”
Bailey hung up the phone, then accessed her e-mail and downloaded the file Gwen had sent. She spent half the drive into the city going over every detail of the bank.
She found herself praying that the hostage situation would still be under way when she arrived. If the cops made a move before then, Sean might very well be dead.
The peculiar clenching of her gut gave her pause. She wasn’t sure why the thought of Sean dying bothered her so much. They barely knew each other. Well, outside the biblical sense.
But . . . no. She didn’t want him dead. No matter how angry she was at him, she didn’t want to see that cocky bastard eliminated from the face of the earth.
That’s why she was hoping the Garda hadn’t launched an assault. Though on the other hand, there was always the possibility that an ambush would result in arrests rather than deaths. Which was almost preferable—she’d have a far easier time rescuing Sean from police custody than getting him out of a heavily watched bank.
Her phone beeped when they were ten minutes from her rendezvous point with Rafe. Incoming e-mail from Paige, summarizing the positions of every law enforcement member in the vicinity. Paige had managed to get her hands on live security footage of the area, God bless her pretty red head. Nothing about the position of the snipers, though, but Paige’s e-mail said she was working on it.
Bailey scanned the information, then rubbed her temples, trying to ward off an oncoming headache. It was enough to make her wonder if maybe she ought to bring Morgan’s team into the loop. They wouldn’t be able to do much, considering they were nowhere near Dublin, but they would want to know about Sean’s predicament, wouldn’t they? Liam and Sullivan would for sure. She knew the two of them were pretty chummy with Sean.
After a second of hesitation, she shot a quick text to Liam, promised to keep him posted, and then went back to studying the bank layout. By the time the sedan neared the Temple Bar neighborhood where the bank was located, she had a good grasp of the interior and a feasible plan, depending on what Rafe had to say.
The sun had disappeared below the horizon line not long after she’d landed, but lampposts lit the streets and cast shadows on the faces of pedestrians wandering the sidewalks. Her driver took a detour because the Garda had barricaded two city blocks, thanks to the showdown at the bank, so she was five minutes late meeting Rafe. She got out of the sedan on the street parallel to Fleet, heading for the cobblestone alley sandwiched between two darkened storefronts.
“You’re late.” He emerged from the shadows, his dark eyes, dark hair, and dark stubble making it hard to see him clearly.
“Sorry. Had to take a detour.”
They didn’t shake hands. Didn’t hug or exchange smiles. Rafe Meriden wasn’t that kind of man. He always got right down to business without wasting time on pleasantries.
“The negotiator is still in contact with the gunmen,” he said briskly. “He’s taking the calls from inside one of the police cars parked in front of the bank.”
“Has the Emergency Response Unit made any moves?” she asked.
“None. No activity inside either. I overheard one of the gardai say the shots that were heard earlier were warning shots. Gunmen fired at the ceiling when they stormed the bank to get people’s attention. It’s been quiet since then.” He paused. “You saw the girl’s video?”
“Yes,” she said grimly.
Rafe frowned. “You’re certain your guy’s in there?”
Her guy. Hardly. If the cops didn’t shoot Sean, she’d do it herself.
“Yeah, he’s there.” She bent down and unzipped the canvas bag she’d brought from England, rummaging around until she found the case containing her comms. She took out two earpieces, popped one in her ear, and handed the other to Rafe.
The transmitters were motion activated, so she moved her hand over the tiny device to trigger the mic. “Paige, you read?”
“Loud and clear,” came her friend’s voice.
“Did you get the locations of the snipers?”
“Two across the street from the bank, one in the rear.”
“Be more specific,” Rafe demanded. “Where’s the third?”
“He’s on the roof of an apartment building. If the back door is twelve o’clock, our sniper is at six.”
Rafe and Bailey turned their heads inconspicuously toward the buildings to the east of them.
“Brick building,” Paige said. “Second flat from the top has Christmas lights strung on the balcony.”
Bailey glimpsed the blinking red and blue lights. “Got it. Thanks. I’ll get back to you.” She turned to Rafe. “You said there’s a dozen Garda officers in the back?”
He nodded. “What are you thinking?”
“We need to take out that rear sniper, for one.” Chewing on her bottom lip, she pulled up the blueprints on her phone and studied the screen. “There’s a ventilation grate five feet from the back door. I need to get to it without the guards spotting me.”
Rafe whistled under his breath. “You’re a crazy bitch, Bailey.”
“Do you think you can incapacitate the sniper and take his place?” she said slowly.
“Yes.” Rafe narrowed his eyes. “But then what?”
She bit the inside of her cheek, her brain rapidly sorting through details and variables. “You’ll have to create a distraction. Get the Garda’s eyes off the back door just long enough for me to infiltrate the bank.”
“I can do that. I’ve got an associate on standby.”
She didn’t bother asking who this “associate” was. Rafe was even more se
cretive than she was, and she had a lot of secrets.
“Can we trust him?”
“He’ll do whatever I ask.” Rafe paused. “What happens when you get inside?”
“I’ll have to improvise, I guess. But let’s cross one bridge at a time. We need that sniper removed from the equation first.”
Rafe went quiet for a beat. Then he sighed. “You sure this man of yours is worth the hassle?”
Nope. She wasn’t sure at all.
But she’d already come this far, and there was no backing out now.
Chapter 3
Turtle Creek, Costa Rica
Liam Macgregor stared at his phone, unable to fathom what he was seeing. Maybe Bailey had gone insane. Or maybe she’d popped some hallucinogens and was tripping balls right now.
Except . . . well, fuck. Bailey wouldn’t make something like that up. And although she had a pretty kick-ass sense of humor, she didn’t joke around when it came to Sean Reilly. The only time Liam had ever seen hostility in Bailey’s normally laid-back demeanor was when she was discussing the man.
He rose from one of the brown leather couches in the compound’s massive, chalet-style living room and switched on the flat-screen television. It took no time at all to verify Bailey’s story. All he had to do was turn the channel to CNN, and there it was. Hostage situation unfolding at Dublin National Bank.
There was no mention of Sean Reilly, though. According to the newscaster, the gunmen were still unidentified, all six of them, but Liam would never dream of questioning Bailey or undermining her instincts. The woman was a former CIA operative and a professional assassin. She’d had more training and battle experience than Liam, and she was capable of things that, in all honesty, scared him shitless.
If Bailey said Sean was in the bank, then Sean was in the bank.
The question was . . . why?
What kind of fucked-up craziness had Sean gotten himself into?
Cursing under his breath, Liam strode through the heavy oak doors and hurried up one of the twin staircases in the front parlor. The house where Liam and several of his team members resided was huge, offering endless hallways and bedroom suites, and that was just the top three floors. The basement housed a sixteen-seat theater, a fully equipped gym, a sprawling game room, and an indoor target range.
