Page 118 of The Endless Want

He gives a weak laugh, then grimaces at the pain. “You shouldn’t have let her come. She’s… important, no?”

His eyes are glassy, unfocused. He doesn’t know the truth. Not the full truth. But it doesn’t matter. I stand, leaving him as sirens begin to wail in the distance—someone has called it in. I don’t have time for police or for statements. Liam will handle the clean-up. The Italians will cover the bodies. The Russians will be long gone by the time anyone with authority arrives.

I scan the street for any sign of a clue—skid marks, a dropped weapon, anything—and find the dark smear of rubber curving sharply east.

They turned off toward the industrial district. Not the docks. Not the highway. Somewhere with warehouses. Somewhere with blind corners and too many escape routes. Somewhere they can shift vehicles and switch personnel in minutes.

I run back to my bike. The front handlebar is bent from where it fell, but the engine still roars to life. I peel out from the curb, following the tire marks like my life depends on it—because hers does. The wind slaps against my face and burns my eyes, but I lean forward, pushing the bike faster. Every red light is a blur. Every car I pass is a meaningless obstacle.

After five minutes, the marks thin.

After seven, they vanish completely.

I circle twice, searching for a sign—an oil drop, a torn bumper, shattered glass—but the road is clean. Too clean. They swapped cars. They prepared. They anticipated someone would follow.

My pulse thunders in my ears as I pull into the mouth of an alley and kill the engine. For a moment, I sit there with my hands gripping the handlebar, chest heaving, mind screaming. Every thought collides into another—what they’ll do to her, how terrified she must be, how she will try to protect the baby even while being dragged into a van. I see her face in my mind, the fear in her eyes, the way she clutches her belly unconsciously whenever she feels threatened.

She’ll be counting. That’s the thing that guts me. She’ll be counting turns and minutes and how many voices, filing it all away the way she files everything, because that’s what she does when she’s frightened. She’s better at this than they know.

And she’s five months pregnant, and there were four SUVs, and being better at it has never once been enough against numbers.

I slam my fist against the handlebar, the pain ricocheting through my bones and grounding me just enough to think. Liam needs to know. Not in an hour. Not when the Italians finish their panic-laced calls.

Now.

I pull out my phone and dial. He answers on the second ring.

“Declan, what’s going⁠—”

“They took her.” My voice fractures on the words. “Ailish. They took her.”

Silence. Thick and heavy.

“When?” he asks, his tone low and deadly.

“Ten minutes ago. The convoy was ambushed. Italians down. They boxed them in and grabbed her.”

“Where are you now?”

“East side. They switched vehicles.”

More silence. Then:

“Come back. Now.”

“I’m going after her.”

“No.” His voice sharpens. “Declan, listen to me. You go alone, you’ll die. And then she’s lost. Get back here. We regroup.”

I stare at the end of the alley, the sun dropping behind the buildings like a curtain lowering over a stage. She’s out there in the growing dark, terrified, hurt, running out of time. Every instinct in my body screams to ignore him—to run, to tear the city apart barehanded, to find her no matter what stands in my way.

But he’s right. If I rush into this blind, I’m not saving her. I’m joining her.

I swallow hard, forcing air into my lungs. “I’m on my way.”

I hang up before I can change my mind and rev the bike. As I shoot back into traffic, the last thing I see in the rearview mirror is the empty alley behind me—a narrow, quiet stretch of concrete and shadow where I feel, for the first time in years, completely and utterly helpless.

Ailish is gone.