Page 24 of The Endless Want

“Who.”

He hesitates.

“Dara,” he breathes, and the name comes out like a curse.

It hits me low and sharp. I force my expression to remain still. “And?” I prompt, “What’s her assignment?”

“I don’t know.”

I grab him by the shirt and shove him against the wall hard enough to shake tools off a nearby shelf. “You ran her for six years. You knew what she ate for breakfast.”

“That was before.” His voice cracks. “They moved her off my desk in the spring and nobody told me why. I’ve been getting the same scraps as everyone else since.” He squeezes his eyes shut. “I only heard whispers, I swear. She’s… she’s marking someone.”

My blood goes still. “Who?”

“I don’t know the objective,” Grigor stammers. “Only that it’s a woman. Someone visible. Someone important to the Irish.”

The world narrows to a single point. “Name.”

He shakes harder. His voice breaks. “Ailish.”

It’s a knife to the chest.

I stare at him. I don’t speak. I don’t blink. I let silence press against him until he’s shaking like a leaf in winter. “Who signs off on her now?”

“A call,” Grigor whispers. “Someone said her name. Said eyes were already on her. Said she was… ideal for the message they want to send.”

“Message?”

“I didn’t hear more, I swear—please⁠—”

I release him. He collapses to the floor, gasping. He’s lucky I’m not asking more questions.

For now.

The moment I open the door, the casino noise hits me again, louder and sharper—like the building itself is laughing under its breath. I move through it on autopilot. Past the craps tables. Past the bar. Past the guards who don’t recognize what kind of storm is building in my chest.

I step out into the night air.

It’s cold enough to make my breath visible.

My hands shake as I pull out my phone. Anger burns so hot it borders on calm. The kind of calm that precedes violence. The kind that terrifies anyone smart enough to notice.

I open the hidden app. The one that pings Ailish’s phone. The one she never found. Her dot glows blue.

She’s moving. Not toward home. Probably another assignment. Or her just being stubborn about her safety.

My pulse drops into a tight, deadly rhythm. A feral sound escapes my raw throat. I slam the car door, grip the wheel too tightly, and pull into traffic. The city becomes a smear of colors through the windshield—streetlights, neon signs, brake lights, the blur of people who don’t know how close they are to losing everything.

My attention is on one thing only. Her. Because who knows how long she has to walk in safety before the next move is made?

I can’t let the Russians get a hold of her or force Liam’s hand against her with suspicion.

I make the drive back in half the time. I check the app again.

The dot moves two blocks. Slows. Stops.

My stomach drops.