Page 73 of The Endless Want

What they did to her plays like a film that never ends. And then the tail makes a mistake. He checks his phone.

A tiny flick downward, but it’s all I need to confirm he’s receiving instructions from someone else. Someone close. That’s when I decide this man isn’t walking away.

But they’ve forgotten something fundamental. I don’t take messages. I return them.

I cut down the alley between the hardware shop and the empty pub. My boots hit wet pavement, echoing off stone. He hesitates at the entrance—one second too long—before he follows.

I can feel him behind me. Hear the soft exhale. Hear the shift in his stance. He thinks he ambushed me.

Maybe he just wants to rattle me or get information. I can’t even tell what game they’re playing. But this battle will be won by me, and they’ll be getting a hell of a surprise.

I turn around slow, letting the moment stretch, and watch realization sweep over his face like shadow cutting across a field.

“You’re not very good at this,” I say.

He doesn’t respond. Russians rarely do. They don’t speak unless spoken to by their own. They don’t improvise. They repeat orders like a prayer.

I step closer. He steps back. The city hums somewhere far away.

When he reaches for his coat, he makes it a warning. I make it his last mistake.

I move quickly—faster than he expects, faster than he’s trained to counter. I take his wrist, twist, and force him to drop whatever he thought he’d use on me. His breath rushes out in a grunt as I slam him against the brick wall. The impact reverberates up my arm, but it’s his sharp intake of air I focus on.

His eyes flash with fear. He knows me. They all do. This poor newbie wasn’t told what he was getting himself into.

I lean in. “You’ve been following the wrong Irishman.”

He tries to struggle. It’s half-hearted, desperate, panicked. And in that panic, I see the truth—his orders weren’t reconnaissance. They were pursuit. But pursuit of whom?

I tighten my grip until he chokes on his next breath. I lower my voice to a quiet, lethal growl. “Who sent you?”

He refuses. So I do what I came here to do.

It’s quick. Clean. A sound more than a sight, a finality more than a spectacle.

His body hits the pavement, and I don’t waste a second looking at it. I step out of the alley and into the open street where two old men are smoking, a younger couple shares an umbrella, and a bus brakes at the curb.

People see me. They see the alley behind me. They see the shift in my shoulders, the set of my jaw.

Let them. This message is meant to travel. The Russians wanted escalation? They’ve got it.

I wipe my hands on my coat and walk straight back to the compound.

I push through the doors into noise and stale air, and Liam is waiting in the office, arms folded, jaw clenched tight enough to crack his teeth. The second he sees me, he pushes away and strides over.

“You disappeared off-grid again,” he snaps under his breath. “And Conor said you stormed out like you were hunting someone. Am I supposed to guess what the hell you’ve done?”

I almost tell him the truth dipped in sharpness, but I force myself to rein it in. Ailish’s voice slips through my head, a strange anchor I don’t know whether to resent or cling to.

I take a slow breath. “Had a tail.”

His expression shifts—not surprised, just irritated in a way that masks worry. “And?”

“And it’s dealt with.”

A muscle jumps in his jaw. “By ‘dealt with,’ you mean you made another public display?” I don’t answer. I don’t need to.

A breath leaves him, long and aggravated, and then he mutters, “Jesus, Declan. You know the Italians are monitoring everything. Appearances matter. Control matters.”