Page 6 of The Captive
During that night, all the hunters wore elaborate masks to hide our identities. Our darkest desires took centre stage.
I flexed my fingers, my scar rolling a bit with the movement.
I shut down the memory. Beatrice was Patrick's problem now—a trophy wife acquired in Ronan's power plays. I recalled her expression as she'd walked out of Ashford like a queen to her execution, none the wiser as to who I was. I had avoided her before then for the most part. Our eyes had met briefly, and something seemed to flash in her gaze before it hardened into loathing. I had kept my hands in my pocket, kept my distance, so she couldn't possibly realise who I was.
I headed for the main house. I had an empire to protect, and unlike Ronan, I'd carved my place in it through necessity rather than birthright. The information leaks, or any problem that came our way, threatened the reputation I'd built. If someone was undermining Flanagan operations, they were undermining me personally. As I walked, I allowed the familiar calm that preceded chaos to wash over me.
Coyne met me in my study, where three tablets displayed shipping manifests, distribution records, and a security log.
"Talk to me," I said, scanning the first tablet.
"Third month in a row we're down fifteen per cent on distribution to Dublin and Cork," he said, the tension evident in his jaw. "Seventeen per cent down in Belfast."
"Product is leaving our warehouses but not reaching the streets." I rubbed my chin as I took in the visuals. The video went blurry at one point, then resumed after a whilst.
"Or someone's skimming."
Someone with intimate knowledge of our routes, schedules, and buyers. Someone with access... but no, couldn't be. Every person who worked here had been vetted and had history with the Flanagans.
"Alternatives?" I asked, mulling possibilities.
"Could be O'Brien testing boundaries after the O'Malley takedown."
I shook my head. "Patrick O'Brien doesn't have the spine or the brains. He barely manages what his father left him."
After his father unexpectedly passed choking on a piece of steak that had cost him someone's monthly salary, Patrick had acquired an empire. Without some shrewd people around him, he'd have already run it all to the ground. Patrick was a weak man who'd inherited power without earning it. He compensated with flashy displays of brutality that lacked finesse.
"Then someone's feeding information to a rival."
"Or to what's left of the O'Malleys." I set the tablet down. "Double surveillance on all transport routes. Change the schedule pattern, drivers, vehicles—keep everything under wraps until last minute. And I want a complete personnel audit—anyone who's joined in the last year, anyone with financial troubles, anyone with unexplained absences." Better safe than sorry.
Coyne nodded, making notes on his phone.
"What about the underground facility?" I asked.
His expression tightened. "Security picked up unusual readings last night. Motion sensors triggered in section four, but cameras showed nothing."
I straightened. The underground farm was our most closely guarded operation—pharmaceutical-grade product grown in controlled conditions at the estate. Only slightly more than a handful of people had authorised access.
There could be any number of reasons why anyone would want to break in. Mostly, it would be profit or payback of some sort.
"Camera malfunction?"
"Tested clean this morning. Either we have ghosts, or someone's figured out our blind spots."
I grabbed my jacket, feeling a chill settle into my bones.
"Show me."
The concealed entrance to the underground facility had been updated to a newer model. It was accessed by a code that Coyne punched in. After that, he pressed his palm to the biometric scanner. The false floor descended, carrying us into cool darkness that gradually gave way to clinical white.
Here, too, everything was new. We passed through three separate security checkpoints before reaching section four—rows of hydroponic systems bathed in artificial sunlight. I moved methodically through the room, checking each monitoring station.
"Here," Coyne said, gesturing to a control panel. "Motion sensors triggered at 02:17, but the camera feed shows empty rooms."
I examined the panel, then crouched down and ran my fingertips along the seam where the wall met the floor, finding a barely perceptible scuff mark. "Someone's been mapping our security protocols."
"Inside job?"
