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said. “Walk away? Or quit? Or never showed up here?”
    “Uh . . .” Cillian paused before seeming to realize all the questions led to the same general conclusion. “I’m supposed to make sure you stay.”
    “But if I don’t?”
    “I’m supposed to make sure,” he said. “By any means necessary. That’s what Petey was for.”
    “But now Petey has walked away. What if I do the same?”
    More blinking, as Cillian propelled his mental wheels faster. Then his eyes glinted, a hint of that crafty thug coming back as he said, “Then I call them, and they know where you’re staying, and they’ll come get you, and it’ll go bad then, Jack. Really bad.”
    “Bullshit. If they knew my hotel? They’d know how to get to me. Avoid all this crap.”
    Cillian kept insisting they
could
get to Jack. Covering his ass because the truth was that they hadn’t said what they’d do if Cillian failed. The answer was obvious. Cillian failed, Cillian died, so he was trying very hard to convince Jack there was no escape here.
    As for the last question—what if Jack refused their job—he supposed there was no need to ask that. They’d take it out on Nadia. Compel him to accept by threatening her. By torturing her.
    Which meant there was only one answer here. Only one variable he could control.
    Get the fuck out of Ireland and find Nadia.

7 - Nadia
    There are places you hear about so often that you can picture them. I remembered when Jack and I talked about going to Egypt, seeing everything we’d read and heard about. I have images of all those historic sites. The reality would probably be a disappointment because I can’t help but picture them in a historic setting, with endless sands and smog-free skies.
    Yet I have mental images of other places, too. More personal places. Quinn’s condo is one of them. He’s never talked about it specifically. My images come from scattered bits of conversation.
    You’re painting the lodge? Yeah, I need to do that, too. My walls are builder beige . . . and I’m the second owner.
    Hold on, I’m moving into the living room. Someone’s having a BBQ out back and they sound like they’re on their third case of beer. Let me close the patio door first. That might help.
    Nearly broke my neck on the stairs today. Who the hell carpets stairs?
    Trust me, you don’t even want to see my basement. There’s one corner for my weights and the rest is floor-to-ceiling crap. When my family needs to store a few boxes, they bring them to my place.
    I moved through Quinn’s condo, and it was like being in a dream version of a place I’ve visited a hundred times. Not quite right, but familiar enough.
    Diaz and I came here to hunt for more information, but I’d taken a few minutes alone to orient myself. It was uncomfortable, being here. I’d never visited before, and even if that had been my choice and not his, this felt like an intrusion. This place was unmistakably Quinn’s, in a way I wouldn’t have imagined. I suppose homes are always a reflection of whoever lives there. I’d just never experienced it so strongly before.
    I walked through his condo and I saw him there, felt him there, swore I could even smell him there. When a voice spoke from a distant room, I spun, for a moment thinking I was hearing him, too.
    The voice was Diaz’s, of course. I hadn’t wanted him here. Hadn’t even wanted him in Virginia with me. As a cop, I’d been accustomed to new partnerships, but I’ve grown spoiled, and if it’s not Jack or Quinn at my side, I’d rather work alone. Yet Diaz wasn’t just some random guy tagging along. He was a professional. A professional what? No idea. Contrapasso agents don’t share their backgrounds. Hell, I don’t even dare ask his first name. I did know he was a skilled investigator, like all their agents. Which meant I couldn’t afford to refuse his help. I’m not sure that was even an option.
    Our search centered on Quinn’s desktop computer. He had a laptop, but that