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thinking his father was a dirty cop.
    He deserved better than that.
    “Fine. But you’re being a stubborn asshole,” Mike finally said, blowing out an exasperated sigh before settling back against his seat.
    Time for a change of subject before they let this ruin yet another day together.
    "How are things at the station?"
    When Pop had passed away, twenty-three-year-old Mike had stayed the course, moving back to Ireland with their grief-stricken mother and charging ahead with his plans to become a detective so he could follow in their father’s footsteps. His goal was to live his life and work his way up the chain. Someday, he hoped to find himself in a position to take down Alistair Hannigan, and he would do it by the book.
    But Jake wasn’t content to wait for someday. He also knew that Alistair was just one of many people responsible for what happened to his father, and he didn’t give a shit about “the book”.
    He wanted blood.
    So he’d stayed in London alone at the age of twenty-two, abandoned his beloved cabinet-making business and put every spare moment into becoming Jake Callahan, venture capitalist. It took him three years of business school, studying languages and learning investment techniques, but he was smart and determined, and pretty soon, he had the connections and the capital to pick off his first target.
    Chief Inspector Harold Pierce. He had been key in the frame-up of their father Tom, and at the top of Jake’s list. Pierce had been on the take, and Tom knew it, so when Alistair Hannigan needed someone on the inside to help, he was happy to do it, if only to get Tom out of his hair.
    Three and a half years after Tom’s arrest and subsequent death, Pierce got his just desserts.
    Jake created a fake identity as a Russian mafia money man. Over the course of a year, he established a relationship with the chief, fabricating some illegal dealings going on in London and paying Pierce envelopes full of cash to look the other way. Then, as Pierce began wiring that money to an offshore bank, Jake used his connections to get the numbers and passwords for his accounts. A quick root through the man’s trash to find a sample of his signature, and voila. Instant access to what turned out to be one point two million pounds, only a third of which was from Jake. Quite a hefty bottom line for a public servant.
    The next day, Pierce was dead broke, with nothing left but broken dreams and an email instructing him to resign the next day or risk being exposed as the dirty copper he was. Pierce resigned, and Jake, vengeful bastard that he was, exposed him anyway. Then, he took every pound of that one point two million and sent it to Pierce’s ex-wife Anna who he’d dumped when they’d had a late-in-life daughter born with Down Syndrome.
    Jake had checked up on them since. Anna was re-married and had a beautiful home in Leeds and a husband who cared for her daughter like she was his own.
    And it had been so easy. All Jake had to do was give Pierce enough rope to hang himself, and he’d done it. In the years since, he’d taken down four others who had contributed to his father’s death in one way or another. Alistair Hannigan was the last of them. He might not have been the hand that held the blade, but he was the catalyst that had started it all and Jake couldn’t wait to see his life in ruins.
    For the most part, Mike had stayed out of his way and they’d operated under an unspoken “don’t ask, don’t tell” policy. But when their mother passed away and Hannigan moved his headquarters from London to New York City two years ago, Jake had followed. And so had Mike.
    He now worked for the NYPD as a Major Case Squad detective.
    "Things have been pretty busy,” Mike said in a tight voice. “Stressful."
    Jake had figured as much. His brother seemed tense and preoccupied all morning long. He had hoped it would wear off as the sea air worked its magic, but so far, no luck.
    "More so than usual?” he asked,