Sully stumbled into Sarah Harcourt’s hotel suite, ushered in by her private driver who then quickly retreated, closing the door with a soft click. Sully looked like he had been thrown from a moving car. His expensive suit was torn, his face was a mess of scrapes and swelling bruises, and he held one arm stiffly against his chest, a makeshift sling supporting a wrist that was bent at an unnatural angle. A dark stain had soaked through the fabric at his shoulder. He smelled of fear.

  “Did you deliver the message?” Sarah asked, her voice sharp and cold. She stood by the window, arms crossed, refusing to look at the pathetic sight before her.

  “No… but they were there waiting for us,” Sully stammered, his tough-guy act completely gone. “It was like ghosts. We never saw ‘em coming.” He sank onto the edge of a delicate armchair, which seemed to protest under his weight. “They took my whole crew apart in seconds. Seconds. We had weapons and they were unarmed and they still demolished us.”

  Sarah finally turned to face him, her eyes narrowed. “And my message? The warning shot?”

  Sully shook his head, wincing as the movement pulled at his injuries. “She gave me one back. For you.” He swallowed hard, his gaze darting around the luxurious room as if the ghosts might materialize from the walls. “She said… she said the O’Malley family isn’t for sale. That the game is over. That they have a century of experience in this kind of game.” He paused, his voice dropping to a terrified whisper. “She said if you or anyone you hire comes near them again, she won’t send a message. She’ll send a hearse.”

  A silent fury burned behind Sarah’s eyes. Humiliation was a physical sensation, hot and suffocating. A bunch of Boston thugs had beaten her. They had treated her like a joke, sending back a threat through this broken piece of street trash. Her meticulous plans, her reputation, her entire strategy, reduced to a back-alley beatdown. The controlled facade of the corporate raider cracked, and something raw and vicious looked out.

  “Get out,” she snarled, the words tight with rage.

  Sully scrambled to his feet, needing no further encouragement. “I’m gone. I’m leaving the city. You should too. You don’t know who or what you’re messing with.” He fled the room, leaving behind only the lingering scent of his fear.

  Sarah stood frozen in the middle of the suite, her hands clenched into fists. The O’Malley Clann thought they could scare her. They thought a little street violence was enough to send her running back to London with her tail between her legs. They had misjudged her completely. She hadn't gotten this far by backing down. She had gotten here by finding her opponent’s biggest weakness and crushing it until they broke.

  She pulled out her phone and dialed the number for her security consultant again.

  “The message was not received well,” the man’s voice said, dry and unsurprised.

  “I need a new team,” Sarah said, her voice a low, dangerous growl. “Not thugs. Professionals. I’m done sending messages. I’m taking something from them. Something they can’t stand to lose.”

  There was a pause on the other end of the line. “That’s a significant escalation, Ms. Harcourt. Are you certain?”

  “I have never been more certain of anything in my life,” she hissed. “They have a son. Meeka O’Malley’s son. His name is Tadgh. He runs a space museum. He’s a civilian. A soft target.”

  Another pause, longer this time. “Leverage of that nature is expensive. Ms. Harcourt, I did some research. You’re taking on the most powerful crime family in America. And, what you're proposing is very, very risky, even suicidal.”

  Sarah didn’t comprehend the seriousness of her contact’s words.

  “I don’t care about the cost,” Sarah snapped. “Just get me the team.”

  Gema Banks walked the perimeter of the Costello-O’Malley National Space Museum for the third time that afternoon. It was two hours before closing, and the flow of visitors had thinned to a trickle of students and late-day tourists. To the casual observer, she looked like one of the museum’s administrative staff, dressed in sharp black pants and a fitted polo shirt with the museum’s logo embroidered on the chest. But her eyes weren’t on the exhibits. They were on the angles, the exits, the blind spots.

  For the past week, following Eamon Doherty’s directive, she had torn apart and rebuilt the security plan for Ty O’Malley’s entire life. She analyzed traffic patterns, studied blueprints of the museum and the MIT campus where he sometimes guest-lectured, and ran drills with her small team until their movements were seamless. She treated Sarah Harcourt not as a nuisance, but as a hostile state actor planning an incursion. Her Air Force training had taught her that the most dangerous threat is the one you underestimate.

  Today, she had Buach Doherty, Eamon’s own son, working the main entrance. A former Marine Recon, Buach was young but solid as a rock. Two other clandestine Saighdiúirs from her detail were positioned inside, one near the planetarium and the other in the second-floor gallery overlooking the main hall. They were networked via encrypted earpieces, their communication sparse and precise.

  A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

  “Anything on the west entrance, Buach?” Gema murmured into her wrist-mic.

  “Quiet, Gema,” came the low reply. “Just a school group leaving.”

  Gema’s gaze swept the wide plaza in front of the museum. A tan delivery van was parked in a loading zone, which was unusual for this time of day. It wasn’t a vendor she recognized. She logged the make, model, and plate number, sending it to the O’Malley security hub for an instant check. A black SUV with tinted windows was parked across the street, idling. It could be nothing. It could be everything. Her experience in combat zones had honed her instincts into a sharp, persistent hum. Right now, that hum was a little too loud for comfort.

  Ty came out of his office, his face lit up with his usual enthusiasm. Comet, his golden retriever, trotted happily at his side. “Gema! You have to come see the new projection mapping we got working for the Kuiper Belt display. The physics simulations are finally rendering correctly.”

  “Looks great, Ty,” Gema said, her smile genuine but her eyes never stopping their scan of the main hall. “Are you ready to head out?”

  “Almost. Just need to grab my jacket. Meet you by the south door in five?”

  “Copy that,” Gema said. She watched him walk away, his easy, academic grace a stark contrast to the coiled tension in her own body. He was her mission. Her only mission.

  The report on the license plate came back. Stolen plates. The hum in her gut became a siren.

  “Team,” Gema said, her voice low and calm into her mic. “Potential threat. Tan van, plaza loading zone. Black SUV, east curb. Hostile intent likely. Buach, lock down the front entrance now. Silent alert. Ryan, get to the garage level, secure the vehicle. Dylan, you are with me. We are moving the Prince to the sub-level exit. Execute.”

  “Copy,” came the crisp replies.

  Gema intercepted Ty as he came back from his office, Comet’s leash in his hand. She didn’t run; her movements were smooth and purposeful. “Change of plans, Ty. We’re taking the service elevator.”

  Ty’s expression shifted instantly. He had been through these drills before. He knew the tone in Gema’s voice. This wasn’t a drill. He nodded once, shortening the leash on Comet, who sensed the change and stayed close to his leg, a low growl rumbling in his chest.

  “What’s the situation?” Ty asked as Gema guided him toward a door marked ‘Staff Only.’

  “Unidentified hostiles on the plaza. We’re not sticking around to ask questions,” she replied, swiping her keycard.

  As the elevator doors closed, they heard a crash from the main hall. The sound of shattering glass. The attack had begun. The kidnappers, a team of four ex-military mercenaries hired by Harcourt, had expected Ty to walk out the front door. When he didn’t, they went to Plan B: a brute-force entry.

  Two men in black tactical gear burst through the main glass doors. One was armed with a tranquilizer pistol, the other with a heavy taser. They expected to find a soft-skinned academic and a couple of mall cops. They found Buach Doherty instead.

  The young Marine met their charge not with fear, but with practiced violence. He sidestepped the first man’s clumsy rush, using the man’s own momentum to slam him headfirst into a solid marble pillar. The man dropped like a sack of rocks. The second attacker raised his taser, but Buach was already inside his reach, driving the heel of his hand up under the man’s nose. There was a sickening crunch, and the second man went down, screaming and clutching his ruined face.

  Meanwhile, in the underground garage, the driver of the black SUV saw one of Gema’s Saighdiúirs, Ryan, moving toward Ty’s armored sedan. The SUV lurched forward, trying to cut him off. Ryan didn’t hesitate. He drew his pistol and put two rounds into the SUV’s front tire. The vehicle swerved violently and slammed into a concrete support column with a groan of tortured metal. The driver was alive, but he wasn't going anywhere.

  The service elevator opened into a quiet, concrete corridor that led to a rear exit. Gema stepped out first, weapon drawn, a compact Sig Sauer held low and ready. Dylan followed, covering their rear. Ty and Comet were in the middle. The corridor was empty until they rounded the corner.

  The leader of the mercenary team stood waiting. He was big, wearing the same tactical gear, and had clearly anticipated this escape route. He raised his tranquilizer gun, aiming it at Ty.

  “Don’t move,” he ordered.

  Before he could finish the sentence, Comet launched himself forward, a seventy-five-pound blur of golden fur and teeth. The dog hit the man’s leg, sinking his teeth into the thick fabric of his pants and throwing off his aim. The tranquilizer dart hissed past Ty’s head and embedded itself in the concrete wall.

  That was all the opening Gema needed.

  She moved with a speed that was terrifying. She didn’t aim for the man’s head or chest. She fired two rounds into his thigh, just above the knee. They were disabling shots, not killing shots. His leg buckled, and he roared in pain, dropping the tranquilizer pistol. As he fell, Gema was on him, her foot stomping down hard on his weapon hand, pinning it to the floor.

  Ty, his own martial arts training kicking in, didn’t freeze. As the man tried to reach for a knife on his belt with his free hand, Ty stepped in, grabbing the man’s wrist and applying a sharp, twisting lock from his Shuai Jiao practice. The mercenary yelled as the pressure on his joint became unbearable.

  It was over. The whole encounter, from the elevator to the final takedown, had lasted less than a half minute. Dylan was already on his comms, reporting their status. Gema kept her weapon trained on the downed mercenary leader, her expression grim and focused. The man glared up at her, spitting blood and curses.

  “She paid a lot for the boy,” he snarled through the pain. “She’ll just send more.”

  Gema ignored him. She checked Ty, her eyes scanning him for any injury with a medic’s practiced efficiency. "You good?"

  “I’m fine,” Ty said, his breathing slightly ragged but his voice steady. He knelt to calm Comet, who was still growling at the captured man. “Good boy.”

  Gema’s focus was absolute. The immediate area was secure. The threat was neutralized. Her principal was safe. The training exercise was officially over. She pulled out her personal satellite phone, bypassing the local network entirely, and keyed a direct number. After two rings, it was answered.

  “Eamon,” she said, her voice as hard and clear as glass. “It’s Gema. We have a situation at the museum. The prince was targeted. The package is secure.” She paused, listening to the response from the head of all O’Malley security. “Yes, sir. It’s personal now.”