CHAPTER 1

🆃🅾 🅲🅰🆃🅲🅷 🅰 🆆🅾🅻🅵

'To protect the sheep, you gotta catch the Wolf
And it takes a Wolf to catch a Wolf, you understand?'

Wet streets glisten in the street light as Gavin pulls his jacket tighter around himself.  The night is going to be bitter cold as the fall was quickly leading towards the winter months ahead.  The moon is full and peaking through thick dark clouds, his father had once called the full moon a hunter's moon because it was easy to track prey on a night like tonight if you had to.    

The sound of Gavin's feet echoed down the street of this South Philly neighborhood as he pressed onward towards his car through the fridged mist falling that hung in the air just a touch heavier than mere fog.  It wouldn't be long now and the first snow would come and he and Bella would get to test out that fireplace.  Thankfully, pleasant thoughts of he and his future wife at the fireside replaced the faint and miserable memories of his father's hearth wisdom given across years in the wilderness of New Foundland.  He became so lost in his thoughts of her dark hair falling across her pale skin and the smell of her lilac perfume, that he plowed on towards his car with all the enthusiasm of a man on a mission, barely looking up or around as he went.

However, despite the distraction provided by musings about his lovely fiancee, Gavin wasn't one to be caught off guard easily.  He could make out the sounds of two sets of footfalls a short distance behind him.  At first, it might have been dismissed as a couple rushing home, or a pair of friends headed to a speakeasy... but they weren't talking.  In fact, they were as silent as the grave.  The more time that passed from the moment he'd noticed the sound, the more convinced he was that he was being followed.

His car was a mere one block up and one over from where he was right now.  He'd have to make some choices on what to do next and soon. 

Gavin's ear twitched slightly as he heard the footsteps behind him, and he immediately shrugged his left shoulder. Grimacing, he rotated it a few times, pretending that he was dealing with soreness. As he stretched his left arm out to the side, he flexed his fingers as if he was stretching to draw the eyes of his potential pursuers, as he reached with his right hand to sneakily remove his gun, attempting to turn his body toward his arm so he could slip it into his pocket unnoticed. 

If everything went as planned, he could walk with his hands in his pockets and keep his finger on the trigger. If not, and he heard any quick movements behind him, at least he'd already be moving toward his gun.

Best case scenario, he'd scare the shit out of a couple random people. Or bodyguards that Tara hired.

Or assassins. 

Who the hell knows.

Gavin heads up a block and his shadows haven't moved against him.  The idea that his sister has sent bodyguards to watch over him isn't out of the realm of possibility at this point.  The men move with the grace and skill of professionals or at least men who have been doing this for enough years to know how to do what they do almost silently.

Proceeding down the block Gavin attempts to catch sight of the men behind him in the darkened shop windows & in the mirrors of parked cars.  This yields the information that he is certainly being followed by men.  Their builds are not slight.  One has shock red hair that isn't hard to spot even in the darkened reflections while the other is brunette or black-headed.  Both Caucasians.  Both have peaky caps on and one of the men has his hand inside his coat as if he's been spooked at a bit more than the other and has his hand on a gun.  

Approaching the corner Gavin looks across the street which his car is parked on.  He hopes to catch sight of the men behind him in a shop window.  He did see them, but it was the other reflection that truly caught his attention. 

The glass windows of Mr. McGregor's Toy Store were the big bay-style, the wrap-around sort that went into the doorway and wrapped around the whole front of the building.  In the glass which bent in towards the doorway, he could see the line of cars parked up and down the street... including his own.

Two more men in long coats and peaky caps were waiting.

Well, shit.

Four men... seemingly professionals. 

He was good, but who knew how many of these assholes there were. He needed to find a phone and call in the cavalry, if he could. For a few steps, he headed toward the toy store... until he saw a young mother and her daughter emerge. Too much collateral damage that way. 

Shit.

He spun to the right, heading east. Fortunately, he'd made his decision before he hit the sidewalk, so he didn't look particularly suspicious. Unless they knew where his car was.

No, it was time to find a bar- a phone. Call Tara and Bella. If not... well...

Gavin glanced at the buildings he was walking past; most of them had fire escapes. 

If he got cornered, he'd go up. 

His nostrils flared for a moment in the cold air. He'd been hunted before- both by animals and men. But this felt... different. A cold chill worked its way up his spine.

Gavin looked up at the fire escapes, maybe he could jump up and climb.  It was a real option at this point.  Before his eyes even came back down to the street level and he could start thinking of every hole in the wall gin joint that might be open on this stretch of road, he heard it.

It wasn't the sound of coats coming open and guns being pulled, no.  It wasn't the unmistakable sound of ammo being chambered or anything of the sort, but the quickening of feet.  The two men were coming at him, sprinting at an all-out dead run.  They were clearly intent on engaging him, most likely in a brawl, right there in the street for anyone to notice... even though Gavin would have gone all-in on a bet that these guys had guns to use!

Question now was, would Gavin shoot... engage them in hand to hand... flee or something else?

Gavin waited until the men were a few steps away before spinning around and dodging.

If they wanted to brawl, he'd give them one to remember. If they threatened to do worse? Well, the gun was still in his coat pocket.

The men threw punches like they'd trained right alongside Will their whole lives, only instead of one big Irish fucker throwing haymakers that would make you wake covered in sweat for the rest of your life, there were two.  And they weren't fighting gentleman style fisticuffs, this was a gangland-style beat down.  

Gavin used everything he'd learned fighting William, managed to land more than a few admirable blows.  Out of the corners of his eyes, he could see the other two coats coming for him.  He had to do it, he didn't want to, but the gun was his only hope now.  The gun came out, and without hesitation, Gavin opened a hole in the red-haired man's chest.  His eyes were wide, his mouth open in a scream that never escaped his lips, and then he was lifeless in the gutter.

The dark haired man roared, "MOTHER FUCKER!" in a thick Irish accent taking hold of Gavin's gun and ripping it from Gavin's steel grip. 

Gavin had a brief moment before the impact happened, to remember some joke he'd heard in a bar one time in Montreal a few years ago.  Some guy he knew, was his name Joe or John?  Anyway, the guy was rambling on about how badly his buddy knew that he was 'well and truly fucked' when he began beating him with his own pistol.

The last thoughts Gavin had before the image of the three Irish men vanished from his mind and blissful unconsciousness took over was how Joe/John was right.  You really DID know they were 'well and truly fucked' when someone was beating you with your own damn gun.

CHAPTER 2

🆆🅷🅴🆁🅴'🆂 🅶🅴🅾🆁🅶🅴?

"What would be the point of having lived and suffered so much, if I were to die now?"

Gavin comes to with a splitting headache and now he's wet and cold.  Thick congealed black blood is crusted down his face and he's sure after he went out, the men must have kept beating him for some time because there was scarcely a place upon him that didn't feel bruised.  Shivering, silent on steel floor he was able to quickly assess, it didn't FEEL like anything was broken though - but how long would that last?  His captors clearly didn't want him dead... but, tugging on his metal chains and shackles which held him fast to a metal support beam, he was surely a prisoner. 

Someone has thrown water on him to wake him and that someone, who he doesn't remember from the night before, is now there with the dark-haired man who stole his gun and the two other men who had run him down and joined the beating party while their friend bled out in the gutter.  Well... at least there was that small victory.  He took out one of the Irish fuckers before they got him... whoever THEY were.

Gavin is in what appears to be the bowels of a ship.  He can hear the sounds of the docks, so he could assume he's still in Philly, maybe even near Race Street!  The man before him throws his bucket aside and stands before Gavin giving him his first real chance to analyze the man who is likely the mastermind of his abduction.  

The man is most likely in his fifties.  He's Irish and he's incredibly fit.  His body is a lean mass of muscle and that look in his eye, it wasn't the sort of thing Gavin ever would disregard.  Where the others were accomplished street toughs... this one, he was the real deal.  He was a killer and he had a terrible air about him that reminded Gavin too much of someone he killed years ago.

In a slightly faded Irish accent, with hints of... was that Canadian?  Yes.  It was!  The man before him asked one simple if troubling and confusing question, "Where's George?"

Gavin woke up hurt, but whole; his hands were bound- metal cuffs. The water dripped down his face, and he blinked, glaring upward at his... hosts. A ship. Moving? If he was in the middle of the ocean... no. He could hear docks outside. Unless he'd been hurt worse than he thought, he'd still be in Philly.  He grinned, blood streaming down between his teeth. Obviously these boys hadn't done their homework. Taking over the docks had been the first big play he and Tara had ever made, shortly after their arrival in Philly from the meandering journey down from Newfoundland. Maybe someone on the docks noticed him... or a strange ship. Tara would figure it out eventually.

Gavin felt his whole body grow cold as he looked up into the face of the man above him- and it wasn't from the weather or the water. He smirked.

"Who's George? The redhead?"

"YOU STUPID SON OF-"  The dark haired man charged at Gavin but the bucket guy threw out a hand to stop him.  

Bucket man drew a breath,  "My God..." He exhaled the words.  "You have his eyes!  Look, Brian, it's that same soul-piercing set of devil-eyes don'tcha think?"

"Aye.  But he's got his ma's mouth I reckon... George was never that quick-witted."

Three of the four men laughed... the dark haired man sulked back to his corner, clearly the one who was closest with the red-head that Gavin had shot.

Bucket man continued, "You look just like your ol' man, boy.  You could have fooled me.  Might have made me think you were him if I hadn't been smart enough to know that even Satan himself wouldn't cut an immortality deal with that evil fucker."

Bucket man knelt down.  "I ain't got no beef with you outside of what you did last night to our friend... and even that I might write off if you were to tell us where your dear ol' dad is hole up these days.  Fuck... I'll let you walk off this ship free as a bird the second I confirm he's where you say he is.  So... why not be smart and save yourself another ass whippin' and just tell me where I can find that baby killin' bastard?"
 

As the man laughed, Gavin continued to glare up at them, fighting to maintain his poker face as they discussed his parents- his father. Apparently, they were old friends of his... maybe he could buddy up to them... no...  old enemies?

Baby killing bastard? What the fuck?

"You shouldn't have any beef at all with me then. Sending two goons sprinting at somebody on the sidewalk at night isn't wise. Especially if that someone is me. If you wanted to talk... you could have asked. Woulda told you what you wanted for a whisky and a beer."

Gavin paused. If they'd been friends of his father, he'd have tried to win them over. But between "evil fucker" and "baby killin' bastard"... well, they seemed to have known his father well enough. Enough to hate him, which suggested they were good judges of character. Gavin cleared his throat, looking up steadily at the man who was speaking. 

"He's dead. I killed him years ago. Buried him myself."

Bucket man stood up and paced away from Gavin, concealing any facial reaction from his prisoner. 

"Told you he won't give us shit!  Blood fer blood... this son of a bit-"  The dark-haired one said.

"Fucking stow it, Quinn!"  The only man who had hadn't yet spoken did.  He had a large cross necklace on and was by far the youngest.  If Gavin had seen him in a crowd he might have thought the wide-eyed brunette young man more inclined to the priesthood than an Irish gang.  He wasn't without muscle but he was far lither than the others.

Brian shook his large head.  "Sorry Lad,"  He said to Gavin.  "That story won't get you far with us.  Fergus there,"  He nodded towards the bucket man, still facing away from Gavin as if deep in thought. 

"He saw your Ma's headstone.  Real nice from what he says... but didn't find one for yer Pa.  Now, you might say that you had good reason for killing that right bastard and so didn't take the time to make him no marker... but considering how he protected you and your family all those years... I'm findin' that a mite hard to believe.  That bastard crossed an ocean to run from his crimes and protect his own family after ruining dozens of others... I didna reckon any of us is going to accept your tale of bein' a kinslayer.  Yer Pa loved you kids and that woman of his... so no.  I don't think we can accept your story."

Gavin was breathing steadily, but a slow fire was beginning to burn within him, and his anger was numbing the pain.

Old feelings.

"If you're looking for a man who loved his kids and his wife, then you're looking for the wrong fucking guy. We- I left the body for the wolves for what he did to my mother. He never protected me from anything, and I have no idea what the fuck you're talking about."

As his temper got hotter, his words grew colder.

"Who the fuck are you? What do you want?"

Fergus turned slowly and looked at Gavin with a rage that matched his own, a hurt so deep that it was seared into his bones and made up most of what was left of him.  That sort of hate wasn't just carried, it defined someone in too many ways to count and unless you'd ever lived with that fury as your constant companion, you might not know it - but Gavin did.  He knew it all too well.

One foot in front of the other, every muscle tensed and released seemed to be done with purpose.  The man was his senior by 20 some odd years and yet Fergus seemed to have no less menace about him than Gavin's father had the day he finally found the strength to finish him off with Tara's help - a day he nearly died at the hands of that monster.

"My name ... it doesn't matter."  He said quietly.  "The name that should be spoken about here is Sean Conall.  Sean was three."  The man's nostrils flared ever so slightly as his eyes narrowed.  "And in 1886, Belfast, he and a dozen children were put into the basement of a home for their own safety."

All the men in the room sat silently as Fergus spoke, barely moving at all as if afraid or too respectful to interrupt.

He stopped just out of reach of Gavin, "Ya see, there were riots in the streets... men with guns... not the sort of thing children should be mixed up in.  So... some womenfolk and children were put there, cause the house wasn't anything in the course of our fight and we were sure they'd be safe even through the night."

His face twisted into a snarl as he continued, "It shouldn't have been a target.  No one had reason to do such a thing... ordering doors nailed shut and windows shuttered.  But yer Pa..."  He nodded.  Another man might have cried but by the look in this man's eyes, his sadness had long ago spoiled into a bitter rage and desire for revenge. 

"I've followed him for years and now, this close, you tell me he's dead... that YOU killed him?"  He shakes his head.  "Perhaps blood for blood is all the justice I can hope for now."

He pulled his gun and pointed it at Gavin, this seemed to snap the others out of their revelry.

"FINALLY!  SENSE!"  Quinn shouted.

"You said there was a girl... the man in Montreal said he has a sister?"  the priestly-lad spoke with a level voice as if not worried Fergus would do it.

"I'll make her talk!"  Quinn laughed wickedly, his tone indicating all anyone would need to know about how he meant to do it.

Brian turned on Quinn in anger, "THE HELL YOU WILL!  WE'RE HUNTING A WICKED MAN WHO HURT WOMEN, YOU'D HURT A WOMAN TOO?"

Fergus kept staring down his gun into Gavin's eyes as if fantasizing that they were George's eyes.  Gavin could see how much he wanted to squeeze the trigger, how he longed to see if it would bring him some measure of peace after all these years hunting in vain, but the talk of Tara seemed to be breaking Fergus' focus.  Something about the topic of Tara didn't sit well with him, and he clearly was holding something back from his compatriots... but what?  And would it matter at all to Gavin's already dire situation?

Gavin turned his head slowly toward the man who'd said "I'll make her talk." His voice was steady- like a man ordering breakfast.

"If you touch her, I'll kill you."

He looked back up at the leader and the gun pointed at him.

"If you going to do it, then do it."

He'd stared at plenty of guns before. For a while, part of him even hoped they'd listen to him when he said shit like that. But now? Now he was bluffing. 

"I don't know what happened in Ireland. I've never been close to there. You want revenge? My father killed your family? If you're telling me my father was a bastard..."

Gavin strained against his shackles, pulling his shirt down to reveal some of the scars.

"... then I fucking know that. Better than any of you. Burning a house full of kids sounds like something right up his alley. If you wanted him dead, then I did you a favor. If you want to go back up to Newfoundland to piss on his bones, be my guest. I'll tell you the spot. But it seems to me like if you hated him, then we're on the same fucking side here. Just because I killed him before you could doesn't make me your enemy- you should be letting me the fuck out of here and buying me a drink."

He paused, the cold anger still building.

"But the longer you keep this bullshit going, the worse it's going to go for you when I'm not chained up anymore."

Fergus seemed to be considering Gavin's offer, his finger caressing the trigger.

The only one who seemed to really respond visibly to the scars was the priestly-lad.  "Maybe he has a point?"  he offered, clearly referring to Gavin.  "Justice is done if his father is dead... clearly he's as troubled as we were told he was - maybe he did go mad?"

"Who cares if he was insane or not, if there is even a chance he's still alive we can't leave the United States without proving it for a fact."  Brian came back, looking away from Quinn who seemed quite happy with himself for getting under Gavin's skin.

"I'm still up for visiting the sister."  Quinn threw out.  "If their stories match then you can do what you want with the son Fergus, he spilled loyal Irish blood, we can't let that go unanswered!"

Fergus snapped at Quinn finally.  "We'll not go after the Sister because she's too well-placed."

Brian turned back to Fergus, "Well-placed?  How so?"

Fergus sighed.  "She's with the Italian Mafia."  He said.

"WHAT!"  Brian was shaken by the news to his core, clearly, he had no idea he was fucking with the mob.

"Oh shit..."  the Priestly Lad muttered as if it were a prayer for mercy.

"I knew it... I knew that fucker was too good for some run of the mill thug.  He works for them too!"  He pointed at Gavin.  "The wops had one of ours killed!"

"That's not how it was!"  Fergus said.  "This is personal.  This is the business of the green book... nothing else!  Do NOT twist this by bringing them into it!"

"You brought them into it!"  Brian said snatching up Fergus by his collar.  "One of ours is dead and now we're holding ... fuck knows who we're holding but they'll come for him!  Shit, what about that hot little number he's nailing... she's a wop too... is she's mafia as well I suppose?"

Fergus nodded.

"Which means she's probably already noticed he's missing.  GOD DAMN IT!"  Brian trembled with anger.  "We need to talk."  Brian all but dragged Fergus towards the door.  The man seemed dead in his eyes until he managed a look back at Gavin, clearly, he still wanted to spill George's blood in some form or another.

"ALL OF YOU."  Brian roared and the others got up to follow him.  Whatever was going to happen next seemed to no longer be Fergus' to say.

CHAPTER 3

🅾 🅱🆁🅾🆃🅷🅴🆁, 🆆🅷🅴🆁🅴 🅰🆁🆃 🆃🅷🅾🆄?

"He is more myself than I am.  Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same."

A very long and stormy night gave way to a bright morning down on Race Street.  The countdown to the wedding was now numbered in days and Gavin and Bella had, in turn, managed to be in her company no less than a dozen times in the last week; thankfully she was past her illness and could make time for them between all her other goings on in her personal and business life!  Had she ever been this busy since they first came to Race Street and took over the pier?

This particular morning, Tara arrives at her office and in the doorway she finds a small scrub of a boy. Irish by the look of him... red hair and freckles, an advertisement to visit Ireland made flesh really.  The boy was dirty, looked as though he'd been living on the docks for the better part of a month with how frail his hungry form was.  He removed his cap, clutching a bit of paper in his hand.

"Are you... Tara Byrne?"  He asked cautiously, looking set to run.  It wasn't perhaps the most reassuring situation to be sure.  The question is, how would she respond?

Tara smiled as warmly as she could muster. Seeing the boy was nervous, she knelt down to his level.  It had been a short night, as far as sleep was involved, but she wasn't so tired to be rude or imposing to a child.

"I am. Do you have a message for me?"

Timidly the boy nodded and hands over the note.  As soon as she's taken it from his trembling hand he bolts, trying to flee as fast as his scrawny legs can carry him.

The note reads:

Ms. Byrne,

Please accept that this letter is both serious and accurate.  Your brother's life depends upon it.  

We require the sum of $10,000,000 and the following:

+  20 Tommy Guns
+  60 Drums of ammunition to be used in these guns.
+  100 Hand Guns
+  200 Rounds of ammunition to be used in these guns.

You have three days to gather these items and bring them to the ship which will arrive that morning at dock #22.  At 9pm call from the end of the gang plank and men will come out to meet with you and arrange the exchange.

Do not attempt to arrive early.  Our first course of action is to put down our problem and then deal with any broken rules.  No one wants bloodshed here... just the items we need to leave your country and return home successful.  Help us, Ms. Bryne, and you can have what you want as well.

Tara read the letter three times before she calmly folded it, creased it, and slipped it into her pocket. Her hand trembled slightly, and she excused her sign of weakness as one of the last vestiges of her illness. Fury and love each climbed higher within her, but she dismissed them both. Neither would help her here.

Instead, as she walked, she did what she did best: she planned.

She would have her banker, Mario, remove ten million from her account. Recent expenses had depleted her cash reserves, but she still had some to spare, and she wouldn't hesitate to trade ten million to ensure Gavin's safety.

However, without knowing who she was dealing with, she refused to trust in these mystery blackmailers.

The first major play that Tara and Gavin had made in Philly was to take control of the docks... and perhaps her enemies weren't aware of this. She'd have the business manager review the records for  Dock 22 and any incoming ships destined for it on the day in particular. When she knew the owners, she could make a few calls to information brokers in whatever city the ship was from, which she assumed is where the blackmailers called "home", and learn what she could.

She also needed to gather as much information as she could locally. Someone must have seen them grab Gavin... he was unlikely to simply get in a blackmailer's car. Well, not anymore. There'd been an incident in Boston where he followed a pair of legs into... not important. The underworld might have heard something, and she'd check there. She'd also have Kayce Adams check through records in the precinct- hopefully she could get information out of him without revealing who she truly was. If she could get a description of who grabbed him, perhaps her source connected to the ship could give her more detailed information.

As for the exchange itself, she planned on arriving prepared. The note said nothing about arriving alone. Just early.

She froze so suddenly that a man walked into her, mumbling an apology.

Her options appeared before her suddenly.

Her initial thought was to hire an elite team of snipers, cover the area from the rooftops and be ready to take action at a moment's notice. She'd also have support with her as well.

But her best idea... well, three days was a long time. The ship was probably still a decent ways out in the Atlantic. Perhaps some piracy was in order. Take away their exit, improve her negotiating position. Or station her own men on the ship for a flanking maneuver.

Tara sighed. She would go back to her office and call her local sources, her docks manager and any sources from the ship's country of origin... but this was bigger than her. 

Once she'd made her calls to gather information, she picked up the phone again.

"Isabella, it's Tara. Come to my office immediately. Something's happened to Gavin. He's alive, I think. I'm being blackmailed to get him returned..."

Who else to bring in? Will? Jack? Joe? For now, she needed to focus on Isabella- both to find out what she knew and to ensure the hotheaded Sicilian wouldn't fly off the handle- despite Tara wanting to do the same.