The elevator ride is silent.
Not awkward silence.
Dangerous silence.
Ronan stands beside me with my duffel bag slung over one shoulder and his phone pressed to his ear. It never stops ringing.
Call after call.
Message after message.
Every conversation is the same.
A clipped order.
A name.
A location.
A command.
Nothing wasted. Nothing repeated.
By the time the elevator reaches the garage, I've counted at least seven different calls.
The doors slide open.
Chaos greets us.
Men move in every direction. Engines rumble. Motorcycles line one side of the garage while black SUVs idle on the other. Radios crackle. Boots pound against concrete. Several men are checking weapons while others relay information through earpieces.
The entire place looks less like a parking garage and more
