Page 14 of The Thief
"Better late than never."
"Is it?"
The question hangs between us like smoke. Around us, the pub continues its nightly ritual of slow-motion self-destruction. There’s a man passed out in a corner booth and an old woman staring into her gin like it holds the secrets of the universe.
"Why now?" she asks. "Why after all this time?"
"Because someone’s out there taking out people who are close to your grandfather."
She blinks. "What?"
"He wants you safe and that means you going to Dublin. If you don’t, the arsehole could come here for you..." I let the sentence hang.
"And if I don't care?"
"Then you don't care. But at least you'll know."
She studies my face like she's trying to read tea leaves. Looking for lies, for angles, for the catch that always comes with offers that sound too good to be true.
"Why you?" she asks. "Why send a stranger instead of coming himself?"
Because Henry Gallagher doesn't travel to shitholes like Belfast when he can send expendable assets like me. Because old, powerful men conserve their energy for things that matter, and I'm not sure she matters to him beyond tying up loose ends.
"Because he trusts me to get the job done."
"What job? Kidnapping his granddaughter?"
"Bringing you home."
"Same thing, isn't it?"
Maybe it is. Maybe I'm just a well-dressed kidnapper with a conscience that's starting to inconvenience me.
"You said my father was head of the IRA in New York," she says quietly. “He came home every other week.”
I nod. She's processing, connecting dots. Smart girl. I’m wondering if she thought Killian only worked in Ireland. He could have kept that part from her, wanting to protect her.
"He did. He loved you. He kept you separate from the business because he wanted you safe."
"Safe." She laughs but there's no humor in it. "Right. Safe from what? His own family?"
"Safe from men like me."
The honesty slips out before I can stop it. She looks at me sharply, seeing something in my face that makes her step back slightly.
"What kind of man are you, Freddie?"
The kind who kills for money. The kind who'd burn down Belfast if the price was right. The kind her father died trying to keep away from her.
"The kind your grandfather sends when he needs something done."
"And what needs doing with me?"
"You need protecting. There's a war brewing, and you're caught in the middle whether you know it or not."
"Last call," she announces suddenly, loud enough to cut through the remaining chatter.
I finish my drink while she works, watching her navigate the closing routine with practiced efficiency. The conversation's shaken her. I can see it in the way her hands tremble slightly as she wipes down tables and counts the till.
