Page 2 of The Thief
I drop a twenty on the bar—more than enough to cover my drinks and the cleanup—and step over Blondie's groaning form. Outside, the London air is cold and sharp, cutting through the whiskey haze like reality always does.
My phone buzzes again. This time I check it.
Stephen: Call me back. We need to talk.
Emmanuel: Freddie, just let us know you're alive.
Maverick: Brother, whatever you're doing, just come home.
Home. Dublin feels like a lifetime away—another world where I was someone different, someone who mattered. Someone who had a family, even if it was built on blood and bullets.
I start walking with no destination in mind. That's been my life for three months; walking without purpose, existing without meaning. Just another ghost haunting the streets of a city that doesn't know my name.
The Thames reflects the city lights like scattered diamonds. Pretty. Peaceful. Nothing like the Liffey back home, which smells like history and heartbreak. I lean against the railing and pull out my phone, thumb hovering over Stephen's number.
What would I even say? That I've been living like an animal, fighting in back-alley pubs and fucking strangers whose names I don't bother learning? That I can't sleep without seeing Ava's face, without remembering how she felt beneath me those two nights when I thought the world made sense?
The phone rings before I can make a decision.
Unknown number. International. I almost let it go to voicemail, but something makes me answer.
"Kinnock."
"Freddie." The voice is gravelly, Irish, and holds an authority that makes my spine straighten automatically. "This is Henry Gallagher."
I know who he is. I’ve met him a few times thanks to his grandson being married to Maverick’s sister—my sister, not by blood, but by life. Henry Gallagher built the Irish mob in Ireland and then America from nothing and turned it into an empire that spans continents. The fact that he's calling me directly means either I'm in deep shit or someone needs to die. Maybe both.
"Mr. Gallagher," I say, straightening up despite myself. "What can I do for you?"
"I need you to retrieve something for me. Someone, actually." There's a pause, filled by the sound of ice clinking against glass. "My granddaughter. A girl no one knew existed until recently."
"I'm not in the kidnapping business," I say automatically.
His laugh is dry. "She's not being kidnapped, boy. She's being brought home. These fuckers have made it a point to let us know she’s a target, and right now she's alone in Belfast with no backup and a fuck of a lot of people who'd rather see her buried than breathing."
Belfast. Fucking hell. "What's the catch?"
"No catch. Just a job. One that pays very, very well." Another pause. "I know you're not working for anyone right now. I know you're... between opportunities."
Between opportunities. That's one way to put it. Another would be emotionally fucked and running from everything that ever mattered.
"Why me?" I ask.
"Because you're the best thief in Ireland, and right now, that's what I need. Someone who can get in, get her, and get out without anyone knowing where she is."
I should say no. I should tell him to find someone else, someone who isn't half-broken and full of ghosts. But the alternative is going back to my hotel room, staring at the ceiling until dawn, and pretending I don't hear Ava's voice in every shadow.
"When and where?" I hear myself say.
"Belfast. Tomorrow night. I'll have the details sent to your phone within the hour." His voice carries a smile now, satisfied. "And Freddie? Don't disappoint me. This girl... she's all of Killian I have left."
The line goes dead, leaving me alone with the Thames and the weight of another man's expectations. I should feel something, anticipation, fear, the old thrill of a new job. Instead, I feel nothing but the familiar hollow ache that's been my constant companion since I found out Ava was married to the man who's destroying everything, not to mention the bastard who’s threatening everyone I care about.
Eight Weeks Ago.
Boston
The private investigator slides a manila folder across the table. His breath smells like instant coffee and cigarettes.
