Chapter 28
Irish
By the time Trigger answered Skye's call, I was already moving toward the rear door of The Blackthorn with Finn's metal case tucked beneath one arm and every instinct in my body screaming that whatever patience had carried us this far had just expired.
Hawkeye's photograph remained open on Skye's phone as she followed beside me, Owen Vale standing near the chapel at Saint Brigid's while two women in the same neutral gray clothing we'd seen inside Croft House were being escorted toward a waiting van.
The image was distant enough that their faces were impossible to make out, but I didn't need faces to understand what I was looking at.
Croft House had been exposed, the network knew one of its English facilities was compromised, and Vale was moving people before investigators could connect Saint Brigid's to the same system.
Fifteen years earlier, men connected to that organization had come to my family's home looking for evidence they thought Declan O'Brien possessed.
Now another man was standing less than twenty miles away doing exactly what the Order always did when somebody got too close to the truth: shifting people, changing locations, and trusting confusion to protect whatever remained.
Trigger's voice came through Skye's phone before we reached the vehicles. "Nobody moves toward the property until we know where those vans are going."
"They're loading residents now," I said.
"I know."
"Then waiting means we watch them disappear."
"Following doesn't mean waiting."
The distinction should have calmed me. It didn't.
Trigger continued before I could argue. "Hawkeye has the north side.
Maverick has a vehicle on the southern road that hasn't been burned.
Raze and Storm are already moving to cover the west route.
We shadow anything that leaves and keep Saint Brigid's under observation.
If we charge the grounds now, Vale knows exactly what we have and Harrow gets another warning. "
I stopped beside the SUV.
Every part of me hated the logic because it was sound.
Skye stood near the passenger door watching my face.
Eamon had followed us outside with Brigid several steps behind him, both of them quiet now that the photograph had changed everything from old evidence into an active threat.
"Trigger," I said, forcing my voice back under control. "Those women don't get lost."
"They won't."
"If Vale splits them."
"We split coverage."
"If he burns the vehicles."
"We adjust."
I shut my eyes for half a second.
That was how a team worked.
Not by pretending nothing could go wrong, but by having enough people in enough places that one man's panic didn't become everyone's bad decision.
Fifteen years ago, Da had tried to carry an entire investigation alone because he believed secrecy protected us. I had spent most of my adult life making the same mistake in a different form.
I looked toward Eamon.
"Can you take the case to the farmhouse?"
His eyebrows lifted slightly.
It was a small request.
It didn't feel small.
"Course."
"Don't open it."
"I gathered."
"Take Brigid with you."
Brigid folded her arms. "You say that as though anyone here decides where I go."
I stared at her.
She stared back.
Skye sighed softly. "Please go with Eamon."
Brigid turned to her. "Fine."
I looked at Skye.
"That was humiliating."
"You're welcome."
Under different circumstances I would've argued. Instead, I handed Finn's case to Eamon.
His hands settled around the old metal carefully.
"What if someone follows us?"
The question reminded me that this wasn't simply our history anymore.
"Hawkeye knows your vehicle. Take the long route. If you see the same car twice, don't go to the house. Call me and keep moving."
Eamon nodded without the usual joke or complaint, understanding immediately that the old metal case deserved more care than either of us wanted to admit.
Brigid touched my arm once as she passed.
"Bring people home."
The words landed harder than they should have.
I watched them get into Eamon's truck before turning toward Skye.
"You stay with me."
Her eyebrows rose.
I corrected myself before she could.
"Please."
That changed her expression.
"Aye."
I opened the passenger door.
She stopped before getting in.
"You asked."
"I noticed."
"Progress."
"Don't make me regret it."
"I make no promises."
Some of the pressure beneath my ribs eased despite everything.
We were on the road less than two minutes later.
Trigger had established a temporary operational point on an abandoned farm lane east of Saint Brigid's, hidden behind a stand of trees and far enough from the main property that nobody coming or going would see us unless they already knew where to look.
By the time Skye and I arrived, two screens were operating from the back of Maverick's SUV, one carrying Cipher's feed from America and the other rotating through Hawkeye's long-range images of the estate.
The building looked deceptively peaceful, which was becoming an infuriatingly familiar quality of properties connected to the Order.
I was getting very tired of respectable stone walls hiding ugly things.
Hawkeye's camera showed the old chapel, the rear courtyard, and enough of the north wing to catch movement between buildings. The black estate car associated with Vale remained near the chapel, while two vans had repositioned closer to the rear entrance.
"Where are the women?" I asked.
Trigger pointed toward the screen.
"First van."
"How many?"
"We've visually confirmed four residents so far. Could be more inside."
Skye leaned over the equipment table.
"Any movement near the chapel tunnel?"
"Hawkeye hasn't seen anyone use it."
"Because if they're evacuating quickly, the public route is faster," she said. "The concealed lower level is useful when they don't want movement observed from inside the property. Not necessarily when they're already clearing people out."
Trigger nodded.
"Vale?"
"Still there."
As if summoned by his name, the man stepped into view.
He looked painfully ordinary.
That struck me more than anything else.
Owen Vale wasn't built like one of the armed men we'd faced beneath Croft House.
He wasn't dressed tactically or posturing for anyone nearby.
Dark coat. Plain trousers. Short dark hair.
Average enough height and build that he could've walked through a train station without anyone remembering him five minutes later.
The kind of man whose job depended on nobody remembering.
Cipher enlarged the image.
"That's him."
I studied his face.
"How long with Harrow?"
"At least eleven years under his current identity. Maybe longer under another."
Storm's voice came through the radio from the western route. "First van moving."
Trigger straightened.
"Direction?"
"South gate."
Maverick was already on his phone.
"I have eyes two miles down."
The van disappeared from Hawkeye's frame.
Raze's voice followed seconds later. "Second one is moving west."
Trigger swore.
It was exactly what we'd expected: the vehicles were splitting onto separate routes to make following every resident more difficult.
I reached toward the keys.
Trigger looked at me.
"No."
My hand stopped.
"Irish, you're too close to this."
Anger flashed hot enough that I nearly forgot every lesson of the last week.
Then I remembered Da's letter.
I remembered Toxic telling me to call before something became a graveyard.
And I remembered the question I'd asked Eamon less than an hour earlier.
Help me find it?
I forced myself to take my hand away from the keys.
"What do you need me doing?"
Trigger's expression shifted almost imperceptibly, carrying something that looked like approval and perhaps a little relief when I removed my hand from the keys.
"Stay on Vale."
I looked at the screen.
"He moves, we follow?"
"At distance."
"Done."
Skye stood beside me.
Her fingers brushed mine beneath the edge of the table without actually taking my hand, simply remaining there as a quiet reminder that she was beside me.
The second van cleared the western road.
Hawkeye reported three remaining vehicles at the estate.
Then my phone rang.
Unknown number.
Every person around the table noticed at the same time.
Cipher spoke first.
"Don't answer yet."
I held the phone up.
He started typing.
"Routing through three relays. Irish number isn't public. Could be spam, but given the timing—"
The call stopped.
Then rang again.
Same number.
Cipher's face changed.
"Answer. Speaker. Don't give anything away."
I accepted the call.
"Yeah."
For several seconds, nobody spoke.
Then a cultured English voice said, "Mr. O'Brien."
Every muscle in my body locked.
Skye looked at me.
Cipher began recording.
"I was beginning to wonder how long it would take you to return home."
Gideon Harrow. I didn't need a photograph or Cipher's confirmation to identify him; something about that controlled, cultivated voice told me immediately who had finally called.
The voice sounded exactly like the letters Da had preserved: calm, educated, almost reasonable enough to make the threat beneath it seem like something imagined by less civilized people.
"You're a hard man to reach," I said.
A faint pause.
"Your father said much the same about me once."
My hand tightened around the phone.
Skye's fingers closed around mine beneath the table.
I let her.
"What do you want?"
"To prevent an unnecessary escalation."
I looked toward the live image of Saint Brigid's.
"Bit late for that."
"I disagree. Croft House was regrettable."
"Women locked behind walls usually are."
"Dr. Croft's methods were excessive."
There it was again, the Order's favorite trick: reduce an institution's crimes to the misconduct of one supposedly excessive individual and pretend the system itself remained respectable.
"Convenient."
"I understand your skepticism."
"No, you understand evidence."
The silence lasted long enough to tell me I'd landed somewhere useful.
Harrow's voice returned, still controlled.