2. Declan
Declan
The words do not make sense together, so my mind separates them and examines each one like evidence recovered from a murder scene.
Your own son. Maeve stands in front of me with her chin raised, her dark hair hidden beneath that ridiculous scarf, and the expression she uses when expecting impact.
The execution order remains in my hand, bent where my fingers have tightened around Cillian Gallagher’s photograph.
Red hair, green eyes, serious mouth, six years old.
The boy looks enough like me to make denial feel less like scepticism and more like cowardice, but disbelief is the only thing keeping my control intact.
Around us, airport announcements continue, luggage wheels scrape over tile, and strangers hurry toward people they have missed for days rather than years.
None of them know my entire life has just been divided into before this moment and after it.
Maeve reaches for the order, and I move it beyond her grasp without looking away from the photograph.
“You are coming with me,” I say. Her mouth twists.
“Your courtship technique has somehow deteriorated.”
I signal Ronan with two fingers, and my men close around us without approaching Maeve directly.
She notices every movement, calculates every exit, and shifts her weight as though deciding which of my soldiers will be easiest to injure first. Seven years ago, I would have found that entertaining.
Today, every instinct she uses to protect herself feels like an accusation.
“Private exit,” I tell Ronan. “Clear the route and find out who accessed the passenger list before she landed.” Maeve’s eyes narrow.
“You knew someone else had my identity.” “I knew someone searched for women travelling from Ireland within twelve minutes of your message reaching me.” I take her handbag before she can object and pass it to no one, because I no longer trust any hand except mine.
“How romantic,” she says. “Nothing makes a woman feel treasured like mass surveillance.” I look at her.
“Keep talking, love. It is the only reason I have not started breaking things.” She lifts her chin. “I assumed that was arthritis.”
The armoured car waits beneath the terminal in a restricted loading area where cameras belong to companies I own.
Maeve stops beside the open rear door and studies the driver, the escort vehicle, and the men positioned at both ends of the concrete bay.
“If I get into that car, where are you taking me?” she asks.
“Somewhere secure.” Her smile is as cold as the air pouring through the loading entrance.
“Men always say that before a woman appears in a documentary.” I hold the door and wait because dragging her inside would be faster but considerably less satisfying than watching her choose the inevitable.
“If I intended to kill you, we would not be discussing transport arrangements.” “Yes, you were always efficient about murder and appalling at hospitality.” She gets in at last, sliding across the leather seat while keeping as much distance between us as the vehicle permits.
I follow and close the door, sealing us into a silence filled with the boy’s face on the order between my hands.
The convoy moves before either of us speaks.
Maeve watches the airport disappear through the tinted window as though measuring how difficult it would be to jump from a moving car.
I study the photograph again and search for evidence that my mind is constructing resemblance because she told me to see it.
The boy’s hair is unmistakably O’Rourke, not the soft auburn common across Ireland, but the dark red that appears in my family like a warning passed through blood.
His eyes are green, his eyebrows drawn together in the same expression my father wore whenever somebody wasted his time.
Cillian stands outside a school gate wearing a blue coat, one hand wrapped around the strap of a backpack decorated with planets.
Someone took the picture from across the road.
The angle, distance, and slight blur tell me the photographer remained inside a vehicle and expected another opportunity if the first failed.
“Who took this?” I ask. Maeve does not turn from the window.
“If I knew, he would be answering questions without the benefit of fingernails.” “You always did aim above your training.” “You always underestimated how motivating motherhood can be.” The word strikes again, harder because she delivers it without hesitation.
I fold the order once, carefully this time, because tearing it would not erase the name printed inside.
“How old?” I ask, although the document already tells me.
Maeve turns and examines my face as though deciding whether the answer is another weapon I might use against her.
“Six.” Her voice is controlled, but one hand closes around the edge of her coat.
“He turns seven in four months.” I calculate before I can stop myself, moving backward through months and years until the result lands with brutal clarity.
“You were pregnant when you left.” “Just.” “How long did you know?” Her gaze holds mine.
“Several hours.” The answer strips the air from the car more effectively than a bullet through glass.
“You found out that morning.” “Yes.” “And you ran that night.” Maeve’s expression hardens.
“You make it sound impulsive. I had a death order with your name on it, two men watching my apartment, and a child inside me who deserved a mother with functioning lungs.”
The car turns into an underground garage beneath a residential building in Queens owned through four companies and a dead accountant.
No sign identifies the property, no employee knows who occupies the upper floors, and every camera feeds into a closed system controlled by Ronan.
I bring Maeve upstairs through a private lift and lead her into an apartment furnished for utility rather than comfort.
Two bedrooms, reinforced windows, steel inside the walls, independent ventilation, and enough weapons hidden behind panels to survive an ambitious siege.
Maeve walks directly to the windows and checks the locks without waiting for permission.
She tests the balcony door, opens two cupboards, and glances at the smoke detector.
“Expecting the furniture to confess?” I ask.
“Furniture has disappointed me less often than men.” I set her handbag on the table but keep the execution order.
“Sit.” She turns from the window. “I have spent seven years practising not doing what you tell me.” “Then stand and make this unnecessarily dramatic.”
Maeve remains standing, so I call Ronan and order every access point secured.
No one enters the floor without my approval, and no communication leaves except through a device I control.
Maeve listens without interrupting until I end the call.
“You are not taking my phone,” she says.
“I am.” “It contains nothing connected to Cillian.” “Then losing it should be painless.” She removes the phone from her pocket and holds it against her chest instead of surrendering it.
“His location is not stored anywhere, and threatening me will not produce it.” I step closer, stopping before my coat touches hers.
“I do not need to threaten you, Maeve. You returned to a city I control using an identity my enemies found before my people did.” Her eyes flash.
“Your people found me at the airport.” “Because you told me when to look.” I lower my voice. “Someone else was already looking.”
That reaches her, although the change lasts less than a second.
Maeve places the phone on the table but keeps one hand over it.
“Prove you did not issue the order.” “I told you I did not.” “Seven years ago, your word might have been enough.” The restraint in her voice makes the accusation worse.
“Seven years ago, you looked me in the face and believed documents produced by your own men instead of the woman sharing your bed.” I feel the old rage rise, familiar and useless.
“The evidence showed you handed federal agents a warehouse, two soldiers, and six months of routes.” “The evidence lied.” “You disappeared before I could question you.” She gives a short, humourless laugh.
“You had already answered the question. You just wanted me present when you delivered the sentence.” The apartment goes very quiet.
I remember the last time I saw her, white-faced in my office, standing between two guards while I held photographs, bank records, and an informant statement that carried her signature.
“I told you to give me one reason not to believe it,” I say.
Maeve’s mouth tightens. “I told you I had not betrayed you.” “You offered no proof.” “Because men had just searched my apartment and left an execution order on my table.” Her hand leaves the phone and disappears inside her coat.
I catch her wrist before she can reach the seam, but she does not fight me.
She slowly withdraws the encrypted drive and places it beside the phone.
“Thomas believed this contains proof that several execution files were altered before they reached you.” I look at the small black device.
“You cannot open it.” “Not safely.” “Yet you crossed an ocean carrying it.” “I considered posting it, but international delivery services have become terribly judgemental about evidence connected to murder.” Her sarcasm is intact, but fear lives beneath it now.
“Thomas said someone inside your organisation knows I have it.”