4. Declan
Declan
The bullet tears through the window above Cillian’s head and buries itself in the plaster with a sound I will hear in my sleep until I murder everyone responsible.
I drag Maeve and the boy to the floor as glass falls over us, glittering across the rug like vicious snow.
My men answer the shot before the fragments settle, three controlled bursts cutting through the darkness beyond the house.
Cillian does not scream. He clamps both hands around the fireplace poker and twists beneath me, trying to see whether Niamh has been hit.
Six years old, a stranger to me, and already prepared to crawl toward danger for someone he loves.
Pride has no business rising in my chest while men are shooting at my son, but it comes anyway, sharp enough to hurt.
Another round punches through the wall beside the mantel, and fury burns every softer emotion out of me.
The attackers have made one catastrophic mistake.
They have given me something to lose before giving themselves somewhere to hide.
“Where is the strongest room in the house?” I keep my body over Maeve and Cillian while I draw my pistol. “No windows, one entrance, solid walls.”
Maeve’s eyes snap toward the rear corridor. Her fear is there, but it does not control her. “The pantry behind the kitchen. Thomas chose this house because it was rebuilt as a panic room. Reinforced door, independent lock, ventilation, and enough food to survive a disappointing marriage.”
“Then congratulations. You finally found a room suited to ours.” I rise into a crouch and fire twice through the broken window at a shadow moving between the trees. “Take them there. Stay inside until I open the door myself.”
“I am not leaving you out here to indulge your personality disorder.” Maeve pulls Cillian against her and reaches beneath her coat.
The pistol she produces is compact, well maintained, and held with the comfort of long familiarity.
“You may be difficult to mourn, but the paperwork would be unbearable.”
“You can insult me when no one is trying to ventilate our child.” I seize her wrist before she can stand, keeping my voice low enough that Cillian will not hear the panic trying to split my ribs. “Get him behind that door, Maeve. If you want to hate me tomorrow, you need to survive tonight.”
Cillian shoves the poker toward me, his small face pale beneath his freckles. “You should take this. It is better for hitting people than your little gun.”
The boy has been mine for less than ten minutes, and he is already questioning my weapons. “Keep it. Anyone who gets past your mother deserves the humiliation.”
Niamh reaches us on her hands and knees, her silver hair speckled with glass. Blood marks one cheek, but the cut is shallow, and her gaze remains clear. “If the two of you are finished flirting like lunatics, perhaps we could prevent the child from being murdered.”
Maeve pushes Cillian into Niamh’s arms and moves toward the corridor, crouched below the windows.
I stay between them and the eastern wall while Ronan fires from the dining room and Callum shouts from upstairs that two shooters are advancing along the hedgerow.
A third weapon answers from the trees behind the kitchen, trying to force us toward the front entrance.
Whoever planned this knows the property, the exits, and which rooms offer the least protection.
They did not trail Maeve blindly from the airport and improvise an assault.
They found the safe house before she arrived, watched it, and waited until the woman carrying the evidence walked inside.
Cillian was the bait. Maeve and Thomas Keane’s drive were the real prize, though the people outside would happily kill both to tidy the account.
Through the shattered window, headlights blink once on the road and disappear.
A watcher is signalling the assault team that our convoy has arrived.
Ronan’s voice cuts through my earpiece. “Two moving east, one covering from the tree line. Possible fourth at the rear vehicle.”
“Take the east pair. Callum clears upstairs and watches the north windows.” I fire toward the muzzle flash behind the kitchen and hear someone curse in Irish. “Belfast.”
“Dublin,” Ronan answers without hesitation. The response confirms that the voice in my ear belongs to my man, not someone who has compromised our channel. “And if we live through this, I am choosing the next challenge code. Your imagination has become embarrassingly patriotic.”
“Survive first. Criticise me later.” I reach the kitchen as Maeve pulls open what appears to be an ordinary pantry door.
Steel shows beneath the painted wood, and the frame is anchored deep into the wall.
Thomas chose well, which irritates me because gratitude toward a former intelligence analyst who concealed my family feels too much like swallowing broken glass.
Maeve ushers Niamh inside, but Cillian plants his feet and grips the poker.
His eyes stay on me, too much like my own, only without the things I have done reflected inside them.
Another burst of gunfire strikes the rear wall, close enough to shower dust from the ceiling.
My patience ends where his blood might begin.
“Inside, Cillian.” I crouch in front of him while Maeve covers the corridor. “Your job is to protect your aunt and listen to your mother. Mine is to make certain no one reaches this door.”
“I can help.” His chin rises with stubbornness I recognise from the mirror and from every argument I ever lost to Maeve. “I am not frightened.”
“Only fools are never frightened.” I close his fingers more firmly around the poker. “Brave men know when to stand and when to guard the people behind them. Tonight, you guard from inside.”
Cillian studies me as if fatherhood is a position for which I have applied with inadequate references. “If you die, I am keeping your gun.”
Maeve catches the back of his jumper and pulls him through the doorway. “He has been your father for ten minutes, and you are already discussing his estate. I could not be prouder.”
The reinforced door closes before I can answer, and the locking bolts drive home with a heavy metallic thud.
The sound should relieve me. Instead, it divides the world into two parts: everything behind that steel, and every threat still breathing outside it.
I turn toward the rear entrance as the kitchen window explodes inward.
A man comes through low and fast, dressed in black, his face hidden, a suppressed pistol sweeping toward the pantry.
I shoot his shoulder before his weapon aligns, but he rolls behind the island and fires through the cabinets.
Splinters strike my jaw. His movements are disciplined, and his route is too direct.
He knows precisely where the protected room stands, which confirms that the safe-house specifications were sold or stolen before tonight.
Thomas’s secrecy delayed the enemy. It did not defeat them.
The attacker rises behind the island, and I put a bullet through his thigh.
He collapses, reaches for his pistol, and stops when my boot crushes his wrist against the tile.
I kick the weapon away and haul him upright by his collar.
His accent when he curses belongs to Belfast, though accents are cheap disguises among professionals.
A pale scar crosses his throat, and a black crown has been tattooed beneath his left ear.
There is no wolf beneath it, only five narrow points surrounded by a broken circle.
The symbol means nothing to me, which means it will soon mean everything.
His free hand jerks toward his mouth. I catch his jaw, but his teeth close before my fingers get between them.
“Spit it out.” I wrench his head back and force my thumb against the hinge of his jaw. “You are not dying until I decide you have become tedious.”
He smiles through clenched teeth. The bitterness of almonds reaches me a second before his body convulses.
Foam gathers at his lips, his eyes roll upward, and the weight of him goes slack in my grip.
Cyanide is theatrical, inconvenient, and effective.
I let the corpse hit the floor, then search him while gunfire cracks along the eastern side of the property.
His pockets contain no identification, no phone, and no keys.
Inside his jacket, however, a waterproof envelope has been stitched into the lining.
I tear it free and find an Irish Syndicate execution order naming Cillian Gallagher, age six.
The safe-house address appears below his name.
At the bottom sits my current authentication code, issued three weeks ago and known to five people: Eamon, Callum, Ronan, my senior systems administrator, and me.
Cold settles beneath my anger. The order Maeve brought could have been copied, planted, or manufactured to turn us against one another.
This one came through a window in the pocket of a man trying to reach my son.
Whoever has access to the system did not steal a code once and wait seven years to use it.
They can enter the assassination network now, issue commands beneath my authority, and update those commands when their targets move.
The breach is alive. It sits close enough to watch my organisation breathe, and I have just brought Maeve and Cillian into its line of sight.
I photograph the document using an encrypted device, send the image to Adrianos, then fold the original into my inner pocket.
Trust has become a luxury item, and tonight I cannot afford even the men bleeding for me outside.