6. Declan
Declan
The execution team is already armed when I reach the Irish staging point beneath a shuttered funeral home in Queens.
Three men stand beside an unmarked van, checking weapons they believe will be used to eliminate a traitor before midnight.
None of them knows Thomas Keane’s name yet.
The offline protocol separates the target package from the field team until the final stage, a precaution designed to protect Crown intelligence if the operatives are captured.
Tonight, that precaution has saved Keane’s life by giving me twelve minutes to stand between him and the men I trained to kill without hesitation.
Callum follows me down the concrete stairs while Maeve waits in the armoured car outside, where six guards and her foul temper should keep her alive.
The team straightens when I enter. They expect the location-specific response phrase that will release Keane’s identity and address.
Instead, I remove the sealed target packet from the lead operative’s hand and hold it over a steel barrel.
“The assignment is withdrawn.” I strike my silver lighter and touch the flame to one corner of the packet. “Equipment stays here. No calls, no reports, and no discussion of this order outside this room.”
The lead operative watches the fire consume the documents. “The system says an offline execution cannot be cancelled without the counter-order phrase.”
“The system also says I am in charge.” I drop the burning remains into the barrel. “One of those statements is about to prove more useful than the other.”
He lowers his gaze. “Understood.”
The answer comes quickly because my men know curiosity can shorten a career.
I wait until each weapon is returned to its case and every encrypted device rests on the table.
Callum collects the equipment while I inspect the men for any sign that one expected my interference.
Irritation, confusion, and caution appear in the correct proportions.
None reaches for a hidden phone. None asks whether Keane escaped.
They received only the staging instructions, which means the execution details remain restricted to the senior approval chain.
Besides me, three men had access to the complete original order and the location package: Callum Byrne, my intelligence chief; Ronan Kelly, the head of my security; and Eamon O’Rourke, my uncle and principal adviser.
The same three will soon become the only men told where Keane is hidden.
It is a crude trap, but murderers who hide behind my authority have forfeited the right to elegant treatment.
Callum locks the last rifle into the armoury cage. “If anyone asks, the target died before our team reached him.”
“No. If anyone asks, the order remains active.” I watch him secure the padlock and memorise the numbers on its seal. “The corrupted system must believe tonight is proceeding as planned. Whoever issued the order may have another observer waiting near Keane.”
“You think one of the three of us is feeding the system.” His expression does not change, which is why he has survived eleven years as my intelligence chief. “That is either insulting or overdue.”
“Take comfort in the fact that I also suspect myself.” I pocket the lighter Maeve should never have noticed. “At least you are in distinguished company.”
Maeve has moved from the car by the time I return to the alley.
She stands beside the rear door with her arms folded, ignoring the two guards attempting to persuade her back inside.
Cold wind lifts the ends of her dark hair, and fury sharpens the face I spent seven years trying to forget.
The attempt was never convincing. I remembered the exact green of her eyes, the small scar beneath her chin, and the way her mouth tilted before she delivered an insult.
Hatred preserves details as faithfully as love.
That should make the two easier to distinguish, yet my body has always been careless with the difference.
“Did you stop them?” Maeve searches my face rather than the doorway behind me. “Or have you come outside to practise looking grim in a new location?”
“The team is contained, and the order remains open in the system.” I unlock the car myself. “Elena traced the three vehicles from the execution file. Two are false leads. The third entered the Bronx forty minutes ago and disappeared near an abandoned Irish social club.”
“Thomas used to drink there when it was open.” Maeve climbs into the car without waiting for assistance. “He said the Guinness tasted like punishment, which apparently made it authentic.”
The Emerald Brotherhood Social Club has been abandoned for eleven years, though calling it abandoned suggests it was once loved.
Its green awning hangs crooked above boarded windows, and the painted harp on the door has faded into a yellow stain.
Elena’s camera trace places the vehicle two streets away, but no heat shows at the front of the building.
Ronan’s tactical unit surrounds the block while Callum disables the old alarm circuit.
Neither man knows why Keane matters beyond the active execution order.
Eamon received a message stating that I was handling an urgent security concern and would return before morning.
Keeping the three men separated protects the investigation, although it also means I am walking into a suspected hideout with Maeve beside me and no one I trust without qualification.
“You stay behind me.” I draw my pistol and examine the lock. Fresh scratches mark the brass, but the dust around the threshold has not been disturbed. “If Keane shoots, get down. If anyone else shoots, get behind the wall.”
Maeve removes her own weapon. “Your tactical advice has become repetitive. Perhaps threaten to kill me. Nostalgia may improve my concentration.”
“I will threaten you after we find him alive.” I slide a narrow pick into the lock. “If he is dead, you will become unbearable.”
“I have survived your company for two days.” She checks the alley behind us. “Unbearable is now an act of self-defence.”
The lock yields, and the smell inside reaches us first. Damp wood, old alcohol, dust, and something electrical hang in the darkness.
I signal the men positioned at the rear, then enter beneath the faded emergency light.
Tables have been stacked against one wall, leaving a narrow path toward the bar.
Empty frames mark the places where photographs of Irish politicians, boxers, and dead criminals once hung.
A glass shifts beneath my boot. Somewhere above us, a floorboard creaks.
Maeve hears it at the same moment and raises her pistol toward the staircase.
I take the steps first, aware of her close behind me and furious enough to argue once neither of us is being hunted.
A shotgun barrel appears through the banister.
I seize Maeve’s coat and drag her beneath the angle as the blast tears through the wall.
Plaster falls across the stairs. I fire once toward the muzzle flash, deliberately wide, then drive my shoulder through the door at the landing.
Thomas Keane stands behind an overturned desk with a shotgun in his hands and a bandage wrapped around his left forearm.
Age has hollowed his cheeks, but fear has not made him careless.
Three monitors show exterior camera feeds, while a portable drive sits connected to a laptop.
He shifts the shotgun toward Maeve, then freezes when he recognises her.
“Thomas.” Maeve lowers her weapon first, though not far enough to become foolish. “That was an unnecessarily violent welcome.”
Keane stares at her as if she has climbed from a grave. “I told you not to return to New York.”
“You sent me an execution order naming my son.” She steps around me. “Most women interpret that as an invitation to discuss boundaries.”
Keane’s gaze moves to me, and the shotgun rises again. “You brought him.”
“She did.” I keep my pistol trained on his chest. “I have been told my personality makes excellent cover.”
“You signed my death order this morning.” His finger rests against the trigger. “Forgive me if I decline your protection.”
“I also stopped the men sent to carry it out.” I take another step. “If I still wanted you dead, Keane, we would not be discussing your feelings.”
Maeve positions herself between our lines of fire with the confidence of a woman who believes both men are too stubborn to shoot through her.
She is probably right, which irritates me.
Keane lowers the shotgun by inches and studies the blood on my collar.
Behind him, the monitors show Ronan’s men holding their perimeter rather than entering.
No movement appears near the rear alley.
If the corrupted system dispatched a secondary observer, they are patient enough to stay hidden.
“Tell him what you found.” Maeve approaches the desk. “If he decides to kill you afterward, I will criticise his technique.”
Keane gives her a humourless smile. “Seven years have done nothing charitable to your mouth.”
“Neither did the seven years before them.” She looks at the laptop. “Why did you contact me now?”
Keane unloads the shotgun and places it on the desk.
“I found your name in an archived execution file while tracing the concealed override. The evidence against you was constructed from genuine Gallagher manifests, but the dates had been altered. Your federal contact never existed. The account that received the payment was opened using your identification three days after you fled.”