Page 85 of Irish Vice

None of it matters. Not now.

A week ago, Braiden broke my heart. He said horrible things to me, things I’m not sure I can ever forgive. But those words shouldn’t be a death sentence. Braiden has to know his brother is a traitor. If Madden is working with Russo—the most recent one is from this afternoon—no one in Thornfield is safe.

“Thank you,” I say, cutting Asher off. “Get me your invoice, and I’ll pay it immediately.”

That’s the magic formula to get him off the line. I scramble for my cell and tap Braiden’s number.

It goes straight to voicemail. He’s blocked me.

Swearing, I call Liam, my former driver. His phone ringsfour times, but it goes to voicemail too. I tell him to call me, tell him it’s urgent, but I have no idea how long it will take for him to call back. For all I know, he could be half a dozen time zones away. Braiden could have sent him to Ireland. Could have fired him altogether.

I don’t have a number for Fairfax. I don’t even know if Grace Poole owns a phone. Birte doesn’t have one, nor does Aiofe. There are guards at the gate, but I don’t know their names, much less their phone numbers.

I’m sitting in front of one of the most powerful computers sold on the open market. It only takes me a moment to dive into LexisNexis, the same research software I used to track down Ingram’s location in Boston. I make the same promises, tell the same lies to get past the nanny filters designed to keep personal data private.

The database gives me Braiden’s address. Registrations for all of his cars. His plane. A boat I didn’t know he owns. Fairfax’s name is listed as a person who might be living at the same location. Grace Poole, too.

But there’s no phone number.

Groaning in frustration, I pull up the freeport’s official records. We have client contracts, government forms, tax documents—hundreds of files under Braiden’s ten-digit client number.

I race through the first three documents. The only one that requires a phone contact lists the freeport’s number.

This is hopeless.

I remember the muzzle of Madden’s pistol, jammed against my throat. I hear his crude threats in the Thornfield ballroom, his promise to rape me. I think about all the things Russo has done, killing my parents, killing my cousin, threatening to murder me.

Seven in the last week. Madden and Russo are stepping up their partnership.

I grab my keys and head to the freeport parking lot.

The Mercedes’ engine whispers to life at the touch of a button. I reach across the console to open the glove box. My new Glock waits with a full magazine, ready at an instant’s notice.

Now, I set the weapon on the seat beside me. My head feels light, as if it’s filled with helium, floating high above the paved road outside the freeport. I realize the last thing I ate was a granola bar Mary forced on me at lunch. I washed it down with an over-size coffee, my third of the day. No, fourth.

Merging onto the interstate helps me to concentrate. The dashed white lines hurl me forward. I camp out in the left lane, beating the speed limit by a good twenty miles an hour.

The trip should take two hours. I make it in an hour and a half.

Approaching the gate, I find a fresh flock of paparazzi, congregating with podcast protesters around the last street lamp before the fence that surrounds the mansion. TheEnquirerarticle must have dumped fresh blood into the water; they’re all restless for prey.

I come in fast, like a missile locked on target. The sharks are smarter than they look. They get out of the way before I have to slam on my brakes.

The guards don’t expect me. I see surprise on their faces, and one of them starts talking into his phone. But my credentials still work—hand scan and eye scan both. The gate glides open and I gun the Mercedes toward the house.

37

BRAIDEN

Patrick and Seamus have arrived in record time. Soldiers are still trickling in—four of them standing watchfully in the corner of my office, another eight on their way.

Ingram’s men will come looking for vengeance, ready to hit me hard. The most logical place to start is Fishtown, the heart of my life in this city. Every place on the milk run is vulnerable.

My lieutenants study an old-fashioned paper map spread on my desk. Patrick’s second-in-command, Rory O’Hare, double-checks boundaries on his phone. They’re breaking down streets into manageable plots, assigning sections of my territory to the waiting enforcers.

“That won’t work,” Rory points out, stabbing the map with a crooked index finger. “There’s six blocks exposed, with Mimi in the middle. The girls will be one of their first targets.”

Patrick swears and tugs the paper closer to the edge of my desk.