Page 89 of Irish Vice

“Samantha.” I repeat her name, more urgent now, because she doesn’t believe I’ll keep her safe. But her gaze is lost in thepast. Her lips move, and I don’t know if she’s shaping a prayer or sharing some nightmare from long ago.

“Samantha!” I say one last time, dropping into the power of my Captain’s voice.

She blinks and finds my face. She seems surprised that she’s a grown woman. That she’s at Thornfield. That she’s mine.

“Get Aiofe from the nursery,” I tell her. “Go to the safe room.” And when she starts to protest, I say, “Now!”

She leaves like a sprinter from the blocks.

That’s enough to startle my men from their trances. I’m gratified that half of them already have weapons in hand. “Madden,” I snap. He’s a feckin’ firebug. He’s watching his handiwork from somewhere close by. “He’s here at Thornfield,” I tell my men. “I want him in this office within the hour. Alive.”

Patrick’s gone, but he’s trained his troops well. Not one of them stops to question Samantha’s half-delivered message. Instead, they accept their assignments from Rory—one each to the gatehouse, the greenhouse, the pool house. A pair get the grounds, and all the smaller outbuildings. Another two are sent to the cottages. Rory follows them out, saying he wants reports texted to his phone, every five minute.

Once they’ve left, I say to Seamus, “Let’s check the house.”

We start with the door to the third floor. I open the lock with the key in my pocket. Seamus takes his post by the right of the jamb. I count down with silent fingers—three, two, one. I use the door as a shield after I yank it open. Seamus springs into place, his arms locked in a tactical firing stance.

“Jaysus, Mary and Joseph!” Grace Poole shrieks as I peer around the door. She’s gripping her own key, as if there’s any situation in the world where she’d be better off unlocking the door and facing whoever’s been rattling the knob.

There’s a flurry of question-and-answer, half in English, half in Irish, as Grace screeches and clutches her heart and calls on half the saints in Christendom. Madden isn’t upstairs, though. She and Birte haven’t seen him.

“Stay here,” I tell her. “Don’t answer the door for anyone.”

Seamus and I make short work of the rest of the second floor—Samantha’s office, the guest rooms and their jacks, my bedroom suite. The ground floor is empty as well, both wings. Each cleared room sharpens my concentration, honing my thoughts like a razor strapped against leather.

Madden stole the milk run. Madden beat Fiona. Madden blew up my garage.

Madden’s making his bid to run the Fishtown Boys. I have one chance to stop him before he takes Thornfield, Philadelphia, and all of Clan Kelly.

40

SAMANTHA

Braiden’s command jangles in my head:Get Aiofe from the nursery. Go to the safe room.

My legs move before my brain catches up. By the time I slip open the nursery door, I’ve shoved down the worst of my horror. I’m not a child in my parents’ home any longer. The glass at Thornfield didn’t shatter. Braiden is managing the explosion.

My fingers brush against the Glock I nestled at the base of my spine. The feel of the textured grip is enough to steady me. There’s no need to terrify Aiofe by drawing it now.

She’s tangled in her sheets, her bright red hair spilling over her pillow. Curled up on her side, she has her stuffed rabbit—Coinín—tucked beneath her arm. I’m astonished the sound of the bomb didn’t wake her. I can’t remember ever sleeping that soundly.

“Aiofe,” I call softly, hurrying across the room. I don’t want to startle her, but I can’t waste too much time being gentle. I smooth her hair from her face.

A frown creases her forehead as she stirs. “Come on, Aiofe,” I say, pushing back her covers. She’s all arms and legs, too big for me to carry down the stairs. “We need to go.”

I get her on her feet and halfway to the door. She’s left Coinín on her pillow, though, and turns back to get him. “Hurry,” I urge. “Braiden wants us downstairs.”

Her uncle’s name must unlock something in her drowsy mind, because she stops resisting. The corridor on the ground floor is cool. Windows march down one side, looking out over the driveway, toward the garage. Orange light flickers weirdly.

Every time I think about theboomof the explosion, my knees threaten to buckle. That sound tore apart my life when I was Aiofe’s age. That sound killed my parents.

I hear men outside, shouting over the crackle of fire. Someone hollers that the front gate is open. The fire department is on its way.

I don’t have to worry about any of that. I don’t have to think about the cars. I don’t have to remember the glass that shattered when I was a child. I only have to do what Braiden taught me to do, my first full day at Thornfield.

I haven’t worked the safe room door since Braiden showed me how to access it, months ago. But he drilled me then, testing me three times, making sure I could work the latch alone, blindfolded, with a madman on my heels.

Now, the door glides open silently, heavier than the entrance to a bank vault. As Aiofe and I cross the threshold, sensors bring up the lights inside. Just as Braiden taught me, I take care to lock us in, testing the door twice to make sure no one can follow us into the refuge.