Page 7

SEVEN

emmanuel

The text from Jer comes through just as I'm finishing breakfast:

Clodagh O'Rourke is being released from hospital today. Thought you'd want to know.

My heart races as I read the message. I've been following her case closely, scouring every news article for updates. The guilt I have for what happened to her and her family is immense. I know it’s not my fault, but I can’t help but feel partly responsible.

I should have taken my father out long before he could hurt her.

Now she’s leaving the hospital after being kept in for weeks. This is big.

Without really thinking it through, I grab my jacket and head out.

I know which hospital she's been staying at—it's not far. As I drive, my mind races. What am I even doing? It's not like I can talk to her, tell her who I am. But I need to see her, to make sure she's okay. She’s a kid, for fuck’s sake, one that’s been through hell at the hands of my father. I just need to ensure that she’s okay.

I park across the street from the hospital, slouching down in my seat to avoid being noticed. After about an hour, I see movement at the entrance. A small figure emerges, flanked by what must be social workers. Clodagh.

Even from this distance, I can see how fragile she looks. Her shoulders are hunched, her steps hesitant. My chest tightens with a mixture of guilt and anger. This is what my father did to her.

They lead her to a waiting car. As it pulls away, I start my engine, following at a safe enough distance not to be seen. We wind through the city, eventually pulling up outside a modest house in a quiet neighborhood.

A woman comes out to greet them. She's a kind-looking woman who has dark hair with a white streak through it. She must be the foster mother. I watch as she gently ushers Clodagh inside, the social workers following.

I sit there for a long time after they've gone in, just staring at the house. Finally, I pull out my phone and call Jer.

"I need you to run a background check on someone," I say when he picks up.

"The foster mother?" Jer asks, not sounding surprised at all.

"Yeah. How did you?—"

"Because I know you, lad. Send me the address. I'll have my people look into her."

I relay the information then hang up. As I drive home, I try to process what I'm feeling. Relief that Clodagh's out of the hospital? Anger at what she's been through? Or something else entirely?

A few hours later, Jer calls back.

"Foster mother checks out," he says. "Tammy Whelan, thirty-eight, clean record, good references. She seems like a decent sort. Clodagh isn’t her first foster child, but she’s going to be the only one she has in the house."

I let out a breath I didn't realize I was holding. "Good. That's... that's good."

There's a pause on the other end of the line. "Emmanuel," Jer says finally, his voice gentle, "you know you can't fix this, right? What your father did... it's not on you to make it right."

I clench my jaw. "I know. I just... I needed to make sure she was safe."

"I understand," Jer says. "But be careful. Don't let this consume you.”

"I know," I say, trying to keep the frustration out of my voice. "I just... I feel responsible, you know? If I had taken care of my father sooner, none of this would have happened to her."

Jer sighs heavily. "Emmanuel, listen to me. You are not responsible for your father's actions. You were a child yourself when all this started. Technically you still are. The only person to blame here is Jacob Dellinger."

I know he's right, but it doesn't ease the knot in my stomach. "Yeah, I guess," I mutter.

"Look," Jer continues, his voice softening. "I get it. You want to help. But the best thing you can do for that girl right now is to let her heal. Let the professionals handle it."

I nod, even though he can't see me. "Okay. You're right."

"That said," Jer adds, "I'll keep an eye on things. Make sure she's safe and well taken care of. If anything seems off, we'll step in. Deal?"

"Deal," I agree, feeling a little better. At least someone will be watching out for her.

As I hang up, I can't help but think about Clodagh.

About the life she should have had, the family that was ripped away from her.

And I think about my own life, how different it might have been if my father wasn't the monster he turned out to be.

I may not be able to fix what happened to Clodagh, but I can damn well make sure it doesn't happen to anyone else.

That's why I signed up to The Agency, why I’m working for Jer.

* * *

It’s almost midnight when my phone buzzes with an incoming text.

Jer: Found something in the box the guards missed. Come to the office.

I don’t ask questions. I just go.

When I walk into Jer’s office, the place is quiet. He’s behind his desk, the same scuffed oak thing he’s had since I was a kid. There’s a wooden box sitting on top of it. Old, stained, with a rusted clasp.

Jer gives me a long look. “This came from the cabin. Guards found it tucked behind a false wall. Took their second sweep to spot it.”

My stomach turns. I already know what this is.

He lifts the lid and flips it toward me. Inside are photographs. Dozens. Some crumpled at the edges. Some clear. My hands go cold.

It’s Clodagh.

In one, she’s sitting on a swing, her hair blowing sideways like someone caught her mid-laugh. In another, she’s walking down her street, a schoolbag slung over one shoulder. In one, she’s crouched beside her little brother, tying his shoe.

They aren’t family photos. They were taken from a distance. Through bushes. Behind fences. Long lens stuff. Stalker stuff.

I can’t breathe.

“These were taken weeks before he grabbed her,” I whisper, barely able to get the words out.

Jer doesn’t say anything.

There’s a notebook too. I pick it up carefully and flip it open. His handwriting jumps off the page. Sloppy. Wild. Obsessive.

“She’s perfect. Quiet. Sweet. Just like she’s supposed to be.”

“Others weren’t right. Too loud. Too old. Too ugly.”

“She looked at me. That means something.”

Each line is worse than the one before. Some pages are just her name. Over and over. Other pages list parks, dates, times. I spot names I don’t recognize. Other girls. All crossed out.

He was watching her. Studying her. Planning this long before he ever spoke to her in that park.

“This wasn’t impulse,” I say, flipping the book shut. “He knew exactly what he was doing. He picked her.”

Jer nods slowly. “Yeah. This confirms it. He’s been sick for a long time. The guards will use this to lock him down for good. With the notebook and the photos, there’s no walking away from this.”

I stare at the picture of Clodagh on the swing. She looks happy. Normal. Eleven years old and unaware that a monster was already circling.

“Can I keep this one?” I ask.

Jer studies me for a second, then gives a small nod. “You sure?”

“I don’t know if I’ll ever show it to her,” I admit. “But I need it. To remember what he really was.”

He closes the box and sets it aside. “You okay?”

“No.”

Jer doesn’t push. He just leans back in his chair and lets the silence sit.

I look down at the photo again. My father didn’t just destroy her family. He hunted her like she was prey. Because she was light, and he was all rot.

At least now I know the truth.

She wasn’t unlucky.

She was chosen.

And I won’t let what he did define her.

Not now. Not ever.

* * *

Six Months Later

The Miami heat is uncomfortable as I step out of the air-conditioned hotel lobby. Sweat immediately beads on my forehead, but I ignore it, scanning the busy street.

"Remind me again why we're here?" Maverick grumbles beside me, fanning himself dramatically with a tourist map.

I roll my eyes. "Spring break, remember? We’re just two Irish lads living it up in the States."

That's our cover story, at least. The truth is far more complicated. Although we’re only seventeen, the fake ID’s we have say we’re twenty-one.

Maverick’s my best friend. He knew something was going on with me months ago and I had to tell him what—who—I had become.

Thankfully, he took it in his stride and said that he’d always have my back, hence why we’re here in Miami.

My phone buzzes in my pocket. A text from Jer:

Target confirmed at usual location. You're clear to proceed.

I take a deep breath, steeling myself. This is it.

"Hey, I'm gonna grab us some drinks," I tell Maverick, casually. "Why don't you head down to the beach? I'll meet you there in a bit."

Mav eyes me suspiciously. He knows what we’re here for, but I’d never get him directly involved in the actual killing. He doesn’t want to join The Houlihan Gang, and that’s more than okay, so I’ll never have him involved directly with what I’m doing.

"Alright," he says slowly. "Don't take too long, yeah? I wanna hit up that club we saw last night."

I nod, watching as he strolls off toward the beach. Once he's out of sight, I duck into a nearby alley and retrieve the small case I stashed there earlier.

Inside is a disassembled sniper rifle. My hands move automatically, piecing it together with practiced ease. Six months of training and missions have made this second nature.

I make my way to the rooftop of a nearby building, setting up quickly and efficiently. Through the scope, I scan the outdoor café across the street.

There. My target: Thomas Young. To the world, he's a successful businessman. But Jer's intel paints a different picture. Human trafficking, drug smuggling, countless lives ruined.

I steady my breathing, lining up the shot. Just as I'm about to squeeze the trigger, my phone vibrates. Maverick’s calling.

I hesitate for a split second. As much as I’d love to answer him, I have a job to do. I quickly silence my phone and refocus.

Exhale. Squeeze.

The shot rings out, quickly swallowed by the bustle of the city. Through the scope, I watch as Young slumps forward, a bullet hole in his forehead. Bullseye.

Chaos erupts at the café. I'm already breaking down the rifle, my movements quick and precise. By the time sirens sound in the distance, I'm back on street level, the weapon safely stowed away.

I head toward the beach, my heart rate slowly returning to normal. Just another day at the office.

"There you are!" Maverick calls out as I approach.

I nod, trying to appear casual as I sit down next to Maverick on the beach. "Yeah, all good. Sorry I took so long. The line for drinks was crazy."

Maverick eyes me skeptically. "Uh-huh. And where are these drinks exactly?"

Shit. I forgot about that part of my cover story. "Ah, fuck," I mutter. "They were out of what I wanted. Figured I'd just come meet you instead."

Maverick shakes his head, but there's a hint of amusement in his eyes. "You're a terrible liar, you know that?"

I sigh, running a hand through my hair. "Yeah, I know. Look, it's done, alright? Let's just... enjoy the rest of our trip."

Maverick raises a brow at me. “You don’t have to keep shit hidden from me, Emman. You know who my family is, right?"

I nod. "Yeah, I know. It was clean. In and out. You’ve decided that this isn’t what you want, Mav. You don’t want to work for Jer and I’m respecting that."

Maverick sighs. "I appreciate that, man. I know this is your path now, but you don’t have to do it alone. This life, it's dangerous."

I lean back on my elbows, staring out at the ocean. "I know. But it feels right, you know? Like I'm finally doing something that matters."

"Just be careful, alright?" Maverick says, rising to his feet. “No matter when you need me, I'm there.”

I smile, grateful for his understanding. "Always. Now, about that club..."

As we head back to the hotel to get ready for a night out, my phone buzzes again. Cole:

Job well done. Enjoy your holiday. We'll debrief when you're back.

I slip the phone back in my pocket, pushing thoughts of the job to the back of my mind. For now, I'm just going to enjoy my time in Miami.

I still keep tabs on Clodagh through Jer. He’s making sure she’s being taken care of and doing okay. From what he’s said, Tammy is an amazing woman who’s helping her the best she can.

But as we walk, I can't help but think about how much has changed over the past six months. How much I've changed. I was racked with guilt and unsure of myself. Now, I'm the Silencer. A killer. A weapon.