Page 121 of The Thief
Trace did that to her. Trace and whoever's been helping him.
Time to return the favor.
"I'm going to kill him," I say quietly. "Slowly. Personally."
"We'll all take a turn," Maverick agrees.
"But first, we find our leak. Because until we do, we're fighting blind."
The others nod. Tomorrow, we start hunting our own people, looking for the traitor who's been selling us out. Not a pleasant task, but a necessary one.
Tonight, though, I just want to hold Alastríona and pretend the world isn't trying to kill us.
Tonight, that's enough.
CHAPTER TWENTY
alastríona
My phone buzzes while I'm sitting with Jessica, Lisa, and Clodagh. We're all pretending to focus on the card game while the men plan God knows what in Stephen's office.
Murphy's name flashing on my phone screen makes my heart skip. He never calls. We haven't spoken since I left Belfast. For him to ring now, after everything that's happened… it has my stomach rolling.
"Murphy?"
"Alastríona." His voice is wrong. Weak, strained, like he's speaking through pain. "Christ, love, I'm sorry."
My blood runs cold. "Sorry for what? What's happened?"
"They came for you. Came to the pub asking questions."
"Who came? What questions?"
"Americans. Professional types. Said they were looking for Killian's daughter."
I'm on my feet now, moving away from the girls so they can't hear. But my hands are shaking, and I think they notice anyway. Especially Lisa, who's watching me like a hawk.
"What did you tell them?"
"Nothing—at first. I told them you'd never been to the pub, that I didn't know what they were talking about."
"And?"
His laugh is bitter, broken. "They didn't believe me. Started getting creative with their persuasion methods."
Oh God. Oh Christ, what have they done to him?
"Murphy, are you hurt?"
"Hurt." He makes a sound that might be laughter or might be sobbing. "That's one word for it. They took their time, love. Made sure I understood how serious they were."
"Where are you? I'll send help?—"
"No point. Pub's gone. They burned it down after they finished with me. Everything I worked for, thirty years of my life, just... gone."
The words hit like physical blows. Murphy's pub, the place that was home to me since my dad died. Gone. Destroyed because of me.
"I held out as long as I could," he continues, voice getting weaker. "But they had tools, love. Professional tools. And they knew how to use them."
