On the screen, a grainy CCTV still shows the survivor from thecontainer, face swollen and eyes wild, being carried into a clinic by two men in Connolly colors.
The timestamp is less than an hour old.
Fiachra says, "They're already denying. Whole council statement—no one authorized a move, nothing to do with them, old guard acting alone."
Ruairí watches the video in silence.
His face is unreadable, but I see the pulse in his jaw.
"They'll try to spin it," Fiachra adds.
"Say it was a freelancer. Maybe even blame you."
Ruairí hands the phone back and wipes his hand on his thigh.
"It was sanctioned."
Fiachra nods, the corners of his mouth twitching.
"Of course it was."
A pause, then, "You want to go public?"
"Not yet," Ruairí says.
He turns to me, and his eyes are the coldest I've seen them.
"If we answer now, they'll have cover. I want to know who gave the order first."
Fiachra glances at me, then leans in.
"There's something else."
Ruairí raises an eyebrow.
"What."
Fiachra lowers his voice, but the walls in this house are meant for secrets.
"They had your route. The time, the security detail, even the service entrance. Someone inside gave them the schedule."
For a moment, no one moves.
The world is as silent as the inside of a grave.
Ruairí's hand closes around the back of a chair, the wood creaking under the pressure.
"Who?"
Fiachra's jaw tightens.
"Still digging. But it's not random."
The realization hits in stages—the way the guards at the gate avoided our eyes, the new cook who never speaks abovea whisper, the cleaner who swapped shifts last minute.
The house feels suddenly porous, every surface a potential transmitter, every silence a trap.
I say, "It could be anyone."
