He taps the blue line that snakes from Portobello down to the canal.
"They might not. Word is, they're planning to ride it out, see if we overcommit."
I trace the canal with my thumb.
"We don't overcommit. We escalate."
He grins wolfishly.
"Just say when."
Thursday passes in a minor key.
The Ringsend front stays shuttered.
The kids who used to work the door now loiter two blocks away, pretending to sell vapes and bumming cigarettes from the old women who run the newsagent.
It's almost sad, the way the whole block deflates without the Connolly traffic to animate it.
I walk the area in late afternoon, Fiachra at my side, each of us in civilian clothes and nondescript trainers.
We don't speak, just observe.
The regulars pretend not to notice us, but the pause in their gait tells the real story.
They know the ground has shifted.
On the walk back, Fiachra says, "Did you ever think we'd have to clean up our own city from scratch?"
I say, "I never thought we'd get the chance."
That night, I meet with the operations crew in a motel room near the north bypass.
The team is four men and a woman, all under thirty, all handpicked for what they call "moral flexibility".
They wait for me in silence, sitting on beds and plastic chairs, eyes fixed but not eager.
I lay out the plan—succinct, final, no room for interpretation.
They nod in unison, then each signs the page in turn.
The woman, Siobhan, folds her copy into a perfect square before tucking it into her pocket.
I like her style.
By midnight, they're gone.
I do not sleep.
Instead, I pace the length of the motel balcony, counting the seconds between passing headlights on the bypass.
At exactly 03:14, my phone buzzes once, a single word in a secure text—Finished.
Friday morning, the club on Camden Street lights up at 06:23.
The fire starts in the basement, where the nightmanager likes to nap on a mattress beside the water heater.
The insurance company will later call it faulty wiring, but everyone who matters will know it's us.
