The Connolly response is muted—noflash, no counterattack, just a series of nervous withdrawals and a handful of half-hearted threats that never make it past the rumor stage.
By dusk, the only real sign of resistance is a hastily assembled squad of rent-a-thugs outside the hospital on the south quays.
They last less than an hour before melting away, the promise of violence dissolved by the knowledge that no one is coming to back them up.
Fiachra texts at 19:03.
A photo—the bridge, cleaned and cordoned, a fresh coat of white paint obscuring the blood stains.
Underneath, the old iron shines where the body was.
The river runs black and slow, swallowing the day's evidence as if nothing ever happened.
I study the image for a long minute, then delete it.
No reason to keep souvenirs.
Then, and only then, do I call Keira.
She answers on the first ring, her voice even and unhurried.
"It's done," I say.
"I know," she replies.
"I saw the news."
Although she can't see me, I nod and make for the warehouse.
The O'Duinn emissary arrives a couple of hours later at noon, right on schedule, despite the wind howling off the quay and the visible presence of two Crowley riflemen on the warehouse roof.
His car is a battered Mercedes, but he's dressed for the Ritz—double-breasted suit, Italian shoes, silk pocket square in a color no Irishman should be caughtdead wearing.
The bulge under his left armpit is a compact Glock, poorly concealed but obviously loaded.
I admire the lack of pretense.
The warehouse is a marvel of post-industrial repurposing—half the windows blown out, floor painted with old oil and new blood, the only furniture a cluster of plastic chairs and a single steel desk we stole from a defunct insurance office.
I sit behind the desk, not because it grants authority but because it forces everyone else to stand.
Fiachra flanks me, arms folded, his attention divided between the emissary and the rolling feed from the perimeter cams.
He keeps his right hand free, fingers drumming a slow tattoo on his belt.
The air in the room is dense with chemical heat and the faint, sweet rot of mold.
The emissary doesn't offer a name.
He just stands, hands visible, and waits to be told what he wants.
I get there first.
"You're late."
He shrugs, more Gallic than Gael.
"Traffic."
