"No," I say.
"Let him go."
Niamh raises an eyebrow but doesn't say anything.
Mentally, all three of us are aware of the eyes on the room, cataloguing the seriousness of the moment.
The second we leave, word will spread.
I look at the staff, at the guards, at the faces waiting for me to crack.
"Meeting's over. Anyone late for shift will be replaced. Lena, get the next shipment ready. Niamh, eyes on the Italians. The rest of you, out."
They scatter, a controlled stampede.
Lena hesitates, then follows.
Niamh lingers, picking at the flakes of her pastry.
She says, "You think they bought it?"
I nod.
"They bought it."
She stands, stretches, and leans in close, voice low.
"He'll be in the city tonight."
"I know."
She grins, eyes bright.
"You're good at this."
I smile back, but it's all bone.
"So are you. That's why you're still here."
She leaves, the room empty except for me and the slow spreading stain of coffee on the tile.
I sit, hands folded and wait for the adrenaline to fade.
My chest aches, a phantom pain where my heart used to be.
The plan is working.
The war is working.
I am still standing.
I stare at the doors, at the place where Ruairí vanished.
We both know he's not actually returning to Wicklow.
He'll be at the old headquarters in the city waiting for the enemy to make its next move.
24
