"Copy."
"And if anyone comes to you directly, I want the transcript, word for word."
"Understood."
I consider ending the call, but the silence on his end is loaded.
He says, "Off the record, Boss?"
I permit myself half a sigh.
"Say it."
"They're not scared of you anymore. Not like last year. Something's changed."
I let that settle.
"Noted. Anything else?"
"No, sir."
I disconnect.
The room is silent again, thick with unsaid things.
My face in the glass of the window is the same as it's always been—pale, pitted, eyes too deep in their sockets.
Nothing new.
The shadows under my eyes are genetic, or maybe just a record of all the nights I've traded for minutes like these.
The Connollys don't waste time on fear.
They move like a virus, looking for a soft spot.
The informant's right—something's changed.
The old world is coming back, meaner, less interested in rules.
My job is to make sure the Crowleys outlast it, so I make two calls.
Given the hour, they will understand the urgency.
Mullins is first to arrive.
He stands in the doorway, tall and awkward, hands behind his back like a soldier who remembers his drill but not why he bothered to enlist.
He's from outside—Wexford, maybe.
The accent is scrubbed but leaks out when he's tired.
The Crowleys never used to recruit beyond the city, but I find out-of-towners are better at doing what needs to be done and keeping their mouths shut.
He says nothing, just waits at attention. Good.
The second man, Gorman, is smaller, wiry, hair like straw, eyes like black glass.
He closes the door behind him without being told.
