The Troubles (The Jessica Trilogy Book 2)

by Connie Johnson Hambley

But something went awry as the final pieces of the plan were being put into place. Although the sequence of events had the usual cunning of Magnus’ schemes, they had none of the finesse and manipulative skill. In his mind’s eye, Michael imagined two brothers discussing the future of their creation. One, standing proud and tall at the top of his empire. The other happy to coast on his brother’s riches without the stresses of responsibility. Both acknowledging that the only real successor was a son whose loyalty divided between the love of country and the love of a woman. Jessica’s fate became part of the plan long before the brothers even knew who she could be, only that whomever Michael would compromise the Charity for, could not survive. Magnus declared the goal, orchestrated steps, chose soldiers, set catalysts in motion. No one knew what was going to happen after Magnus died until it did. No one, except for Liam.

  Michael’s uncle was a man who knew his people and their weaknesses. No hook or motivator escaped his attention. The more primal the urge, the greater the assurance in the outcome. He gave money to the greedy and influence to the power-driven. He provided security for the spouses and children of his men. His words of praise flowed to those who craved acknowledgement and acceptance. No human need went unexplored or unexploited.

  The old wooden floors creaked beneath Michael’s feet as he entered his office. The spike in his heart rate and breathing somewhat calmed, but the drive for revenge was strong and unrelenting. Today, he would not pause to appreciate the afternoon sun as it streamed in through the leaded panes. Today, the only thing he saw was his uncle’s white hair in the shadows of the room. Liam did not turn when Michael entered.

  “They’ve all gone, I see.” Liam spoke softly.

  “Yes.”

  “You didn’t turn them against me.”

  “No. That wouldn’t have been wise.”

  Liam chuffed. “Brilliant reading of the players. You’ve given them a full trough of changes to mull over. Working together on a shared goal while they adapt to your new management was a stroke of genius. Crackling well done.”

  “Thank you.”

  “As long as the mission is successful, that is.” Liam swiveled his chair around to look at Michael. His gaze held no trace of fear. “You’re determined to find her at any cost.”

  “Yes. And when I do, you will never threaten her life or interfere with mine again.”

  Liam assessed Michael and nodded with satisfaction. “I kept my promise to Magnus. You’ve stepped into his shoes as he wished. I’ll not stand in your way as you make the Charity your own.”

  “The Charity is dead. I won’t lead his organization. I will make my own.”

  Liam waved his hand dismissively. “As you wish. Your adroit handling of the opening moves speaks well of you. I’ve no doubt your next volleys will be a series of equally deft plays. At last you’re leading and in full control. That’s what your father and I wanted.”

  “Where is she?”

  Liam smiled, showing a row of yellowed teeth worn down to dull nubs. “I don’t know. The Charity has its connections in the darker arts of disposing of a body, but it seems that none have been pressed into service recently.”

  Michael’s fists gripped Liam’s lapels before he realized he had even moved. His knuckles whitened with the effort to hang on to the tweedy material as tightly as he could, fearing that if he let go, they would find their way around the creped skin of his uncle’s neck. “Don’t lie to me,” his voice nearly a growl.

  “Hardly. It seems your woman is a bit of a Houdini.”

  “But you know what happened.”

  Liam swept Michael’s hands off him and brushed down the front of his jacket, straightening his shoulders. “To a point. But first, please accept my apologies.”

  Michael waited, unsure.

  “I miscalculated. I thought that by getting rid of that American woman, you’d be able to focus on the job at hand.”

  “Jessica,” he said, jaw clenched. “Her name is Jessica.”

  “Well, your Jessica was supposed to be nothing but a chit on the wind by now. She was an unwelcomed fly and never was supposed to survive long enough to even get to Aintree, let alone win.”

  “You wagered against her.”

  Liam’s chuckle caught in his chest as he gave a phlegmy cough. “Of course. The winnings were supposed to wash the final payments to the crew. No one but your father could have seen the connection, but you did.” He nodded in satisfaction. “Brilliant.”

  “My father never would have been so stupid as to make the payments so close to the actual event.”

  “Ah, you’re right,” he said with a theatric flourish. “I thought I was making things simple by using the same man for the Arndale and Aintree jobs. I could transfer the money easily enough, and his transport brought him near Aintree as it was. But, our sharpshooter didn’t plan on the use of one of our own vests. Magnus would have seen all those details and planned accordingly.” Liam half smiled as he shook his head with forced admiration. “Then, you complicated things by locking her up in that ivory tower. It’s all worked out much better than I dared hoped. I’m getting beyond my years, Michael. I miscalculated my own nephew.” His expression softened. “She wasn’t a distraction to you as much as she was motivation. I should have figured that out sooner. I was pressed into using Tim and was delightfully surprised he was such a, um, willing participant.”

  Liam looked up at Michael from underneath his brows. The look, the timbre of the words, came close to triggering Michael to lose the control he struggled so hard to maintain. Money and power would not manipulate Tim. He thought of Jessica and knew what motivation Liam had found. “What did you do to him?” he said, his voice hard bits of gravel.

  “It’s always useful to cultivate vulnerabilities in people around us. Tim’s idolization of you and his unique needs fit surprisingly well. It seems that Nan had seen something in him and had already begun working him up. He’s quite beside himself that Jessica’s missing.”

  Michael pulled his collar away from his neck as he heated. “What did Nan have to gain by turning Tim against Jessica?”

  “Never underestimate the power of the faithful.”

  “Jesus Christ, Liam. What are you saying?”

  “Nan and I have been friends for years.” He chuckled as the look on Michael’s face shifted. “Not lovers. I wasn’t her type. She was besotted with Magnus, and he sagely used his resources to cultivate her. His death was quite a shock to her.”

  “I thought she was one of us. Isn’t that why you placed Jessica at her cottage?”

  “The network she was affiliated with complimented the Charity. Magnus and I used her many times to hide people or get them out of the country. Taking in your woman was a bitter pill for her to swallow. She didn’t turn Tim against Jessica as much as she realized how desperately he wanted to be like you, to do the things you do.”

  “Tim trusted you. And Nan. Tim... he,” Michael struggled to find the right words, “he doesn’t have the capacity to figure out if he’s being manipulated.”

  “Which is why he was perfect.”

  Thoughts raced and refused to slow to rational speed. If he could get through this day, the legacy of his father could begin to fade. He clung to the discipline of logic to override his emotions. “I will not kill you,” he said through gritted teeth.

  “Coded into your DNA is the urge to kill in order to protect. I doubt the genes of your mother are enough to tip balance. You’ve killed before and will again. The irony is you don’t see yourself as the cold blooded type.” Liam’s stare bored into Michael. “You haven’t put all of the pieces together yet, so you still need me—especially through this transition.”

  Michael was conscious of what he wanted to do, afraid of how much like his father he could become if he lost his tenuous grip on his emotions. “You said Nan had already targeted Tim against Jessica.”

  “Nan is a deeply devout woman. She suspects that Jessica is a bishop’s bastard. It took all my effort to stop
her from doing something quite rash.”

  The words made no sense. “What are you saying? Gus Adams was Jessica’s father.”

  Liam raised his eyebrows and blinked his eyes in surprise. “Nan had Tim translate the mother’s journals and letters. Bridget’s cleverness was no match for Nan’s suspicions. Some might call it a coincidence, others might call it fate, but Nan’s goals and mine became shared. We helped one another. You’ve made your leadership clear,” he said with a weary wave of his hand, “and stopped the forces inside the Charity from targeting her, but I’m afraid we have a few friends who would be relieved to see the bishop’s secret die with her. Anyway, Nan discovered Tim’s crush, and it didn’t take much to fan the flames. I really don’t care what happens to her.”

  Michael reached his breaking point. In a flickering image as if watching an old-time movie, his hands opened for a split second before they closed again. Then the faint feeling of the stubbled skin and fragile Adam’s apple creased into his palms. With detached fascination, he watched as Liam’s face reddened to purple making the shock of his white brows stand out in stark relief. The old man’s eyes widened, then bulged. Not even the sound of his own breathing interrupted his thoughts. Three seconds. Then eight. Then fifteen.

  He let go, fingers springing open as if animated by an electric shock, and both men sputtered and gasped for breath. Liam braced himself against the back of his chair, stretching his neck upward to open nearly crushed passages.

  “Get out.” Michael’s own voice was barely audible above the rushing of blood in his ears. The terms and conditions of Liam’s spared life unspoken and clear.

  The older man gathered up whatever dignity remained and walked out of the office without another word.

  Michael pressed his hands against his head, rocking his body back and forth, keeping the magnitude of his world from exploding his skull. Cold rage threatened to turn his heart to stone, and he wondered if this was how it happened for his father. Magnus was not born an evil man, but somewhere he lost his humanity. Did it start when his hands wrapped around someone’s neck, watching the life drain out on a tide of panic? Michael wanted change but not in exchange for his soul.

  Liam was inept. His horribly botched missions seriously jeopardized the security of what was once the Charity but thankfully spared Jessica’s life. Now she was missing. The first warm emotion he had felt in hours sparked inside of him as a flash of admiration for her surfaced. He focused on that spark and willed it to spread. Through Jessica, he might be able to keep himself intact.

  As quickly as he thawed with the thought of her, anxiety closed in. She was running. Again. This time without money. Without resources. Blind. He knew she would not go back to Ballyronan or the school, and he doubted she would be fool enough to try to cross the border without any kind of document. She might try to get word to him but would have only one chance. And for that, she would have to be at a place safe enough to wait for him to arrive.

  Murray’s reluctance to talk about Jessica’s father confirmed that Liam did not lie. Ever loyal and protective, Murray would not tax Michael with such a concern if it merited no more attention than a rumor. He was waiting for confirming facts. If Jessica was a bishop’s child, then that bishop was Kavan Hughes—and he was the only person that Jessica would try to see.

  Michael closed his eyes and methodically parsed through all the variables, carefully considering his options. He slid off his jacket and walked over to the small safe in the corner. With a few twists of the dial, he pulled the heavy door open and the smell of machined metal and gunpowder met him. The Glock nine-millimeter felt cold and heavy in his hand, untouched since he had placed it there after arriving in Northern Ireland and unused since he killed the last man who threatened Jessica’s life. He grabbed two clips and a box of ammunition. He checked the magazine, pulled the slide back, and squeezed off several test shots, the clicks sounding harsh and out of place in the hush of the school. The leather holster was supple enough to slip over his arm and strap across his chest with ease. He tested the feel of the gun under his jacket, saw that it slightly bulged his precisely tailored suit. He stripped, pulled out his untouched suitcase, changed into clothes he knew he could move in and would help him blend into the background. Dark pants. The holster fit easily over the long-sleeved shirt. Loose jacket. He stopped himself before habit made his hands pat pockets to check for his badge.

  Since leaving his post, he had not been to a firing range and hoped he had not lost his touch. He doubted it.

  With practiced and fluid motions, he loaded the ammunition into the clips, secured it in the magazine, smacked one into his gun, and checked the safety. Then he did it all again with his eyes squeezed tightly shut, making sure to muffle any potential click of metal. Satisfied, he turned and loped to his car.

  LARNE, NORTHERN IRELAND

  AN ASSORTMENT OF utility vans, contractor trucks, and passenger cars lined up at the gas pumps. Drivers—shadowed and weary from hours on the road—stood hunched and mute as men clad in oil-stained coveralls serviced their vehicles. Fluids checked, windshields washed, petrol filled. Cars pulled up, filled, and departed—empty coffee cups replaced with filled, steamy ones. People milled about. Most were half-awake, but their hooded eyes may have signaled more than a need for sleep. A girl tried to hide her underage youth behind thick eyeliner, heavy make-up, and a shirt that put her boobs on display. The rest stop was her territory, and she defended it. A hardened scowl and a flick of a cigarette dared anyone to come near unless they were willing to pay—cash. The sign for “Statoil” hummed and flickered as one fluorescent tube sputtered its last light out. Jessica turned her head away to keep her face in shadow.

  “Here. This’ll keep you for another while.”

  A fire-plug of a woman with slicked back hair held out a Styrofoam cup emblazoned with the name of the quick-stop and a bag of food. The frayed ends of her hacked off t-shirt sleeves framed tattooed arms. Embroidered on her dirty vest was “Trish Mackey, Electrician” on one pocket and an Indigo Girls’ logo on the other.

  Starving, Jessica gave the bag a shake. Its heft surprised her. “Thank you, Trish.”

  “I don’t usually stop for hitchhikers, but you had not a clue about you. If you need to catch another ride, do so from the bottom of a slip road or at a lorry park like this one. The Guarda will snatch you up and slap you with a penalty if they find you thumbing on the motorways like I did.”

  Jessica took a sip and winced. The scalding heat from the weak tea did not minimize its cloying sweetness. It tasted more like boiling water poured into a sugar bowl than an honest caffeinated beverage.

  “To your liking?”

  “Yes. Very,” she croaked. “Thanks again.”

  “It’s none of my concern, but that man you’re running from isn’t worth the trouble. You can get the help you need to get away from ‘im.”

  When Trish had picked her up and asked, “Where to?” Jessica had answered with a shrug and said, “Not back to him.” A shower, clean teeth, and sleep were what she wanted, but she got the protective capsule of Trish’s cab instead. Trish’s eyes looked her over and settled on the large bruise on her cheek. With a disgusted snort, she pushed the van’s door open. She had tried talking, but Jessica feigned sleep to avoid conversation, knowing that the more she spoke, the more she risked being pegged for an American. Caution was tantamount. The past week’s stories may have rekindled the frenzied attention that once surrounded any news of her. She had been on the run plenty of times and knew the drill: eyes open and mouth shut—unless asleep.

  Trish fished out a rumpled paper from one of the vest’s many pockets. “It’s the number for the Domestic Line. Call it. They’ll send someone for you so you don’t have to risk yourself in a place like this.”

  Jessica took the paper and unfolded it. The top read “Women Helping Women” and listed services addressing domestic abuse, shelters and counseling centers, and dates for gay pride marches. Addresses were a network o
f church basements across Northern Ireland. Cities included Strabane, Londonderry, Belfast, Lisburn, and Armagh. Seeing the foreign names made her realize she had no idea where she was. She refolded the paper and put it in her back pocket. “Um, what city am I closest to?”

  Trish narrowed her eyes. “You’re on the east coast in Larne now. Belfast is thirty-seven kilometers south.” She continued when she saw the confused look on Jessica’s face. “That would be about a half an hour’s drive. Like I said, I’m heading north to Antrim if you want to change your mind.”

  Jessica opened her mouth as if to say something, then quickly shut it with a firm shake of her head. “I appreciate your help. I don’t know what I’m going to do next.”

  “Give the gals on the help line a call. Sometimes it’s good to have someone who’ll give a listen. Don’t stay here too long,” she said as she hoisted her body up into the lorry’s cab. “All right, then. I’m off.” She pulled the door shut, adjusted her mirrors, and started the engine.

  The white van creaked its way out of the station, and Jessica suddenly felt very, very alone. The same black despair from earlier threatened again. Some basic instinct kept her from throwing herself out of a moving car or off a bridge. Not understanding why or how, she was able to find the strength to continue to place one foot in front of the other. At least figuratively. Hungry and exhausted, she sat down on a bench littered with wrappers, cups, and old newspapers. The tea had time to steep, infusing the water with a slight rose-like flavor. It might have passed as palatable if it did not threaten a diabetic coma.

  The last of the food consumed, she wadded up the wrappers and shoved them into the white, grease-stained bag, and gathered up the other trash to put in the bin. Sections of the newspaper had fluttered to the ground, pages haphazard and weakened by landing in the wet of a spilled drink. On the front page was a picture of a face that was vaguely familiar to her. The photo showed a recent event. The bishop was dressed in the vestments of a regular mass, the long narrow white stole adorned with an intricate embroidered cross at both ends. His face was open in a wide smile. Others around him looked up at him with obvious respect and affection. More lines creased the sides of his eyes and mouth, but the smile was the same. No straw hat was needed for her to recognize the face as the man photographed with Gus and Bridget. The caption stated that Bishop Kavan Hughes was to say mass at Saint Peter’s Cathedral in honor of the retirement of the beloved Father Ignatius Storm and would be attending the dinner on Saturday and a reception after the services on Sunday.