Saints & Suspects

by Jordan McCollum

  At precisely ten after six, Grace kissed Pearse on the cheek. Ed shook his hand. “Welcome to politics by other means.”

  “Whisht.” Grace scoffed, then took her son by the shoulder. “Do not ruin this for me.”

  “’Course not, Mam.”

  “Right then.” She brushed lint from his shoulders and straightened his overall. “Did you wash well, make sure you haven’t any residue?”

  “You’re actin’ like I’m a total amateur, here.”

  Grace fixed him with a look of listen to your mother. “Have to get this right. The first engagement sets the tone for the whole campaign.”

  Pearse rolled his eyes. “I got it, Mam.”

  “All right.” She gave him a nod with military precision. “Don’t ruin this.”

  “He won’t — if you’ll ever let him out of the flat.” Ed yanked open the front door.

  Grace gave her son one last pat and sent him out to begin the first effort of the final battle for Irish independence.

  Nervy jitters vibrated through her as she shut the door behind Pearse. This time it would take. It had to.

  She turned back to Ed. “Just have to get through dinner, and we’ll follow.”

  “Can’t believe you invited Molly and your man tonight.”

  At least he was using her name. Baby steps. “We’ll have them out in plenty of time — probably before Pearse is in the warehouse. Besides, gives us an alibi.”

  He still muttered under his breath. “Better finish the dinner.”

  “Put away the schematics, and read through the letter while you’re at it.”

  They both set about their work. But when the knock came less than five minutes later, Grace had only finished drying Pearse’s dinnerware. Grace glanced back at the living room as she twisted the doorknob — and stopped short.

  Ed was still poring over the latest draft of the letter and the schematics strewn across the coffee table. Had he not heard the knock? “Ed!” she whispered.

  He looked up; Grace pointed to the door. Without another word, he hurriedly pushed the loose papers into a pile. Grace waited while Ed shoved the papers into a coffee table book and stowed the book and the planning notebook on the lower shelf of the table. There.

  She opened the door to the couple beaming in the hall. “Ah, but you’re early!”

  “Dia dhuit.” Molly smiled with the standard Irish greeting.

  “Dia is Muire dhaoibh.” Grace gave the reply and welcomed them in.

  Next time, Molly would be on their side. But not tonight.

  Zach hadn’t realized he’d signed up for The Molly Show, but she was working the Canavans so well, it was hard not to sit back and applaud. By the time they finished the chicken, bacon and leek casserole — which went perfectly with Molly’s soda bread — even Ed was returning Grace’s see? I told you smirk with one of all right, you win.

  Grace collected their empty plates.

  “Mum always said that was Uncle Teague’s favorite meal. Go raibh maith agat,” Molly said with her sincerest smile.

  Zach opted for the English equivalent. “Thank you.”

  Grace cast Ed another look like See? See? Ed wrinkled his nose in reply, but it still carried that undercurrent of capitulation. In the last hour, Molly had spoken Irish, mentioned her parents and uncle, bemoaned the state of Irish politics and started a fantasy hurling team.

  His main contribution was straight man, allowing Molly to show off her knowledge of everything Irish. Making him prop fiancé extraordinaire. Molly’s hand landed on his knee. Zach drew in a silent breath, willing himself to act like that was totally normal.

  For the last month, every time they’d been with the Canavans, they’d been in public. He hadn’t realized how lucky he’d been: in public, they could pretend to be together without going for all-out PDA. But in private, they had to sell this relationship, and Molly had every little touch down pat.

  Either he was way too aware of each contact, or she was way too good at this. Probably both. Zach scooped up her hand in his.

  He only had one thing to bring to the table — or, really, under it: a paper sticking out from the large book on the rickety coffee table’s bottom shelf. In plain sight, perfectly legal for even an undercover officer. He’d glimpsed Ed doing something with the table as Grace opened the door — arriving early was another good call by Molly — and Zach doubted Ed was simply straightening up for company.

  Zach checked on Ed, who was staring at his and Molly’s clasped hands like they should be flogged in the stocks. All night, he hadn’t left them alone for a minute, chaperoning them like teenagers.

  Or FBI agents waiting to get at whatever he’d hidden in that book.

  Grace returned with a tray of fresh plates. “Sticky toffee puddings!” she announced. She passed out four chipped bowls filled with dark, sweet date cakes and toffee sauce.

  Zach watched Molly for the first few bites of her dessert. If they finished at different times, maybe Ed and Grace would each take a round of dishes into the kitchen. Molly seemed to be savoring her dessert, so Zach stuffed the rest of his cake in his mouth and practically swallowed it whole.

  “Ma’am, this is amazin’.” He turned to Molly. “Maybe we should have this for our weddin’ cake — you know, with the Irish theme.”

  “Massive, love.” Neither of them dared to point out to the Canavans the dessert’s English roots.

  “Let me help you, love.” Molly grabbed a paper napkin and leaned toward him. Oh, no, no — he tried to take it from her, but she maneuvered past him to wipe sauce off his lower lip. He held as still as he could until she finished. Then she stroked her thumb across his lip. For a long second, he stared into her eyes, and she looked back, just like she had in that bakery, in the parking garage, the night of their first kiss.

  Then she turned back to her food.

  The woman was giving new meaning to the word torture.

  “Finished already?” Grace popped up to take Zach’s empty bowl into the kitchen.

  “Thank you so much, Grace,” Molly called over the sound of running water. “This has all been just deadly.” As if she sensed Zach’s plan, she polished off her pudding as soon as Grace was busy in the kitchen.

  Without a word, Ed took Molly’s bowl from her hands.

  “You’re welcome. Just take me a minute to wash up. Ed, what’re ye at, ya skiver?” Grace shouted. “Get the girl’s delph!”

  “I did.” He dropped to a mutter: “Ya ‘rough beast.’” He carried her dish out of the room.

  And they were alone. Zach pushed through his suddenly racing pulse. He grabbed the book — a glossy hardback of misty Irish landscapes — and shook out the loose sheets.

  “Were you needin’ any help in the kitchen?” Molly dug her cell phone out of her purse, and Zach spread the papers ripped from a spiral notebook across the table.

  “No, we’re grand, thank you,” Grace replied.

  Zach scanned the pages while Molly snapped photos with her cell camera. One page was clearly a map, but they weren’t so helpful as to label it with names or addresses. One of the streets running by the building, however, was named. He pushed the paper over to Molly. “You know it?”

  She shook her head and took a picture.

  “Send that to me and X.”

  “Can we get either of you a gargle?” Ed’s voice carried from the kitchen. Molly and Zach glanced at one another.

  “We’re okay,” Zach called back. They had to hurry.

  “Oh, that’s right, watchin’ your girlish figure. How’s about a nice ice water?” The derision in his tone was unmistakable.

  “Could you make that two?” Molly called. Stalling. Good.

  Zach looked back to the papers. The next sheet was a letter. He meant to skim, but by the end of the first paragraph, dread landed in his gut, thick and bitter.

  The Irish patriot Pádraig (Patrick Henry) Pearse famously wrote, “Ireland unfree shall never be at peace.” He sealed that sentiment with his
blood — and now so do the American people. If Ireland unfree shall never be at peace, then neither will anywhere in the world that supports England’s continued tyranny.

  VIOLENCE WILL BE ANSWERED WITH VIOLENCE. TERROR WILL BE ANSWERED WITH TERROR. WE DECLARE WAR ON ANY COUNTRY THAT CONTINUES TO APPEASE ENGLAND’S OPPRESSION. THE PARADE WAS BUT THE OPENING VOLLEY. WAR ON ENGLAND AND ALL ITS ALLIES WILL CONTINUE UNTIL THE LAST BRITISH TROOP IS DRIVEN FROM IRISH SHORES.

  MERE ANARCHY IS LOOSED UPON THE WORLD,

  THE BLOOD-DIMMED TIDE IS LOOSED, AND EVERYWHERE

  THE CEREMONY OF INNOCENCE IS DROWNED.

  “Bingo,” Zach whispered. He tapped the word PARADE. Molly set aside a framed photo and snapped a picture of the letter, too. They only had another minute, tops. He glanced over the other papers: sketches, calculations, aerial photos.

  “Enough to arrest them?” Molly asked.

  “If the bomb’s already in place, all they have to do is keep quiet until the parade.”

  “What do we do?”

  “Find the bomb before they suspect anything, then arrest them. But they’ve got to lead us to it.”

  The background noise of running water stopped. Footsteps sounded in the short hall between the kitchen and living room.

  Caught. His blood turned to ice. Zach shuffled the papers together, but the ragged edges torn from a notebook snagged, making a neat pile impossible. He stuffed the papers into the book, though their tampering was obvious.

  They needed a better cover. Something. Anything.

  Molly swept everything onto the floor. Before he could ask, she grabbed two fistfuls of his sweater and dragged him back onto the couch.

  She threw herself backward and pulled him with her so fast Zach barely had time to catch himself on the back of the couch instead of landing on her.

  Molly kicked one foot onto the table. “Zachary,” she murmured.

  He whipped around to look at her. Again, before he could ask about the plan, Molly slid her arms around his neck — and kissed him.

  Molly had no idea what she was doing.

  Kissing Zachary was supposed to be a cover, but it didn’t feel like either of them were pretending.

  This couldn’t just be part of his cover, not the way he was kissing her — just as he always had.

  Could that mean —?

  “What’re ye at?” At Ed’s gruff reproof, Molly’s racing heart juddered to a stop. Zachary abruptly pulled back and Molly caught her breath. It couldn’t have been ten seconds and she’d forgotten Ed was coming.

  This plan was stupid. Dangerously stupid.

  Zachary stared into her eyes for half of a stunned, breathless moment before he looked up to Ed. “Oh — oh, ’scuse us. Sorry, sir. We both are.” He stood and helped Molly up from the worn sofa’s orange velvet.

  Appearing appropriately chagrined wasn’t hard. Heat — more anger at herself than embarrassment — crept up her neck. She’d let herself get carried away, all wrapped up in her stupid feelings. What if the threat had been even greater?

  “What’re ye at?” Ed demanded again, doubling his volume. Molly tried not to flinch, but her pulse quickened. They had to get out of here.

  Ed’s weathered face grew red. That was more frightening than the shouting. Molly shifted in the silence. “Sorry,” she repeated.

  Ed gritted his teeth, gathering his fury for another blow.

  This wasn’t a storm to wait out. “We’ll just be goin’,” Molly said. She willed herself not to glance at the mess on the floor, looking at Zachary instead. He kept his eyes fast on Ed. His expression still carried traces of sheepishness, helped by the pink blush at the tips of his ears.

  “We got carried away,” Zachary acknowledged. “Guess we forgot where we were. We apologize.”

  Ed strode across the room and snatched up the large hardback book from the floor. “And what’re you doin’ with this? It was under the table, so.”

  Her lungs seemed to shrink, but she drew in a long, slow breath. They just had to play this cool and get out. Ed had no idea they were a threat.

  “I must’ve kicked it,” Molly said. “I’m sorry.”

  “It was under the table. How’d you manage that?” Ed ground out.

  “I was lookin’ at the pictures.” Zachary glanced at Molly. “I was thinkin’ of takin’ Molly to Ireland for our honeymoon.”

  How else could she look innocent? She’d help clean it up. Molly bent to pick up the papers. “Hope I didn’t hurt anythin’.”

  “Don’t you move.” Ed grabbed the loose leaves before Molly touched them. She straightened.

  “Stay right there.” Ed moved back to block their escape.

  Molly’s throat tensed, but she kept projecting the image of embarrassment, head bowed as she picked up her coat. “We should be headin’.”

  Ed barely budged. “Bit late for that, ya slapper.”

  She didn’t react to the insult, simply brushing past. At the door, Molly reached for Zachary behind her — but he wasn’t there.

  He was jabbing a finger in Ed’s chest, towering over the older man. “Don’t you ever talk ’bout Molly that way.” He didn’t even flinch in his cover. “You ain’t too old for a whuppin’.”

  Time to get out. Molly hurried to his side to tug his arm. “Let’s go.”

  Grace walked into the room, still drying her hands on a dishcloth. “Headin’ already?”

  Silence fell, thick and awkward. Zachary lowered his hand and moved away from Ed.

  “We are,” Molly murmured. “Sorry. Thank you so much for havin’ us.”

  Zachary picked up his coat, and they walked to the door, the Canavans’ eyes following them every step: Grace in bewilderment, Ed in indignant rage. Maybe suspicion? Molly barely dared to breathe until they slipped out of the shabby flat. As Zachary closed the door behind them, Molly glimpsed Ed’s final mistrustful glare.

  Molly’s mind raced through the new intel: photos, maps, letter. Enough to find the exact target. A parade, yes, but which one?

  Another thought fought its way to the forefront of her mind: she’d just thrown off her coronary Kevlar and dived into a firefight.

  While they waited for the lift, Zachary sent the coded message to the surveillance crew to let them know the Canavans could be on the move. The derelict elevator finally arrived. Zachary waited until the lift doors scraped closed to speak. “Think they bought it?”

  “Hope so.” She looked to Zachary, and he turned to her.

  Before she could think better of it, she closed the distance between them. Zachary twined his fingers into her hair, pulling her in to finish what they’d just started.

  This kiss was everything the last one had been and more. His lips moved over hers with intense tenderness. She tried to return the sentiment, to convey the feelings she didn’t dare put into words.

  The elevator shuddered — or was that just in her mind? Molly drew back, drew a breath, drew her wits about her.

  When she’d kissed him before, she’d done it on purpose. For a reason. This time, she’d done it on impulse — but what was she getting herself into? With someone who wouldn’t respect her?

  “You okay?” Zachary asked.

  She pulled free from his grasp. “I need to think.”

  After an awkward silence, the lift screeched to a stop. Her last chance to say something. “It was only a cover,” Molly said. She didn’t dare meet his eyes. “Borrowin’ a page from Escape the Turkmen Prison.”

  A book he’d given her before they’d dated. Zachary searched her face.

  She had to explain better. “I only did that because we needed to have made a mess.”

  His jaw dropped an inch. “Well, you definitely did that.”

  “I —” The doors finally screeched open and the words died in her throat. What could she do, proclaim her love to a man who’d take her kisses but not her heart, or who she really was?

  No, she had to make sure she never forgot herself like that again. “Pleasure bein’ e
ngaged, but appears we’re through with weddin’ plannin’.”

  In silence, they walked out of the building. Molly itched to get at the photos on her mobile, but she wouldn’t feel safe until they were in the car. They got in, and she started the car, then whipped out her mobile. She sent the photos she’d taken to Xavier. Once they were off, she pulled into traffic.

  “What will you tell Nate?” Zachary finally broke the silence, but kept his gaze on the windshield.

  Why would she do that? “Nothin’. Do I have to file notice with you every time I kiss someone?”

  Zachary snorted. “What are you talking about?”

  “Nate and I broke up.”

  “Is that what I interrupted tonight?”

  “It was Sunday.”

  She watched his reaction — a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

  Heat rose in her chest. “What are you grinnin’ about? You had your chance, Special Agent Saint.”

  The smile instantly disappeared, and Zachary scoffed. “Like Nate O’Shaughnessy and Jason Tolliver did? You’re on a roll, Malone.”

  “Jason Tolliver isn’t real.”

  He turned to her. “No, but I am,” he bit off. “You think this was nothing to me?”

  “Of course. All your cover goin’ to you head, didn’t you say?”

  “I’m not talking about the assignment.” They stopped at a red light, and Zachary stared at Molly. “You never gave me a chance.”

  “I seem to remember you broke up with me, and as far as I can see, our lives are headin’ the same directions they were last summer, whatever the devil that was supposed to mean.”

  “You tell me: did you break up with Nate because you had better things to do than marry him?”

  The car’s heater seemed to kick on full force, hot air pressing in on her. “What?”

  “You have a lot to accomplish.”

  How did he know that? “We’ve never discussed —”

  “That necklace.”

  She touched the emerald pendant he’d given her.

  “Wasn’t what I’d planned to give you. I had to pick it up at the last minute.”

  “Brilliant. You forgot my birthday, too?”