Black Irish

by Tricia Andersen

  All Abbey wanted was Sloan. She wanted to hold him. She wanted to bury herself in his chest sobbing. She wanted to make love to him and fall asleep in his arms.

  Then I’ll ask him about all this terrorist crap.

  Picking up her cell, she dialed Sloan. It went directly to voicemail. Abbey stared at her phone, puzzled, as she ended the call.

  Abbey crawled off her bed to answer the knock at the door. She pulled it open to find Gordon. He clung to the doorframe, his face twisted in a mixture of anger and relief.

  He grabbed hold of her wrist and tugged her to him. Hugging her tight, he smothered her in his arms. “I told you to stay in the house,” he scolded.

  “I didn’t realize. Where’s Sloan? Or Thomas? What’s all this about him being a terrorist? The pictures didn’t look like him.”

  Gordon squeezed her tighter. “He’s been captured, Abigail.”

  “By who? The government?”

  “Nay, lass. The government doesn’t want him. But there are some men who used to work for the government who do and they have him.”

  Abbey silently walked with Gordon, through the hotel to the Land Rover waiting outside. As Gordon opened the back door for her to get in, she slipped beside him and hopped up into the passenger side. He shook his head as he shut the door before climbing behind the wheel of the vehicle and pulling away from the curb.

  Abbey followed Gordon into the little gray house. The living area had been converted into a war room. The entourage Liam brought with him to the airport swarmed in and out. Blueprints of buildings and maps of the streets of Belfast were tacked up. A low buzz filled the room as they wove around each other to gather information.

  Suddenly, Abbey pressed her hand to her mouth, her stomach violently retching. She dashed off to the bathroom, dropping to her knees in front of the toilet.

  “Are you all right?”

  Turning to find Maggie in the doorway, she tore a couple of squares of toilet paper from the roll and wiped her mouth. “I’ve felt sick since I got off the plane.”

  “I guess motion sickness would have passed by now,” Maggie surmised. “Has there been anything else wrong?”

  “I’ve been really exhausted the past few days too. I was hit in the head a week ago. Maybe it’s from the concussion,” Abbey suggested.

  “I don’t think so. Hold on.” Maggie dashed away. Abbey stood on shaky legs as she stumbled to the nearest chair.

  After a few moments, Maggie jogged down the stairs with a duffle bag in her hand. “I’m a nurse at the hospital. I’ve taken some time off to take care of my mother. I can take a blood draw and have it examined. Maybe they can find something.”

  Abbey shrugged in agreement. Maggie took a syringe and an alcohol pad from the bag.

  “Maggie, what they said about Sloan being a terrorist. It’s not true, is it?”

  Maggie looked up. “My brother was a soldier for the Irish Republican Army. The IRA.”

  “The picture I saw looked like he was fourteen or fifteen.”

  “Yes. He joined the IRA when he was ten.”

  “What?” Abbey asked incredulously. “That’s so young to be recruited.”

  “He wasn’t recruited. He volunteered. He actually begged them to take him in.”

  “Why would he do that?”

  Maggie cleansed the inside of Abbey’s elbow with the alcohol swab. Abbey sucked in her breath sharply as the needle pierced her skin.

  “My father owned a butcher shop a couple of streets over,” Maggie began. “There were three of us. I was a baby and then there was Thomas and our older brother, Ethan. My father didn’t take sides in the war. He lived to provide for his family. A woman down the street lost her husband, who was a member of the IRA. She had no money and a family to provide for. My father’s heart went out to her, and he gave her some meat for free.”

  Maggie withdrew the needle and pressed a piece of gauze to the wound. She continued, “The British marked my father as an IRA sympathizer. There was a rumor he was smuggling guns to the IRA through his meat deliveries. One afternoon, a group of British soldiers visited my father’s shop to bully him to learn the truth. It was about the time Ethan and Sloan were walking home from school. Every day after school, my brothers would go to the shop to help my father. They were coming down the street when all hell broke loose. There was gunfire. My father, Ethan, and Thomas were all shot. My father and Ethan died there on the street. Thomas saw a ball in the street, so he chased it. It probably saved him. It was touch and go for a long time. Thomas wasn’t supposed to live. He was in the hospital for a couple of months. When he recovered, he wasn’t the same boy. All he could think of was revenge. He went to the IRA and begged them to let him join.”

  Abbey took Maggie’s place, pressing the gauze to her own arm as she thought of the scar she discovered on Sloan’s back. Now she knew where it came from. “That Commander Brown called Sloan, I mean Thomas, a murderer. There was a market in London. It was blown off the face of the planet.” Abbey felt a knot twist in her stomach. Yeah. Maybe the murderer title fits.

  Maggie put the vial of blood into her bag as her eyes grew wide. “Heavens no. Thomas was a runner, a messenger. He was just a child. Simon and Liam wouldn’t allow it. But Thomas was stubborn. He started to tinker with an ignition made from the wires of his remote controlled car. His commander, a man named Fitzgerald, encouraged him to continue. I’m not even sure he even knows how to assemble a bomb.”

  “Then why did that Brown guy kidnap me? Why does he want Sloan…I mean Thomas? Whatever his name is.”

  Gordon’s voice boomed behind them. “Because when they investigated the bombing in London, they found the explosive was set with a trigger made from the wires of a RC car. Not even Liam and I knew he was working with them. But it didn’t take long for him to be outed. We think Fitzgerald exposed Sloan personally.”

  “So he did make the trigger to set it off?”

  “No, lass. He was far from it. He hadn’t even tested his ignition switch. He was a little boy with a toy. But no one else saw that. We had to get him out of Belfast as soon as possible.”

  Maggie patted Abbey on the knee. “I’ll be back.” She picked up the duffle and slipped out the front door.

  “You call him Sloan. Maggie calls him Thomas. The pictures I’ve seen look nothing like him. I am beyond confused,” Abbey objected.

  Gordon pulled a chair beside hers and sat. He took her hands in his. “Remember that talk we needed to finish? It’s time we did that. When the bombing took place Liam and I wasted no time getting Sloan out of Northern Ireland. The bombing happened as the IRA was reaching peace with the British. It nearly derailed talks. Sloan and I left within days and headed for Prague. It was there that his success with his art began. When we fled there and went to Paris there was an attempt on his life. After that we determined it would be best to alter our identity.”

  “So his real name is Tom Morrison.”

  “Aye.”

  “And yours?”

  “Simon McKenna.”

  “You call him Sloan.”

  “Thomas and Simon are ghosts. To him and to me they no longer exist. Those men died a long time ago.”

  Frustrated, Abbey shook her head. All this information was a lot to take in at once. She pointed to the living room with the swarm of black clad men. “Are they all IRA?”

  “They were before the peace treaty,” Gordon answered. “They are no longer. Now they’re friends.”

  “What do we do now?”

  “We go home,” Gordon answered firmly.

  “We can’t leave Sloan.”

  “What are you suggesting we do? Break Sloan out? Liam is doing what he can.”

  Abbey glanced at Gordon as she stood. She strode into the living room. The men froze as they discovered her.

  “I know you don’t know me,” she started. “But I really need you all right now. Please find a way to free my husband. Please find a way to free Sloan. I love him so much, and I need
him. Please get him out of there. If anyone can I know you will be able to. Help me, please.”

  Liam glanced up at Gordon standing behind her. Their eyes locked as they seemed to share a wordless conversation. Then, Liam looked at Abbey and smiled gently. “Aye, lass. We’ll get him out of there for you.”

  For hours, the men in the living room planned, examined maps and blue prints, reviewed reports, and plotted the best means of rescue. Abbey sat on the staircase watching the buzz of activity in the living room. She didn’t want to interrupt or get in the way. Her husband’s fate was in these men’s hands.

  It gave her time to reflect. The little abnormalities she found in Sloan’s life suddenly made sense. Now she understood why he was so vague about his past.

  But there were still a few things she didn’t understand.

  “How are you doing?”

  Abbey’s head shot up, finding Gordon leaning on the banister. “I’m all right…Gordon?”

  “Yes?”

  “I don’t understand why Sloan’s life is still in danger. And why is mine?”

  Gordon rubbed his chin as he thought. “There are many people who would like to see Sloan dead. There are even more who want to utilize his ‘talent.’ A fair number don’t know he is Tom Morrison. But many do. Sloan had no weakness to exploit. That is, until he met you. These people have no conscience and would not hesitate to hurt, even kill you, to flush him out and make him bend to their will.”

  “What ‘talent’? His art?”

  Gordon shook his head. “No, lass. That ignition switch. It caught the attention of many, many people. There are some very evil men out there who would like to see Sloan construct something like that for them.”

  “But you said it wasn’t his. They’re chasing him for nothing.”

  “You know him well enough. He’s stubborn. As a child it may have just been a mess of wires he tried to make work. But as an adult he can easily make exactly what they are looking for.”

  Abbey felt the hot rush of tears fill her eyes. She had led him into this mess. She blinked franticly to stop them. “What are you to him exactly?” Abbey murmured.

  “I’m his handler. When it was imperative to get Sloan out of Ireland, the IRA didn’t deem it wise to set a teenager loose in Europe. But in my heart, Sloan is my son.”

  Abbey buried her face in her hands as she sobbed. “I’m so sorry that I got him into this.”

  Gordon kneeled beside her as he rubbed her shoulder. “You’re not to blame, Abigail. He knew the risks.”

  Abbey gulped a few deep breaths as she wiped her tears away. “And Robert and Bartholomew?”

  “For lack of a better term, they are bodyguards. They were originally hired after the attempt on Sloan’s life in Paris. And those are their real identities before you ask. But in reality, we’re brothers. We’re family.” Gordon stared at her as he smiled. “All five of us are family.”

  “Six.”

  They turned at the voice. Maggie stood in the front doorway, a piece of paper clenched in her fist. Her wide-eyed look was filled with disbelief.

  “What do you mean six?” Abbey asked.

  “Abbey, when was your last cycle?”

  She organized dates in her mind. Her brow creased in confusion. “I don’t remember. Why?”

  Maggie stretched out her hand holding the piece of paper. “Abbey, you’re pregnant.”

  She shook her head. “I can’t be. Sloan always used protection. He never…”

  Then it struck her. Memories of the club restroom filled her mind. She pressed her hands to her gaping mouth. The sudden shock at Maggie’s news twisted her stomach. Without a word, she dashed for the bathroom.

  Chapter Eighteen

  It was a real challenge to avoid the bodies sprawled all over the place. Abbey gingerly stepped over Gordon, Robert, and Bartholomew, all softly snoring on the floor. They had checked out of their hotel to stay with Liam’s micro army at the house. The three men had graciously given her the bed in what was Sloan’s childhood bedroom.

  It was too bad she couldn’t sleep. Between her imprisoned husband and her unborn child, her mind wouldn’t rest.

  Abbey shuffled down the steps. In the dark, she could make out the figures of Liam’s men sleeping in chairs, on the couches, and all over the floor. One even made his bed on the coffee table. She turned as she noticed the kitchen light on.

  Liam sat at the table, still dressed in his black ensemble. He carefully studied a metal box sitting on the table before him, taking sips from a bottle of whiskey as he did so. He smiled at her as she sat beside him.

  “Abbey, it’s two in the morning. Are you all right, lass? Can I get you some crackers or ginger ale?”

  “I’m fine, thanks.” She pointed at the container. “What is that?”

  Liam grinned proudly. “The last of its kind. There are none like it left.” He gently picked it up and rolled it over.

  “Is it a bomb?” she whispered in alarm.

  “An unarmed bomb, yes. Of Sloan’s design. See this.” Liam slid the cover off and pointed at the mess of wires connected to a timer. “This is the original switch he was working on. I had to do some minor tweaking.”

  “Do you get it out and look at it often?” Abbey asked, just a bit disturbed.

  “No. We’re using it tomorrow night. We got word that they’re transporting Sloan to a maximum security prison. We’re attacking the convoy transporting him. And we’re using this.” He lifted the metal box in his hand. “Call it poetic justice.”

  “How are you going to use it?”

  “Ah, lass. It will be something to see.”

  Abbey’s heart beat hard in terror and anticipation. She didn’t want to know just how Liam planned to use the bomb to free Sloan. Now she was certain she wouldn’t be sleeping tonight.

  Abbey stood and wished Liam good night. She quietly ascended the stairs back to the bedroom. Once again, she carefully stepped around the sleeping men until she was able to crawl back into the bed. She pulled the comforter up to her chin, snuggling into the sheets.

  She glanced around the moonlit bedroom in silent awe. The Sloan she knew owned the best of everything. He had a home full of glass and chrome and dark wood. He was sleek, strong, and perfect.

  This room was a Sloan she never knew—Sloan the child. There were shelves full of children’s books. There was a toy box in the corner of the room with its lid missing. The inside was brimming with toy trucks, action figures, building blocks, and little plastic army men. A rugby ball sat proudly on a little desk surrounded by paints and colors and pieces of paper. Abbey could tell from the pictures hanging on the wall beside the desk that Sloan’s artistic talent had stared early.

  She gazed out the window at the moon. She could visualize Sloan dressed in prison garb, lying on a cold, metal bed in a tiny, confined room. Due to his notoriety, he was most likely shackled, even alone in his own cell. Is he awake? Is he thinking of me?

  No one would tell her how he was caught. She imagined that the house had been raided. It was the only way they could have found him. He was certainly too careful to make himself a target. He’s lying in that cell because of me.

  Tears filled her eyes as she laid a hand against her still-flat stomach. She couldn’t wait until she was in his arms again. She closed her eyes, trying to sleep as the tears slipped down her cheeks onto the soft little pillow where her husband had once laid his head. She hugged the pillow tight and resigned herself to the fact that she just wouldn’t be sleeping tonight.

  »»•««

  Gordon and Liam wandered the hotel ballroom, stopping occasionally to chat with the upper crust of Belfast. In his life after the IRA, Liam dabbled in politics. This charity event for the children’s wing of the hospital made a great alibi for the events later in the evening.

  They stopped at the bar, each ordering a bottle of Guinness before continuing their journey. Gordon nudged Liam as he pointed. A reporter from a local news station chatted animatedly into a ca
mera.

  “Can’t get a better alibi than that,” Gordon laughed.

  Both men sauntered casually toward the scene. The reporter lit up at the sight of Liam, dragging him by the arm to the camera for a brief interview. Gordon chuckled as he took a sip of his beer. We couldn’t have planned it better.

  Gordon checked his watch as Liam returned from the reporter’s captivity. “It seems I need to use the restroom.”

  “I’ll join you,” Liam agreed.

  The men left their near empty bottles on the bar and made their way through the crowd. They both stopped as Commander Brown passed by. Gordon and Liam erupted in laughter, attracting his attention. He glared as he stormed away from them.

  Brown’s in for a shock very shortly.

  Gordon and Liam checked the halls as they exited the restroom. The hallways were relatively empty. Only a few guests wandered there, most of them already drunk. They veered from the lobby door, navigating the service corridors until they found an exit to the alley behind the hotel.

  In the alley sat a fleet of black Land Rovers, lying silently in wait. The door of the lead vehicle opened, and Robert stepped out. He strode to them, handing Liam the keys.

  “Is everyone where they belong?” Gordon asked.

  “Yes,” Robert answered.

  “And our little metal package?”

  “Loaded and in the front seat.”

  “Excellent. Let’s go.”

  All three men turned as they heard a car door open. Abbey slipped out of the rear vehicle and nearly sprinted to them. “Which car is Sloan going to be in?”

  Gordon pointed to the second Land Rover. The driver’s seat sat empty, waiting for Robert. Maggie watched them from the back seat.

  “Then that’s where I’m riding,” Abbey decided.

  “No, you’re not,” Robert answered defiantly.

  “I want to be with my husband.”

  “It’s not happening, Abbey.”

  “Why can’t I? Why does Maggie get to?” she whined.

  “Maggie is riding there because most likely Sloan is going to need medical attention when we’re through,” Robert replied coldly. “And why would we put someone Sloan loves so much in a car that is going to be under heavy fire? Are you that stupid?”