Page 12 of The Captive
She laughed, genuine amusement lighting her features. "Finally, some honesty. I don't trust you either, Miss O'Malley. But I respect your caution."
Her laughter transformed her face, making her appear younger, almost innocent—a disturbing glimpse into who she might have been without whatever trauma had fractured her.
"I'll need verification," I said, gathering the documents. "And specifics about what assistance you're seeking."
Beatrice extracted a USB drive from her coat pocket. "Security codes to Ashford Estate. Camera blind spots. Patrol schedules. Everything you need to access Flanagan territory undetected."
As she handed it to me, our fingers brushed, and I felt an almost electric current of desperation from her. This woman was dangerous—not in the calculated way of career criminals, but in the unpredictable manner of someone with nothing left to lose. A sick person indeed…
"And if I decide to work with you?" I asked, pocketing the drive.I’d be crazy… I know that already.
"Then you acquire a bigger slice of the pie. Surely that’s a good enough reason. As for me, Alexander Moore would get exactly what he deserves." Her smile turned predatory, her veneer slipping to reveal teeth.
“But that’s not all, is it?” I said.
She nodded. "By taking Ronan Flanagan’s right hand, I’d come as close to destroying him as I possibly can. And after what—” She stopped, swallowing hard, “I feel it’s the least payback I could get, apart from maiming or death… his or his precious Cressida’s, of course. My darling sister. Another problem for another day." She offered a forced grin.
"Have you ever considered therapy instead of murder, Mrs. O'Brien?" I asked dryly.
Her laugh was a twisted, broken sound. "Oh, I've had plenty of therapy. Pills, too. Bipolar disorder, they said—lithium to level the peaks and valleys. Did you know lithium dulls everything? It's like looking at the world through frosted glass." She sighed."I prefer the clarity of the manic phases now. Even with the noise and chaos it brings. Patrick makes sure I stay medicated, but I've learned to... manage my doses."
The admission confirmed my suspicion—Beatrice was self-medicating, controlling whatever disorder inhabited her brain to harness the manic phases while suppressing the inevitable crashes. Bipolar, most likely, but I was no therapist. She was playing a dangerous game that made her both unpredictable and potentially brilliant.
"I'll be in touch," I said, preparing to leave. "After I've verified your information."
She caught my arm, her grip surprisingly strong. "They have underestimated us both, Aoife. Including you, despite your position now. The quiet daughter. The one we make do with. The trophy wife. We're supposed to be ornamental, not operational." Her eyes burned with feverish intensity. "Let's show them what we’re made of."
I deliberately looked down at her hand until she released me. "Don't mistake mutual interest for trust, Beatrice. I'll verify everything. And I'll have contingencies ready for when you inevitably get the urge to betray me."
Rather than taking offense, she smiled—the most genuine expression I'd seen from her. "I'd be disappointed if you didn't. That's why I chose you instead of one of your father's old lieutenants. You understand the game."
As she turned to leave, she paused at the door. "One more thing. When you verify Alexander's role in your father's death, remember this: men like him don't see women like us as real threats. That's their downfall."
The heavy door closed behind her, leaving me alone with the evidence and my father’s knife against my ribs. Whatever Beatrice's true motives, she was offering me a foothold into Flanagan operations. That alone made the risk worthwhile.
I texted Barrett to bring the car around. The game had begun, with Alexander Moore as the first piece to be captured. Whether he was ultimately responsible for my father's death or merely a convenient target for Beatrice's obsession remained to be seen.
Either way, I would use this opportunity to cement my role in what was rightfully mine. The destiny that had been interrupted by Flanagan fire and explosives.
The O'Malleys endured through calculated risks and strategic alliances. Even if they occasionally had to make deals with the devil. And partners as unstable as Beatrice O'Brien.
When the time came, I would show Alexander Moore exactly who he had underestimated.
Four
ALEXANDER MOORE
The abandoned warehouse satin no-man's-land between Ashford Estate and former O'Malley territory. Corrugated metal walls patched with rust, grimy windows—a structure forgotten after the Flanagans had taken over this parcel from the O'Malleys long ago enough that he couldn't remember. Following the takeover, it had just sat here undisturbed.
I slipped inside through an unsecured side entrance. The interior was dark, but someone had recently disturbed the dust—clear pathways marked the concrete floor.
Following the trail, I discovered what I knew not to be Flanagan owned: state-of-the-art surveillance equipment arranged on a makeshift workstation.
"Fuck me sideways…"
Monitors displayed real-time feeds of our main shipping entrance. Directional microphones, signal boosters, weapons too—not street hardware, but precision instruments. A disassembled sniper rifle, tactical gear, encrypted communication devices.
A laptop sat open, its screen saver a hypnotic pattern.
