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That was the name of the game now. Hunker down, play along until they could come up with a new strategy or until the Feds made their move, hope they all lived long enough to see it happen.
She looked calm as she exchanged murmured words with Seamus.
“Let’s talk at the bar,” Seamus said.
She walked past the table where Nolan and Will were playing cards, waiting for their next orders. Her eyes met his and he had to force his expression to remain blank, had to stop himself from getting up and carrying her out of the Cat for good.
“Burke!” Seamus barked.
“Yeah, boss?”
“Go next door and get me some cigarettes.”
“Sure thing.” He stood and headed for the curtain, nodding at Mick as he stepped into the main room.
Bridget was sitting at the bar, her back to him, as he headed for the door. He was halfway to it when it opened and a big man with gray hair and matching stubble stepped into the room. He was followed by several more, all of them wearing the hard, mean faces of soldiers who’d seen more than their share of battle.
Nolan paused, dread seeping through his veins.
“Where’s O’Brien?” the first man through the door asked, his Irish accent so thick Nolan wasn’t sure he would have been able to understand him if he’d said more than two words.
Connor looked shaken as he debated whether to direct the visitors to the back but was saved from having to answer when the curtain parted and Seamus stepped into the main room, eyes narrowed as he took in the visitors.
“There I was, minding my own business,” he said slowly, “when I said to myself, ‘Seamus, you old bastard, that sounds like Baren Maguire in your bar.’”
The other man didn’t say anything, and Nolan gauged the distance between himself and Bridget at the bar, his chances of getting her to the ground and covering her with his body before the bullets started flying.
The man burst out laughing, a string of guttural words emerging from his mouth as Seamus came toward the group with a smile, a rush of Gaelic sounding from his mouth.
Motherfucker. Seamus spoke Gaelic.
And from the looks of things, he’d called in the fucking IRA cavalry.
The men embraced in a flurry of indecipherable language and Seamus led them toward the back room. He turned to look at Nolan as he passed.
“Burke! Where’re my fecking cigarettes?”
“Right away, boss.”
Nolan looked at Bridget, her eyes wide. He tried to send her a message — don’t worry, everything will be okay, I’m going to make this okay.
He’d always known he’d fight for her.
Had always known he’d bleed for her. Kill for her.
But now he knew he’d die for her.
He looked at the back room. Seamus met and held Nolan’s eyes.
He closed the curtain.
