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I looked at the pock-marked man past the barrel of his pointed gun which was starting to shake.
“So shoot,” I dared him, putting my hands out to my sides. “Let’s re-start those Troubles, and see how the Vasilievs survive this time.”
The Russian lowered the gun, and with a gruff command, they left.
The bar slowly resumed its conversation. I sat down.
Hugo yawned. “This city is boring.”
I chuckled. If the Russian had blown my head off, I wondered if he’d find that of interest, or if it’d just be one of many violent incidents in his life.
I lifted my hand for the bartender, and he came quickly to the end of the table.
“Another round.” I resumed my British voice. “And the check, please.”
The bartender laughed nervously.
“On the house,” he said, “for a Green.”
I sighed.It wasn’t easy being Green.
The bartender went away and Hugo laughed.
“If you don’t like people knowing who you are, why did you interfere with the Russians?” he asked. “Your deadly flower was well on her way out.”
“Because no one gets to threaten an Irish person on Irish land.” I recited the old motto.
Eoghan would surely turn up now. I’d need another drink before that altercation.
Chapter 7
Rose
Jerichodrovelikeabat out of hell until we came to a small airport outside the city. We drove into a large hanger where a sleek, slim white plane rested, a small metal ladder reaching up to its open door.
“I’m going to continue your education where your father left off,” he said, getting out of the car, and talking to me over the roof. “Try not to make me regret it by being a moron.”
“I don’t have a father.” I said, on instinct.
“Drop the act.” He demanded, putting his hands in the pocket of his suit. “You can keep it up with everyone, but not with me. You’ve accepted my help. Now let me help you.”
I walked around the vehicle and looked at Jericho, sizing him up.
“First rule, you can lie to everyone else, but never to me.” He tilted his head and examined me. “Got it?”
“Got it.” I shrugged.
“Second rule, you’re now on the run.” He turned around and started walking toward the plane. “So we’re going to have to change your name. I want that identity so ingrained in you that you won’t even think of yourself as Rose Marie Bonifacio.”
I rolled my eyes. “I was never a Bonifacio.”
“Third rule, brat,” he glowered, “Is that you talk about your father with some respect.”
I crossed my arms and glared back.
My father wasn’t there when I was a child. I was the fatherless daughter of an unmarried woman in a devoutly catholic country. There was talk, and an understanding that I was unwanted and unclean.
My mother died when I was thirteen. Our little house in the Pilipino Provinces was about to be taken away. Then a man in a straw fedora and white linen shirt strode into the room with the arrogance of a rock star. He said he was my father. He had documents to prove it and I had to believe him. I was a minor, after all.
