CHAPTER 10

And so plan A morphed into plan D. Or plan C version 2 depending on your perspective.

"Hey, as long as it ain't plan M," Hardison said, tappng at the keys of his tablet.

Eliot was circling the room for errant coffee cups. "We can always hope."

Sophie had gone to her room to freshen up, because dinner rejection or not, Mark Doyle was seeing her tonight. And Eliot. Because they had trouble. Big trouble. Kill the project kind of trouble. Cillian Murphy had bailed on them, and they needed a new lead and fast if they were going to stay on schedule and keep the other investors happy.

Feichin flipped his hair off his forehead. "You really think Doyle will give a . . . a . . ."

"Screen test," Nate said. He was back in the armchair with his files, not bothering to look up when he spoke. "And yes, I do. Sophie'll get him there."

Feichin sighed. He hoped Ford was right, but the whole thing made him nervous. The plan seemed so impossible. That Doyle would stand in front of a camera and give up his whole operation, willingly - who would do that? - and that it would give them everything they needed to bring him down. And yet they were all so confident. Like they had no doubt that all the pieces would fall together like they were cut to fit.

Parker brought his field coat from the spare bedroom and tossed it to him.

Feichin caught it and looked at her, and she was smiling at him, that pleasant blank smile he'd come to associate with her. Nate and Hardison were working, oblivious to him now. Nate had a file open on his lap, using his cast to prop it up at a better angle, and with his good hand, he balanced a now-cold cup of coffee, straw sticking out, on the arm of the chair. Eliot swooped in for the cup without a word, and Nate lifted his hand out of the way, never breaking his concentration.

Feichin couldn't help but be impressed at how well they worked together, how comfortable they were with each other, and he was suddenly reluctant to leave, even though he had no good reason to stay.

"So, see you in three days then?" he asked, to no one in particular.

"Yep," Nate said, lifting his head just long enough to give Feichin a polite smile and grab another folder.

Feichin walked to the door, and Eliot, walking past on his way to the kitchenette, opened it for him with a short nod. Feichin smiled and nodded back, feeling a little less now like Eliot was going to disembowel him. As he was almost out the door, Feichin stopped as something occurred to him. He turned back and looked at Nate.

"You know, I almost forgot to mention . . ."

"What's that?"

"Doyle was pretty excited when I saw him. I guess his da's in town. Probably for the heist, right?"

Nate looked up then, looked straight at Feichin for the first time since he had interrogated him earlier in the night, and he seemed to go so still that Feichin wondered if he was breathing.

"His father's here? In Clifden?" Nate asked.

Eliot and Hardison looked at each other, some shared knowledge passing between them, and Parke's eyebrows were raised, and Feichin wondered if he had said something wrong.

"That's what he said."

Nate nodded at him, but his eyes were drifting, and his mind already seemed to be wandering in some other direction.

Eliot sighed, one hand on the door knob, Nate's coffee cup in the other. He gave Feichin something that might have been called a tight smile. Or maybe a grimace. "Thanks for the tip."

Feichin threw one last wave in the general direction of the room, and then Eliot closed the door, and he was left alone in the hall.

And he was four years old, left at the school house door for the first time, his father turning away and starting down the lane without a word. He cried and strained after the old man, the headmaster holding him back, and he remembered how the headmaster's hand was big enough to cover his arm from the crook of his elbow to his armpit, and his grip was painfully tight, and Feichin called out again and again - "Da! Da! Daaaaa!" – and all he got in return was the sight of his father's broad back getting smaller and smaller as he walked away.

Feichin shook the memory away and took a deep breath.

It's just nerves.

He hoped so. Better nerves than some premonition of bad things to come.

By the time Sophie and Eliot made it back to the hotel, it was nearly 1 a.m. Eliot headed for his room, while Sophie went to check in on Nate. When she reached his floor, she was surprised to see Parker and Hardison walking down the hallway, Hardison jawing at her about something, his voice low and a smile on his face. He stopped talking and gave Parker a raised eyebrow look, and Parker slugged him in the arm.

"What's all this?" Sophie asked.

"Parker got the night off." Hardison grinned.

"What's Nate doing?"

Parker shrugged. "Sitting in a chair he can't get out of, reading files."

"And whatever you do, do not make light of him being an invalid." Hardison said.

Parker nodded gravely.

"Lead balloon." Hardison added.

Next to him, Parker pantomimed a bomb dropping, arcing her hand upward and then down in a swoop, complete with a high pitched, tapering whistle and dramatic two-handed BOOM effect at the end.

Sophie decided that maybe Parker did need a little play time. "I'll try to restrain myself. Just be discreet. You never know who might know Doyle."

"The soul of discretion." Hardison promised, hand over his heart.

Sophie moved down the hall and slipped into Nate's suite without a sound. He didn't hear her come in.

He was right where she left him – in the arm chair, in his flannels and t-shirt, surrounded by papers. He pulled a file from the box by his chair and held it up and to his right, so he could see it better out of his good eye. Sophie leaned against the door frame and took a good look at him. His entire left eyelid was a dark reddish purple and puffed out liked an oversized walnut, and the left side of his face was still puffy, and there were softer splotches of purple along his cheekbone and jaw, all set off by the waxy paleness of his skin.

What a mess you are.

She closed the door and dropped her purse on the sofa, flopping down next to it. "I hear you're in a foul mood," she said.

He didn't look up. "How'd it go?"

All business, then.

"We're screen testing tomorrow morning."

"And where're they closing the deal?"

"Mackey's of course."

"Good."

Nate put the papers he was reading back in their file and dropped the lot of them next to his chair, his "discard" pile.

"Doyle told me he had dinner with his father tonight," Sophie said.

Nate nodded. "He's in on it, you know."

"I would imagine so."

"And he's going down, too. Doyle, his dad, the buyer, the whole fucking thing, top to bottom."

"Well, why stop there? Maybe we can take down every criminal in Ireland while we're at it?"

Nate gave her a look that told her he did not appreciate the sarcasm. He opened the file on his lap, but stopped short of picking up any of the papers in it. He yawned and rubbed his good eye with the heel of his hand.

"I hope you don't plan to stay in that chair reading files all night."

He ignored her, leaning forward for a glass of water wedged between stacks of paper on the coffee table, but he pulled something mid-move and hissed, leaning back quickly.

"Nate," Sophie said exasperated, reaching for the glass and holding it out to him. "Why don't you just tell me what you want?"

"And what Sophie?" He spat, his tone suddenly venomous. "You'll get it for me? You'll take care of everything if I just let you help me?"

Sophie raised her eyebrows, slightly stunned. She put the glass back on the table, in the exact out-of-reach spot it had been in. "What has gotten into you?"

"What's gotten into me? What's gotten into me? Seriously? Look at me, Sophie. What the hell do you think has gotten into me? I can't eat, I can't move, I'm stuck in this room all day and night and my - " he sucked in a breath and forced himself to stop talking.

"What?" Sophie demanded, even though she knew. "Your what Nate?"

He grabbed the file on his lap and threw it across the room, but it was too light to go far, and the scant handful of papers flitted out of it, and the whole mess fluttered to the floor not three feet from where he was sitting almost delicately, like leaves falling from a tree. Which was very unsatisfying and not at all what he intended. He glared after it.

"And here I thought you didn't even like the man," Sophie said. It was a low blow, but she also knew – had learned the hard way – that when he got this way, he did not want or need sweetness and coddling. He needed a right good slap to the face.

And just as she expected, it drew him out.

"No, Sophie, I didn't like him. But I never wished him dead either. Never. Even when I was a kid, and he-" Nate waved his hand in the air. Where to even fucking begin on that particular issue? "I didn't want him dead, but now he is, because . . " he shook his head and looked away from her.

"Because he was a career criminal, that's why! Because he couldn't stop looking for a score! Doyle wasn't out looking for a way to get back at you. Jimmy went to him, Nate. Jimmy went to him."

"I used his name, Sophie. Did you know that?"

"Eliot told me, and it doesn't matter." She left the sofa and knelt in front of him and placed a hand on each knee. "If it hadn't been Doyle, it would have been someone else. You know that."

"But it wasn't someone else, was it?"

"Listen you. Eliot told me everything about that wire job, and if I had been there, there are probably ten things that I would've wanted to throttle you for, but using your father's name is not one of them."

"Yeah? And when's the last time you went as somebody you know? Hm?"

When Sophie said nothing, he answered for her.

"In Devonshire, when you were after that Austen manuscript. You pretended to be Wilhelmina Helm, and so when you took it, her name was all over the job. Isn't that why you go as someone you know, Soph? To set them up? To screw 'em over? Or because you don't care if they get set up or screwed over?"

"You didn't use Jimmy's name to screw him, Nate. No one could have predicted all this. And we both know that you never would have used his name if you thought this might happen."

They were silent. Then something seemed to occur to Nate, and he let out a short, exasperated laugh.

"You do realize that you're arguing that I didn't do the wrong thing? You understand that, right?"

Sophie half smiled and half scowled at him. "Well maybe you really didn't." She rocked back on her heels and stood and couldn't resist adding with a hint of flirt: "For a change."

She reached down and tilted his chin up, so they could look at each other. His good eye was red with emotion and fatigue, and she stepped closer to him, standing between his knees. He could smell the perfume on her skin, the 24 Faubourg she only used on the con when she wanted to signal money and status.

She used her free hand to push back a stray bit of hair from his forehead, and she gave him a sad smile and sighed.

"Nate, Nate," she said.

He had an urge to lean forward, to lay his head on her stomach, that he resisted.

"I didn't like him, Soph, that's true. But he was still my father."

And you'll always be your father's son, won't you?