Patrick flicked the ashes of his cigarette into an empty Coke can while hunched over the summons, reading each charge against Catherine vigilantly. When he finished, he pushed the papers into the center of the table and took a long drag from his Marlboro.

"Just how bad is it?" Liam asked.

Catherine rubbed her eyes with the heels of her hands. There was no use in lying to her brother. "Bad. My best option is ta plead guilty, an' then pray real hard they don't toss me arse 'ta the curb."

That wasn't at all what Patrick or Liam wanted to hear her say. They were hoping she would deny it all, so she could go before the Court and explain to them this was nothing more than a sad attack on her reputation by a scorned lover. Sure, that would then require her to plead guilty to a charge of fraternization with a superior officer, but the consequence for that was far less severe than what she was currently facing.

"Jesus. How much of this shite is true?" Patrick questioned his daughter.

While the arguments were rather compelling, Patrick was having a hard time wrapping his head around the fact Catherine was actually guilty of what she was being accused of. She didn't want to break her father's heart, as Jimmy had spared no detail, especially when it came to accusations of fraternization with the Sons of Anarchy. It had been humiliating enough to tell her father and brother why she had been sent back to Belfast early. When Liam almost stormed out of the house to pay a visit to Jimmy to see if he enjoyed being sucker punched, Catherine didn't even attempt to stop him. Not wanting any more trouble brought to the O'Toole clan, Patrick threat of tying Liam up in backyard was all that could settle him down.

Avoiding eye contact with Patrick, Catherine scuffled to the kitchen table where she took a seat beside her new officer commanding, Darragh Ryan. Only five years older than Catherine, the Donegal native had rightfully earned his position of unit commander after he sacrificed four years in prison when an operation had gone terribly wrong. Since he took over, his unit was by far the most clandestine and had the highest success rate. Darragh knew talent when he saw it, and he only recruited the best the Falls Road had to offer. From the beginning of the unit's formation, he was smart enough to know Catherine was off limits, but the minute she called him looking to jump back to her old stomping ground, there was no way he could turn her away. Everyone could see her court-martial was Jimmy simply flexing his muscle over her, and Darragh would be damned if he was going to allow these frivolous charges to keep his best soldier off the street.

"Let's not panic jus' yet." Darragh remained his typical unflustered self as he addressed Catherine. "First an' foremost, I got a date ta go before the court an' appeal Jimmy's order of yer suspended status."

In unison, the father and son muttered insults in Irish under their breaths. A suspension of active duty during this exasperating process was an anomaly. If they needed any more proof that Jimmy was dragging Catherine through this for personal reasons, this was it. Those who were being investigated as suspected informants weren't even stripped of their daily responsibilities. Catherine felt as though Darragh was her guardian angel, blessed that he had already gotten the ball rolling to bring her back into the ranks. The world around her seemed as though it was rapidly spinning out of control, and she had no idea if she'd come out on the other side still standing on her feet.

This was quite possibly the toughest lesson she's ever had to learn. Though it was hard to watch Catherine fall flat on her face, Patrick knew he couldn't pick up the pieces for her this time. He had been telling her for years her relationship with Jimmy would come back to bite her in the ass, and he was waiting for the right moment to say, "I told you so."

Though she was already aware of how badly this could turn out for her, Patrick decided to keep his mouth shut and not tell Catherine that her chances of escaping any sort of punishment were slim-to-none. After splitting with the Provisionals, the True Army Council had made a point on several occasions to put an end to relationships between volunteers and their superior officers. The drama they caused only led to sloppy mistakes being made. When sloppy mistakes were made, innocent people died and other volunteers were thrown in jail.

It pissed Patrick off beyond all belief that Jimmy's inability to keep his cock in his pants, was going to cost Catherine any chance she had at climbing the officer ladder.

Patrick pointed his finger at Catherine. The way his eyes burned with a deep fury told Catherine that whatever he was about to say, she better listen. There was no way it wasn't the ass-chewing she rightfully deserved.

"Yer too old an' too smart ta be playin' these games, Catherine. If ya go back ta him after all this shite is over, don't ya even bother comin' back here."

Catherine could feel her cheeks burn. She didn't appreciate the fact Patrick had reprimanded her romantic life in front of her respectable commander. Licking the corner of her mouth, Catherine turned to Patrick with displeasure written all over her face.

"Ya have me word, Da. I'm done wit' him." She reached for the papers in the center of the table and held them up. "I'm not fuckin' takin' this layin' down. I took up me Armalite, an' pledged ta fight fer the IRA…that's exactly what I plan on doin' until I'm buried at Milltown."


Emerging from the steamy bathroom freshly showered and shaved, Catherine crossed the hall to her childhood bedroom. The door creaked as she closed it. A wave of emotion crashed into her all at once as she stood in the center of the room. She took a deep breath, remembering all the good, and equally bad, experiences she had lived out amongst those dusty rose walls. There were stories hidden in every inch of that space, and a part of Catherine wished she could go back to more carefree days. She never thought she'd end up living there again, but life was fickle and hardly ever went to plan.

Draping her towel on the chair to her vanity desk, Catherine dug through her bag for a pair of pajamas. Comfortably dressed, she brushed out her damp hair before wrestling it into French-braided pigtails.

She intended to head back into the bathroom so she could brush her teeth and then call it a night, but the light from her parent's bedroom flooding the hallway distracted her. Moseying to the door, Catherine pushed it open just enough so she could rest her shoulder on the doorjamb. Patrick was sprawled out in the center of the bed, one knee bent, one arm thrown lazily over his head as he watched RTÉ. Not taking his eyes off the television, he knew Catherine was standing there.

"What's on yer mind, kid?"

"Ya mind company?"

Catherine wasn't in any hurry to spend time alone. She knew once the dark hours of the night set in, she'd be diving deep into a bottle while wallowing in self-pity. The longer she could put that scheduled activity on hold, the better.

Patrick wasn't going to turn Catherine away. It had been four years since she left home, and out of all his grown children, it was her presence Patrick missed the most. He waved the remote as a gesture for her to come in, moving out of the center of the mattress. Catherine crawled in beside her father, where she rested her back on the headboard. She was wearing only a tank-top so Patrick spotted the bruises, feeling his anger boil at the sight of those gruesome, dark marks popping out against her pale skin. Uncertainty of the abuse Catherine had silently suffered by the hands of Jimmy O, was enough to spark the little voice in the back of his head telling Patrick to drink. Thankfully, he was thinking clearly enough to understand that drinking would only swell his vexation, and push him into doing something he would sorely regret.

Pulling her knees to her chest, Catherine rested her cheek on one of them as she looked at Patrick. He couldn't remember a point in time where she had ever looked this drained. Seeing her like that was his own painful reminder of his days on the front lines. After his last stint in an H-Block cell, Patrick had taken a step back from his full-time duties as a unit gunman, taking up work as a laborer at the shipyard. Although the work was back-breaking, he enjoyed it far more than anything he ever did for the IRA.

"Do ya regret any of it?" Catherine asked.

"Regret what?"

There was a lot Patrick regretted in life, he needed her to be more specific.

"The Ra."

He didn't have to think about it, and before the two words left Catherine's mouth, Patrick was shaking his head. It didn't matter that his body was tattered, or that his mind was scarred with reminders of not only what was done to him, but also of what he did, Patrick would never fully resign from his post. He had promised to fight until freedom's day and for that reason, he couldn't fault Catherine for her refusal to retreat from the dying and dangerous fight.

There was so much about her father's past she desperately wished to know, but she was certain he would take that information to the grave. For far too long, she held unwavering resentment towards him. Not only for the beatings she had taken thanks to him, but for his absences. Only when Catherine joined the same cause and became old enough to understand just what the life entailed, did she realize her father—although still alive—was a causality of the Troubles.

To some extent, Catherine wondered if she would eventually turn out exactly like Patrick. Aloof, angry, a struggling alcoholic. However, Catherine refused to allow those qualities to define him. In her eyes, Patrick would always be a head-strong and hardworking man, who did whatever it took to provide for his family.

Catherine swallowed hard, taking a leap of chance. She asked Patrick about the first time he had been carted away to Long Kesh. The air suddenly became heavy, almost suffocating, and she wished she could take her question back. From his cheeks, the color drained, leaving Patrick ashen as those horrific memories flashed vividly in his mind. No matter how hard he tried to bury it or drink it away, that reality never faded for him.

When Patrick turned off the television, Catherine thought he was able to tell her to get lost. He didn't; instead, he decided to finally tell his story.

"Even though t'was over twenty-years ago, it still feels like yesterday. Fer three days, they beat me senseless an' I finally signed a confession fer a crime I didn't even commit." Patrick avoided eye contact with Catherine instead, focusing on the Crucifix hanging on the wall. "The day I was sentenced, yer Ma was in court, ready ta pop she was so pregnant wit' ya. Judge gave me fifteen-years; I was out in four."

Catherine listened intently as Patrick poured out his past to her. She felt a surge of pride when he told her he had taken part in the blanket protest during its final year. Her heart broke as he spoke fondly of Bobby Sands, and how the time they spent together discussing Irish poetry made the hours seem a little more tolerable. She felt silly when Patrick reached out and wiped away her tears after he described the physical brutality he experienced inside the walls of the H-Block.

Hearing all of it only made Catherine realize she had made the right decision in following in his footsteps. It also left her feeling exhilarated about her new role with Darragh—it was exactly where she wanted to be. She had fun seeing the world and trafficking weapons with Jimmy, but for Catherine, there would be nothing like the sense of accomplishment that followed a successful mission on the ground. Now that her fate in the IRA was nothing more than a wait-and-see, that did little to suppress her nerves. She wondered how bad her punishment would be if she defied her suspension order, and got to work anyway. Darragh had even told her that he'd take the wrath of the Council if she was up to scout out information on an upcoming operation.

Patrick had seen the hungry glint that glazed over her eyes when Darragh told Catherine their unit had been handed the responsibility of taking out a rival republican group. It scared Patrick to see that spark still shimmering hours later. Jimmy really had drilled it into her head that every act of violence was her republic duty.


Catherine was having an impossible time falling asleep. She tossed and turned, trying in vain to find a comfortable position as the clock laughed in her face. Around three in the morning, she gave up, deciding her time was better spent staring at the ceiling. From across the hall, Catherine could hear Patrick's heavy snoring and she envied his ability to sleep under any circumstances.

Closing her eyes briefly, they quickly shot open the second her bedroom filled with the all too familiar pulsating blue light. Jumping out of bed, Catherine dashed straight for her window. Not only did her heart nearly stop beating, but it also sank into her stomach as she watched squad cars, and the armored Land Rovers of the Police Service of Northern Ireland collect right in front of the house.

"Fuckin' hell," she shrieked.

Catherine prayed the officers were there only for a raid, in search of only weapons, or explosives. She'd rather die fighting than have to watch Patrick be dragged away once again.

As quickly as she could, Catherine stripped from her sweatpants and wriggled into a pair of Levi's. Following her gut-feeling, she slid her feet into a pair of flats before leaving her room. She had been through countless raids before, but they never ceased to be terrifying. She stopped herself from even having a moment to feel much of anything, trying to remember if all the weapons that had once been stashed in the house were safely over the border in the Republic.

In the hallway, Catherine flipped on the light, calling out for Patrick. When she barged into his bedroom, she shook him awake.

"Get dressed," she instructed. "Fuckin' peelers are here."

At the mere mention of the word, "peelers," Patrick's eyes shot open as the adrenaline rush kicked in. In record time, he had bolted from bed and dressed, jogging down the stairs to open the door before they could bust it themselves. Several officers were decked out in black tactical gear, with their rifles held against their chests. As they approached the house, Patrick sternly warned Catherine not to move from the step she had planted herself on. All Catherine could do was shake her head. Watching most of the house get torn up in a useless raid was fitting; it was the perfect shitty ending to a perfect shitty week. With the gaggle of officers making their way to Patrick, Catherine started to compile a list of names in her head, of people who would be free to help clean up the mess PSNI always left behind.

She sat unamused on the stairs, her elbow resting on her knee with her chin in her palm. She rolled her eyes when the officers arrogantly smirked at her as they stood just outside the door.

The only bright side Catherine managed to see in this entire mess, was the fact her mom was in Glasgow, visiting her eldest sister.

"I think ye blokes have the wrong house," Patrick teased.

One of the officers pointed his rifle at Patrick, while they walked into the house. Realizing he was sorely outnumbered in manpower, he backed up as they pushed further into the living room.

One spoke with an aggravated tone, "shut yer bake, Paddy."

Catherine vaguely heard her father spit another taunt when her eyes landed on two female officers who exited one of the sedans. Watching the brunette pull her handcuffs from her belt, while the blonde kept a firm hold on the pistol she wore on her hip, Catherine came to the conclusion this wasn't a raid. She covered her face with her hands, hoping it was just all a bad dream.

"Catherine O'Toole," the brunette officer grabbed Catherine's forearm, tugging her to her feet before pushing her flush against the wall and roughly maneuvering her hands behind her back. The cool steel of the cuffs tightening around her wrists told Catherine this wasn't a dream, this was cold, hard reality. "Yer bein' arrested under Section 41 of the Terrorism Act."

Turning her head, Catherine pressed her cheek against the wall. She focused her eyes only on Patrick. Four heavily armed officers created a barrier between the father and daughter, and Patrick didn't even flinch with those rifles pointed variously to his head and chest. Time slowed to the point of stopping. In her ears, the blood pounded so hard that Catherine couldn't even hear her own breathing. By the way Patrick's mouth moved, she knew he was speaking but she couldn't make out a single word.

The honeymoon period had come to an end for her. She was officially a suspected terrorist to the forces of the Crown. Four years was a long time to avid the federal authorities and even through her shock, Catherine couldn't help but wear those handcuffs as a badge of honor. In the hysteria, she silently reminded herself that even the likes of Gerry Adams, Brendan Hughes, the Price sisters, and even Mairéad Farrell had once found themselves exactly where she currently was.

The female officers each grabbed one of Catherine's arms, pulling her towards the front door. Although she managed to keep her expression neutral, there was a part of Catherine that wished Jimmy was there to witness this milestone; surely it would make him proud.

"While ya should always strive ta stay under the radar, ye should never fear bein' arrested, a chuisle." She remembered Jimmy once told her. "If they arrest ya, it means they fear ye."

Taking those first steps outside, Catherine kept her head held high. The flashing lights of the armored cars stopped in the middle of the Falls Road illuminated the sleeping street. As they led her to one of the sedans, she noticed some of her neighbors were desperately trying to peak around the Land Rovers.

Five years ago, when she had first begun her Green Book lectures, the first thing taught to the new recruits was that no matter the circumstances, they must say nothing. When the back door of the car was opened and the officers shoved Catherine inside, she was prepared to do just that.

At the Musgrave Police Station, Catherine didn't utter a single word as she was booked. For the first time in her life, she was fingerprinted and posed for a series of mug shots. There was no denying that while she seemed cool and collected on the outside, she was an outright wreck internally. All she kept trying to figure out was how the hell she ended up on their radar, as well as what evidence they had to justify an arrest without a warrant.

It felt like an eternity, but in actuality, not even an hour had passed. This time around, two male officers escorted Catherine down a brightly lit hallway. She knew their tight grip on her biceps was on purpose, and she prayed it wouldn't leave any more finger-shaped bruises on her.

In the middle of the hall, the officers stopped. The one on her left let go of her so he could open the cell door. As it slid open, the one who Catherine came to believe was playing the role of bad cop, roughly pushed her into the fairly small space.

"Yer right where ya belong, Provo cunt."

Catherine refused to give either of the officers the time of day. Instead, she turned her back on them and rubbed the sore spots on her right bicep. Only when she heard the chilling sound of the cell door slamming shut, did she shutter. Taking a seat on the sad-excuse of a bed, Catherine let out a soothing breath, trying to make sense of the last twelve hours. She was in shock; still not comprehending the fact she was sitting in a jail cell.

Nonetheless, Catherine felt like she was in the Twilight Zone the moment she looked up and saw who was sitting in the cell across from her.

Jimmy.