At a safe house in Andersontown, Catherine locked herself in the bathroom. She stripped from her khaki camo pants and woolly sweater. Standing in just her bra and panties, she turned on the faucet. When the water warmed up just enough to be tepid, she washed her hands.

Then she washed them again.

And again.

And again.

No matter how many times she scrubbed her flesh with the hottest water possible, she didn't feel clean. After all, she signed the death warrant which put the blood of a dead police officer on her hands. The five of them pulled the triggers of their automatic rifles simultaneously, so it was almost impossible to know who exactly fired the round which killed the fella.

To Catherine, it was irrelevant as to whose bullet ended the officer's life. She sanctioned it—the burden fell on her shoulders.

Shutting off the water with pink raw hands, she turned her attention to the black duffle bag sitting on the closed lid of the toilet. She unzipped it and pulled out a set of her clothes. After putting on jeans and a light pink high-neck sweater, Catherine stuffed the clothes she wore on the operation into the bag. They were undoubtedly covered in gun-power residue invisible to the naked eye, which meant they'd have to be burned.

She tossed the bag onto the floor and sat on the toilet lid. Lifting the rosary off her neck, she started to rattle off a Hail Mary. Eleven years after the first time Catherine killed a man as a card-carrying rebel, it wasn't so much the act of taking a life in and of itself which caused desolation. What left her despondent was how easy it became for her to pull the trigger now.

As she said a decade of prayer, it wasn't the officer's soul she prayed for. She couldn't give two shits about a man who wouldn't hesitate to fill her skull with bullets. Instead, she prayed for his family; that's who she considered the real victims in this entire tragedy.

"Catherine!" Dessie yelped, knocking hard on the locked door. "Scout car's here, we gotta get a move on."

Shoving the rosary into the back pocket of her jeans, she reached for her boots. "Aye. I'll be right out."

Truth was, she couldn't wait to get the hell out of Belfast for a couple of days.


Catherine sat a little straighter when she realized Dessie was getting off the A1 motorway, deciding to take the B113 instead. He slightly changed direction, going a little further southeast into Northern Ireland rather than directly south for the border.

This wasn't the agreed-upon route to Dundalk, but considering the scout car was leading the pack, she tried to trust their instincts. Staying inside Queen Elizabeth's territory any longer than necessary was a gamble. Especially when the PSNI was surely looking to round up the usual suspects.

She convinced herself they were getting off the motorway because taking the back-roads through south Armagh's hills was safer. These were south Armagh men, they knew every nook and cranny of this area.

When she glanced at Dessie and he showed no sign of explaining, Catherine's hands only began to tremble more. They passed through Drumintee, which made her realize they were headed for Forkhill.

The small village of fewer than five-hundred people lays just short of ten miles from Crossmaglen. That made it a prized area for Dessie and his crew, allowing them to move virtually undetected in the area dominated by a lush green landscape.

It was also home to the farmhouse and barn they used to interrogate those suspected of committing crimes against the Republican Army.

There was no other explanation for why Dessie was dragging her out to this part of the island. Did they know she let Liam leave without facing the consequences he rightfully deserved? Or the fact she stupidly turned to the Kings and let them know of the mutiny going on right under their noses? Did word get out about her affair with Ian?

More than swayed Dessie was driving her to the sight of her shallow grave, Catherine choked back tears. Her heart sank when she remembered she didn't say goodbye to Eamonn and Sean before leaving.

She had mercy on Liam, maybe they'd show the same to her.

"What are we doin' here, Dess?" she croaked.

He shrugged. "Why? You've got somethin' weighin' heavy on your conscience?"

Catherine swallowed hard, deciding it would be in her best interest to not say another word.

Dessie turned down a beaten path, the weathered barn quickly illuminating in the headlights as they approached. There were no other cars in sight; the lights inside of the house were off as well. She bit the inside of cheek so hard, her mouth filled with the taste of pennies. There were about a dozen ways this night could end and of course she chose to focus on the worst one possible.

A few yards away from the barn, Dessie stopped the car then killed the engine. He wasted no time unclipping his belt, stepping out into the frigid air. Catherine was unmoving. She couldn't think, couldn't speak.

"C'mon," he barked, shoving his hands into the pockets of his coat. "It's fuckin' baltic an' I'm freezin' my nuts off."

Nine out of ten times a comment as such would've made Catherine laugh. She was so afraid, she thought she would be sick. Not wanting to make him wait any longer, she somehow mustered the courage to take off her seatbelt and exit the car.

He began to walk ahead of her towards the barn. She was thankful it was so cold that he'd think her shivering was due to the freezing temperature and not her nerves. The closer they go to the barn, the more lightheaded she became.

Dessie opened the side door and moved aside to allow her to enter first. She was hit with the pungent aroma of cigarette smoke which told her they weren't alone; she just couldn't see the others thanks to the blinding darkness.

Hay snapped under her boots as she shuffled forward. Without so much as a warning, Dessie flipped on the bright overhead lights. When her eyes finally adjusted, Catherine was shocked to see Patrick and Seamus. A handful of the south Armagh and Belfast lads, too.

"What the hell is goin' on here?" Catherine demanded. She felt like an antelope being scoped by lions who were waiting for the perfect moment to pounce.

Seamus Doherty, who was supposed to be in Dundalk by now, leaned his back against the workbench. "Caught wind the ISU is meetin' with Jimmy tomorrow. That true?"

"Aye," she answered.

"Any way you can delay it?" Patrick inquired.

Catherine shook her head. "I can't; believe me when I say I've already tried. The Kings want me back in my old position."

Collective groans of "shite," "fuck," and "bastards," erupted. If she wasn't confused already, she certainly was now.

"I don't understand what-"

"They're afraid of ya, Catherine," Dessie spouted.

Rory Quinn backed him up. "Aye, he's not blowin' smoke up your arse. When Jimmy an' Donny were hauled down to Maghaberry, O'Shay came to Cross wit' Borgan an' sat down with Dessie."

Patrick watched Catherine use both hands to push her hair out of her face. His heart sank for her; she'd worked so hard to climb the leadership ladder only to have the Kings try to rip it right out from under her. Having been in jail while all of this happened, Patrick felt utterly useless to her. He was a failure in his mind—a man who couldn't even protect his daughter from the world beating her down.

"They attempted to go over my head, didn't they? Wanted you to be chief of staff instead," she asked Dessie.

He nodded; his expression a mixture of empathy and animosity. "I turned 'em down without a second thought. You bloody earned it, not me."

"Why would they do that?"

"It's obvious," snorted Patrick. "Two years ago, ya approved a mortar attack on the peelers in Craigavon as ya were walkin' out of a meetin' where they told ya no more blood."

Dessie jumped in. "You're just like Darragh, Catherine. Ya want peace, an' the violence to end so fuckin' bad, but your anger over injustices gets the better of ya. Ya need to stop wit' this half-in, half-out bullshit 'cause Óglaigh na hÉireann needs ya more than we need Jimmy."

"There's no way Jimmy'll let me take over ONH-"

"When we say Óglaigh na hÉireann, we're talkin' about the True army," Seamus interrupted.

"Aye," Patrick agreed. "Jimmy and the Kings don't give a shite about cause anymore. For the last couple'a years it's only been about the money, which we all know is somethin' you couldn't care less about. I couldn't be prouder that you never once lost sight of what the cause stands for. You've over a hundred men standin' behind ya, Catherine, all itchin' for a leadership change."

"Jesus-fuckin'-Christ," Catherine groaned.

She rested her hands on her hips as the weight of their words fell on her all at once. What they were asking of her was dangerous. No one ever attempted a coup within the army as it would end in certain death if failed. It didn't matter if she had one or one-hundred men behind her; they'd all face the same fallout. They were expendable. It wouldn't take long for Jimmy to find a fresh batch of eager and angry teenagers, ready to be indoctrinated with his view of the cause.

"I don't know," Catherine muttered. "T'would be less dangerous if we formed ONH with Jimmy and his contacts, then forced him out."

One of the other Belfast lads said, "We want out of the gun runnin', too. We've families to take care of an' it's only a matter of time before MI5 closes in on us. Jimmy's the only one cashin' in on the profits while the rest of us are strugglin' to put food on the table. It makes sense for all of us to be gettin' in on the petrol and fags business wit' the south Armagh fellas."

She couldn't disagree. Since re-joining the Ra, gun trafficking was the one aspect of the job which kept her up at night. In the past, she came up with several feasible plans that could make nearly the same amount of money the guns brought in.

Patrick was right though. Jimmy only cared about the money. He wouldn't even entertain the idea of nixing the gun trade because Benjamin's all but rained from the sky and into his pockets.

As for the Kings, she wasn't frustrated because they'd put them all on a tight leash when it came to doing what they volunteered to do. Her grudge was personal; she wouldn't stop until their bodies were found just as mutilated as Darragh's was.

But two little boys depended on her, which was exactly why she kept her emotions in check. She knew she had the brain and man-power to bring the True army to the ground, just like Darragh. She just wished the men standing before her understood that unlike Darragh, Catherine didn't love Ireland as much as she loved her sons. Staying alive was goal number one.

"Jimmy, the Kings; they'll kill me," she blurted. "And there are two wee boys in Dundalk who've already lost their father—they can't lose me, too. I refuse to leave behind orphans, so I can't be the one to lead this...this rebellion. You may lose respect for me, but I won't apologize for bein' a mother first."

She could feel the thick bitter tension growing between her and her men. They hadn't expected her to respond this way.

Catherine refused to hang her head. There wasn't a single ounce of guilt pumping through her veins, but she detested Patrick's hard stare. His eyes sheened with a disappointment she'd never seen before. Out of everyone, she thought he'd be the one to understand.

Dessie cleared his throat. "C'mon, Catherine. We should be headin' for the border."


Dundalk, Republic of Ireland

Jimmy couldn't sleep. At least, not until Catherine made it to the safe house.

With the boys sound asleep upstairs, he sat on the couch chain-smoking and nursing a bottle of whiskey. He couldn't even bring himself to turn on the television, afraid he'd see a breaking news story about four IRA members who'd been either arrested or killed.

His knees bouncing, Jimmy flipped open his phone for about the five-hundredth time in the last hour.

No messages.

Crushing his cigarette out in the overflowing ashtray, he checked the time. It was nearly eleven o'clock, well over two hours past the time Catherine and Dessie expected to be in Dundalk. Typically, her being late wasn't enough to fry his nerves. It was the fact he'd caught wind Seamus and Rory hadn't made it to their safe house yet, either. The only one to make it was the third lad Dessie brought along, but he opted for a place in county Donegal instead.

At this point, it wouldn't surprise Jimmy if they were picked up at the border.

Plucking the bottle, he poured himself another three-fingers. He polished it off in one go, welcoming the intense burn in his stomach and throat. No amount of liquor could settle his nerves at this point.

Thankfully, he didn't have to suffer much longer because the door swung open before he even had a chance to set the glass down.

Dessie walked in first with Catherine close behind.

"Give us a minute, Dess?" asked Jimmy as he lit a smoke.

Dessie's gaze ping-ponged between Catherine and Jimmy. He didn't want to leave her alone, but her stiff posture along with a hard expression made him confident she wasn't going to let Jimmy push her around. Just to be on the safe side though, he'd leave the bedroom door cracked. He bid the pair goodnight then headed upstairs.

"Sit down." Jimmy lazily tossed his thumb in the direction of the space on the sofa.

Catherine wasn't too sure if she wanted to be sitting next to him, considering he was probably still angry at what she said to him earlier. It was actually in her best interest to do exactly as he said. There was no use in riling him up even more.

Lumbering over to the sofa, Catherine sat down. She crossed her legs and then her arms across her chest. She stared straight ahead at a painting on the wall, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of knowing he had her full attention.

"How'd it go? Any issues?"

"No complications. And contrary to what ya said back in Belfast, all of the fellas listened to every goddamn order I gave."

Jimmy dropped his head. "Look, Catherine. What I said was a cheap-shot and I'm sorry; I am. You're a fine soldier with a long list of accomplishments, so it's unfair for anyone—includin' myself—to doubt you because you're a young woman."

The sincerity in words seemed genuine, but Catherine only half-accepted his apology. She sensed a 'but' was coming, and she was right.

After she pulled the rank card on him, Jimmy realized he allowed her to climb the ranks too high and too quickly for someone her age.

At seventeen, she was helping to smuggle shipments of cigarettes and petrol—well before she'd even sat through her first Green Book lecture. At twenty, she sat in on her first distribution deal in Moscow. Less than two years later, Catherine began to traffic hundreds-of-thousands of dollars' worth of weaponry internationally. Just before thirty, she got a taste of what it's like to hold the highest position in the army outside of the council.

Perhaps it was time to humble her, Jimmy decided.

"But," she said, digging her fingernails into the palms of her hands.

"But, ya disappointed me and proved you're not even close to bein' ready for a top leadership position. When you're at the top, you cannot let your emotions get the best of you like that."

Catherine turned her neck so she could look at Jimmy. He was busy pouring himself more whiskey so he missed the expression of utter disbelief on her face. She wanted to scream. Did he really just chastise her for losing her cool?

The man who was literally feared for his outbursts was lecturing her on getting overemotional.

Surely he saw the irony.

She had far more restraint than he was giving her credit for. When all she wanted to do was slap him and call him a self-absorbed prick, she remained calm.

"Tomorrow," he coughed after a sip of whiskey, "after I meet with the ISU and get reinstated, I'm gonna move ya down to Liam's former unit; you can take over your brother's responsibilities until Walsh can find a lad."

"Fuck you, Jimmy," she jeered. She ignored the stinging pressure of tears in her eyes. After everything she's done for him, Catherine couldn't believe he was severely demoting her—he was completely taking away her officer status.

"Quit with the dramatics. It's nothin' personal-"

"Nothin' personal? It's every bit personal! What is this really about? Are ya really that thin-skinned ya can't handle me gettin' mouthy with ya? Or are ya fuckin' scared, Jimmy? Scared just like the Kings, because youse know I can do the job far better than ya thought, and the fellas like me far more than they ever liked you."

"Watch your fuckin' mouth, Catherine Mary."

"Why? What are ya gonna do to me, huh? Collude to have me taken out by the UVF, just like ya did with Darragh?"

The moment those words passed through her lips, Catherine felt the fear of God instill. Jimmy dropped his glass of whiskey, not caring in the slightest the amber liquor puddled on the hardwood. He grabbed Catherine by the collar of her sweater and pulled her down onto the floor. As she struggled with him, the legs of the coffee table screeched on the floor. Thankfully the sounds of their grapple didn't make it all the way upstairs and alert Dessie or wake up the boys.

Eventually, Jimmy managed to straddle her hips before pinning her arms above her head.

"What the fuck did ya say?" He was out of breath, as was she.

"I know it was you," she cried, tears bursting from her eyes. "You and the Kings voted to have Simon Townsend assassinated and Darragh was the fuckin' sacrificial lamb."

"Who fuckin' told you that? I found out only like, two years ago the Kings were behind Townsend's shootin', and I swear to God, Catherine, I had no idea they voted to hand over Darragh. If I had, I would've voted it down!"

She only cried harder, shaking her head and thrashing her body. "I don't believe you! You hated Darragh, ya wanted him dead. You even told me you'd make his face look like a scratch compared to Filip's and that's exactly what happened."

Well, shit. Jimmy couldn't deny he threatened Darragh on more than one occasion. He understood how damning this all seemed, but the truth was, he didn't know. This was the first time he was hearing the Kings voted on Darragh as retaliation.

Jimmy didn't have the heart to tell her it all made sense though. Once upon a time, Darragh had been Galen O'Shay's pride and joy but eventually, he grew to be a throne in the King's sides. The blatant disregard for the order of no operations, his early development of a faction organization. Jimmy guessed it was the car bomb in which Darragh masterminded that put the final nail into his coffin.

He was more focused on finding out who was filling her head with nonsensical lies about him.

"Who told ya this?"

"Liam," she hiccupped, "and he has no reason to lie to me!"

"What exactly did he tell you?"

Catherine never heard his voice sound so frantic before.

"That...he said that the Kings decided to have Townsend taken out, and then voted to hand Darragh over to the UVF. I'm not stupid, Jimmy, you know everythin' that happens so there's no fuckin' way you weren't privy to what they were up to!"

"I had no fuckin' idea!"

Catherine managed to get one of her wrists free, but before she could connect the slap she intended to give him, Jimmy caught it again.

"You did know! How could you not?" She struggled again, but he was far stronger.

"Would you just stop and fuckin' listen to me?" he vented. He forced her arms back on the floor above her head. It didn't take long for her to calm down; at least she stopped crying. "I didn't know - that's God's honest truth. As a soldier, you're right, I fuckin' hated Darragh. He was radical and reckless. But as a man...I respected every bone in his body. When I told ya I would make his face look worse than Filip's, I was talkin' shite. I was pissed beyond belief he was raisin' my boy but at the end of the day, Darragh made you happy and you bein' happy is all I've ever fuckin' cared about. If I'd known what the Kings were up to, I would'a told him; if they told me after the fact, I would'a told ya myself."

It shredded Jimmy to pieces watching her jaw tremble and the tears bubbling in the corners of her eyes. He tried blinking back the tears stinging his eyes.

"I hated him because I couldn't make you as happy as Darragh did. Since he died, you've only been a shell of yourself and I hate seein' ya like this. I promise on my boy's life I would have made sure the four of youse got out of Ireland if I was privy to their plans. I've done a lot of fuckin' shitty things to you, but I would never betray you like that, a chuisle."

Catherine swallowed the tight painful lump in her throat and squeezed her eyes shut. As she vigorously shook her head, tears leaked from her eyes into her hair.

Hearing him admit that felt like a thousand daggers to the chest. She wanted to throw up. He would have done anything to preserve her family, despite the bad blood Jimmy and Darragh felt towards one another. And what did she do to him? She ran to the Kings and spilled a secret Jimmy trusted her to hold onto.

Catherine hated herself for thinking she could trust the council.

Jimmy didn't betray her, but she was disloyal to him.

She began to squirm under him as the weight of her sin crushed her heart and soul. He was honest with her, she needed to be honest with him.

"I'm so sorry, Jimmy!" she cried. "I told the council about Óglaigh na hÉireann and the deal with the Putlova."

Jimmy's breath hitched in his throat, his heart seized. Did she just say what he thought she did?

"Are you outta your fuckin' mind? Why...why would ya fuckin' do such a foolish thing?" he demanded through clenched teeth.

Catherine's face pulsated from the blood pounding in her head. She expected him to sucker punch her; at least pull her hair. While his reddened face and snarl, plus the throbbing vein in his forehead all pointed to indignation like none other, all Jimmy did was tighten his grip on her wrists.

She panicked and twisted the truth, "They confronted me about my affair with Ian and I was so angry ya told 'em, I wanted to hurt you just like-"

"I didn't fuckin' tell 'em about you and Ian, you stupid cunt! You're vapid if you think the Kings don't have touts inside the PSNI. If you did your job as an intelligence officer instead of thinkin' with your cunt all the time, ya would'a found out he's one of 'em! That half-breed wants in the IRA so fuckin' badly he'd suck my cock if I told him that's what it would take to get a beret."

"But they told me it was you!"

"I and your da have been tellin' ya for years those blood-suckers aren't to be trusted—don't you dare even try to claim naivety. It breaks my heart to hear ya thought I'd rat on ya in the first place, but it fuckin' disgusts me to know you're a tout just like that double-cross brother of yours."

Jimmy let go of Catherine and fell to his ass on the floor. He rested his back against the couch and reached for the bottle of whiskey sitting on the table. He didn't care the spilled liquor from earlier soaked through his trousers. Bringing the lip of the bottle to his mouth, he swigged two mouthfuls.

Catherine immediately rose to her knees, feeling even more contrite than she thought she would. The way he held back his anger and didn't physically take it out on her left her with a messy flurry of emotions she had no idea how to process.

"Please forgive me, Jimmy. I was scared and angry and confused." She gently placed her hand on his bicep, but Jimmy responded by pushing her away with enough force she fell on her ass.

"Don't you fuckin' touch me," he snapped. "You need to get outta my sight while I figure out whether or not you get to keep your beret. The only thing stoppin' me from squeezin' your goddamn neck with razor wire right now is the fact you're my son's mother."

Catherine scrambled to her feet. From the corner of his eye, Jimmy watched her wipe the tears away from her blotched cheeks as she scuffled up the stairs.

Drawing his knees to his chest, he wrapped his arms around his legs. He dropped his head and for the first time in nearly seven years, Jimmy cried.