April 2009

When news broke that over twenty-six million pounds were stolen from the Northern Bank in Belfast, Catherine had been casually scrolling through Twitter and Dessie was deep into a game of Call of Duty. Jimmy had been at home, where he threw the television remote at the wall breaking it into several chunks. All the while in Forkhill, five volunteers of Óglaigh na hÉireann were frantically separating the loot into athletic bags to be buried.

Everyone, whether directly involved or not, was flabbergasted by the amount taken. Catherine and Dessie never informed them just how much to take, and that failure landed on them. They were left with a massive problem on their shoulders. This was far too much money to properly launder, which meant they'd have no choice but to dump or burn a good chunk of it. They were also in a race against the clock to get the bills circulating, as the bank announced they'd be reissuing the stolen money with new designs and serial numbers.

If they didn't act by the time the cash was to be rendered useless, it all would have been for nothing.

Also, despite no organization taking responsibility for the heist, all government agencies involved with the investigation were quick to point the finger at the Irish Republican Army. The Kings having no prior knowledge as to what Dessie and Catherine were up to, released a statement to the media unequivocally denying they were behind it.

Jimmy was the only one who noticed the job had Catherine's signature all over it. For the time being, he decided to keep his mouth shut. Mainly because he was impressed his Catherine orchestrated the largest bank robbery in British history. And he planned to sit back quietly and watch what the couple planned to do with the money.

A week later, the Kings summoned a meeting in Donegal with everyone who was in a position of leadership, where it was made clear if they found any members were involved, it would result in excommunication. As they had their asses dragged through the mud, Jimmy couldn't help noticing just how calm Dessie seemed.

There was one reason why Dessie was so calm: Catherine and Patrick were on their way to Dublin to fetch the shipment of AK's that Jimmy foolishly thought would be arriving in Dungloe the following morning. After years of planning, everything was starting to fall into place.

After the meeting, Dessie made the two-and-a-half-hour drive back to Forkhill. In the barn, he found Catherine and Patrick assembling the guns, whose parts were strewn in three crates.

"How'd it go with the Kings?" Patrick asked, handing-off a rifle to his daughter.

Dessie smiled as he lit the cigarette tucked into the corner of his mouth. "They don't have a fuckin' clue. Got the Real army pointin' finger at the True army, and the True army pointin' finger at the Real army."

"I reached out to Ian for an update on the investigation. He said the coppers don't even know where to start. But we need to be careful puttin' those bills into legitimate businesses because they've told banks to contact them if they come across the serial numbers. I also spoke with the financial advisor in Cork the Continuity lads use and he said we should invest what we can't launder – buy real estate, cars, the lot," said Catherine.

"That's what Jimmy does," Patrick pointed out. "Why do you think he's got a fancy new car every goddamn year while the rest of us are drivin' beaters."

"That's why I bought my house in Belfast. Jimmy gave me the money because he needed to hide assets from the tax-man."

"Remember that house you fell in love with? You were bummed it was for sale, not to let?" Dessie refreshed Catherine's memory. She nodded, and he goofily smiled. "We haven't signed the lease yet on the other place, so we'll invest our cut into the house. Once Kieran gets as much of the bills as he can transferred into American dollars, we'll get you that SUV you've been eyein', too. So you have more room for the three wee shites. Don't ever say I never bought ya anythin'."

Catherine stuck her tongue out at him as she popped the loaded magazine into the rifle and pulled the slide back to chamber a round.

"Mother'a Christ, that was fuckin' sexy," Dessie purred, slipping his sunglasses onto the top of his head. "Do it again for me, baby."

Patrick asked Catherine, "Can I shoot him?"

She handed her father the loaded AK-47. "Go for it."

Perching it on the front of his shoulder, Patrick closed his left eye as he peered through the sight. He pulled the trigger three times in rapid succession, the hollow point bullets shooting through the thick wooden wall beside Dessie.

"I knew ya loved me too much to shoot me, old man."

"Don't push your luck, boyo."

"Since I let ya shoot at me, does this mean I get to start callin' you Da?"

Patrick gestured at the smirking Dessie as he looked at Catherine. "Of all the men in Norn Iron, ya choose this one to marry?" He turned back to Dessie. "Ya call me da, and I swear to God, I'll shoot ya in the nuts."

"Please don't," Catherine groaned. "Until I have at least one more wee baby with him, just slap him around. And, it could be a helluva lot worse—I could be marryin' Jimmy."

Patrick responded to the thought of Catherine marrying Jimmy by crossing himself.

Dessie flicked his cigarette, readjusting his stance slightly so he could be in a position to break out into a dead run if need be.

"It could be even worse than that. I could be a Protestant, Da."

"I'm gonna fuckin' kill you," was all Catherine heard before Patrick took off running behind Dessie out of the barn. Considering Patrick still had the rifle in his hand, Catherine knew Dessie would be fine…so long as she didn't hear gunshots.


After narrowly avoiding a beat down and being shot in the back by Patrick, Dessie strolled out of the farmhouse with a duffle of ammunition slung over his shoulder. Catherine was behind him, carrying a rifle in each of her hands. Patrick was already outside, stapling targets to tree stumps.

"This is only what…the second time we've ever done target practice together?"

"Aye," Catherine said, thinking back. "You claimed your skills were too advanced for me so you had Kieran work with me instead."

"Did I really say that?" Dessie wondered, and she nodded. "Goddamn, I was an arrogant prick."

Yeah, Catherine thought. Was.

When they reached the remote spot on the farm the south Armagh crew liked to use for target practice, Dessie dropped the bag on the ground. Catherine gently set their rifles beside Patrick's, reaching into the back pocket of her jeans for a pair of hot pink foam earplugs. She put one in, then took out another pair and held them out to Dessie.

He politely declined. Not on the grounds of them being pink, but because he didn't like the feeling of having something stuffed in his ears. It was then Catherine learned for the first time he never once, in the quarter-century Dessie's been active in the Ra, used any sort of ear protection while firing guns and mortars.

"So you're not bein' a dick when you ignore me. You straight-up can't hear a bloody thing because you've blown out your eardrums."

"What?" he asked looking up at her, his brow furrowed in confusion.

"When you ignore me, it's because ya literally can't hear."

"What?" This time he couldn't hide the smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

Catherine felt slightly ashamed when she realized Dessie said "what" twice before she caught on that he was messing with her. Since he was squatting down to empty the bag of loaded magazines, Catherine playfully shoved him to the ground.

The flirty horsing around came to an abrupt end when Patrick came back from putting up the targets. They each grabbed a rifle, and Dessie held it in position.

"Hey, Cate," he said looking through the sight. "Wanna see why they call me Eamonn Wright?"

Catherine watched as Dessie pulled the trigger, firing off several rounds. As he lowered the rifle, she bit her lip to suppress her laughter, but Patrick didn't even try to conceal his when none of the bullets pierced the target.

"Shut your hole. It's new hardware and it's windy! I'm better with an Armalite anyway."


May 2009 – Belfast, Northern Ireland

Catherine was on cloud nine as she picked up the wrapped gift off the passenger seat and got out of the car. She couldn't wait to see the look on Dessie's face when he tore into the box to find a light blue onesie inside. As badly as she wanted a little girl, she knew he'd be over the moon to be having a son. She also couldn't wait to see how he'd react to her suggestion on a name.

Desmond Daniel Dennehy, Jr.

She figured they would call him Danny for short.

Sauntering through the front gate, up the walkway, and to the door, Catherine was surprised to find the lights and television off once inside. His car was parked out front still. Maybe he walked down to a newsstand for smokes.

"Dess?" she called out, shucking off her shoes.

"In the kitchen."

His monotone response threw Catherine off. When he first got there, he'd been in such a good mood, excited to help her start packing. They were only two weeks away from closing on the house of Catherine's dreams, and four weeks away from tying the knot. Though he was slightly bummed he missed her milestone doctor's appointment the other day.

She wracked her brain trying to figure out what changed in the half-hour it took her to drop the boys off at Brien's flat in the Short Strand. Gently setting the gift on the steps, she decided she'd wait to give it to him until she figured out what was up.

As she secured her hair into a bun with the elastic she always wore around her wrist, Catherine headed into the kitchen.

"I'm too bloody tired to cook. What do ya say we get Indian takeaway from the wee place in Andyto-"

Catherine stopped dead in her tracks. Her stomach dropped at the same time her entire body began to tremble.

The kitchen was in disarray. A flower vase was shattered on the floor. Crushed pink carnations were scattered everywhere. Photos and takeaway menus had been knocked off the fridge.

Jimmy was sitting on the table, a neglected cigarette burning in the ashtray, and an unfinished glass of whiskey was beside him. Dessie was in a chair in the center of the room. His arms were twisted behind him; his wrists secure with a zip tie. His ankles were duct-taped to the legs of the chair.

When Dessie ruefully looked up at Catherine, the breath lodged in her throat at the sight of his face. On his left cheek, there was a cut so deep, the skin was flapping. The flesh surrounding it was puffy, with slight discoloration was already forming below his eye. Spotting the gun on the table, Catherine guessed Jimmy only managed to overpower Dessie by pistol-whipping him.

"Sit down," Jimmy ordered, kicking out a chair from the table.

Catherine kept her eyes fixated on Dessie. Despite the thunderous storm of anxiety and indignation raging within, he knew he had to keep cool. Catherine wasn't the type to be collected when shit hit the fan. She was responsive; she fed off other people's energy. Dessie needed her to stay calm and he knew she'd crack if he did, too.

"It's okay, Catherine," Dessie said gently.

The moment her name left his mouth, Jimmy jumped up from the table, punching Dessie in the nose. It was reprisal from the night Dessie beat Jimmy.

Catherine became hysterical the second and third time Jimmy popped him. On the fourth, she shouted at him to stop, darting forward and grabbing his wrist. Jimmy turned around, placing his hands on her shoulders. The fear of God instantly enveloped her when she saw the bloodthirsty flare in his eyes.

Dessie had been around enough death in his forty-two years of life to know what the ominous aura clinging heavily in the air meant. He prayed to God Jimmy would at least have the decency to tip off the police so Brien and the boys wouldn't walk in to find their beaten, mutilated bodies in the morning. He also prayed for his demise to come first, and for Catherine's to be quick. The thought of her enduring hours of purposefully drawn-out torture made him sick.

"You thought you could outsmart me, huh?" Jimmy snarled as he smacked Catherine across the head. "You're a foolish cunt if you think you can steal my contact and my guns and get away with it!"

Catherine's eyes went wide, the color draining from her face. How did he find out? They had been so careful not to leave any trace of it being them. The two Russian shipments they managed to take, they had one sent through Dublin and the other through Fenit in County Kerry.

He struck her again. And again. And again. She started walking backward to get away from him, but she stupidly only ended up cornering herself.

Dessie watched helplessly, his face bloodied, as Catherine put her arms up to defend herself against the sting of Jimmy's blows. He grew more and more agitated over his inability to do anything. He thrashed, twisting his wrists to break free of the zip tie, but that only made it bite painfully into his wrists.

"I didn't steal shite from you, because Misha was never your contact. He's mine!"

Jimmy forced Catherine into the chair he kicked out earlier. He placed his hand on the table, the other on the back of the chair. This move boxed her in and obstructed Dessie's view of her.

"I found him, I flew to Moscow, I negotiated the deal!"

Catherine couldn't believe just how delusional Jimmy was. He truly believed his web of deceitful lies was reality. All she could do was shake her head.

"You know that's not true," she said. "I did all the leg work, and you came to Moscow with me only to step in, in case the deal started to fall apart. The only reason you're half as cross as you are is because you're embarrassed, Jimmy. You look like a fuckin' fool for losin' those shipments."

Dessie saw Jimmy raise his hand, and he yelled at him not to touch her. When he heard Catherine shriek along with the sharp crack of his fist colliding with her face, Dessie screamed at the top of his lungs.

Jimmy grabbed the collar of her cardigan. "Where are my guns, Catherine?"

"I've no idea! It wasn't me and Dessie who took 'em!" Her voice was shaky and lace with fear.

His voice grew louder. "Where are my guns?"

"I don't know!"

"Where are my-"

"I don't fuckin' know!" she screamed, tears streaming down her cheeks, stinging the laceration below her eye as they mixed with the blood pouring from the wound.

Her heart was pounding so hard Catherine was sure all of Belfast could hear it. She fixed her gaze upon his, refusing to break. She wouldn't allow him to terrorize her as he once had been able to. Instead of giving in to the beatings, Catherine was determined to fight until her last breath. As far as she was concerned, Jimmy was not walking out of her house knowing the location of the guns she and Dessie risked everything for.

"Fine," Jimmy said, raising his eyebrows. "I see that's how you wanna play it."

Letting go of Catherine's sweater, he pulled a utility knife out of his pocket as he started walking to Dessie. Lunging forward, she grabbed the back of his shirt and yanked.

"You leave him alone!"

More annoyed than anything, Jimmy reached back and grabbed Catherine by the forearm. Turning around, he shoved her to the ground. She fell hard onto the tile floor, choking back tears as a piercing pain shot up through her tailbone.

Seeing her go down like a ton of bricks sparked a white-hot anger Dessie never knew he was capable of. His face turned a deep red and the veins in his neck bulged. Burning hot tears exploded from his eyes.

"I swear to God, motherfucker, if you put another fuckin' hand on her and hurt her, I will gut you like a fish!"

Jimmy only chuckled. He rounded behind Dessie and grabbed a fistful of hair to pull his head back slightly. Retracting the blade from the utility knife, Jimmy looked at Catherine, who was still sitting on the floor.

"How about I give this piece of shite a wee Glasgow smile? Just like that deadbeat uncle of yours."

He placed the tip of the blade on the corner of Dessie's mouth.

Feeling the cool metal against his warm flesh, Dessie had to talk himself down. He hadn't felt this kind of terror since he was sixteen and a British soldier shoved the barrel of a rifle into his mouth, cracking his front tooth. This wasn't how it ends, Dessie told himself. He didn't make this far to be taken out by Jimmy O'Phelan.

"Please don't hurt him, Jimmy!" she begged. "Please, please, please, don't hurt him!"

"Tell me where my guns are."

Catherine never felt so weak in her life. She told herself not to give in to Jimmy, but that was before he was holding a knife to Dessie's face. All she could think to do was protect him.

"If I tell you," she hiccupped, "promise you won't hurt him?"

"Don't. Don't you dare, Catherine! You don't say a goddamn word to him!" Dessie knew it would all be over for her, for him, for the rest of Óglaigh na hÉireann if she told.

"God only knows what he gonna do to you if I-"

"Look at me," Dessie told her. Her bloodshot, bloated eyes met his. "I've always promised you everythin'll be okay, and for that to happen, you cannot tell him a single thing. No matter what happens to me, you stay strong." It made him start to cry, watching her break down. "You're so fuckin' strong, Catherine…you're gonna be okay."

He wanted to remind her how much he loves her, but Dessie wasn't ready for the goodbye just yet.

"Catherine," Jimmy got her attention. "Where are my guns? You tell me where they are, I promise I won't hurt him."

Her eyes didn't move from Dessie's as she spoke. "…I don't know."

Without warning, Jimmy sliced deep into Dessie's right cheek. As the blade dragged in a straight line, his ivory flesh burst open. Rich red blood flooded down his jaw and neck, soaking the collar of his shirt only after Jimmy finished.

Dessie's adrenaline was running so high from seeing Catherine pushed to the ground, it took him a second or two to even realize what even happened. He had barely felt a thing, except for the burning sting. It wasn't until he heard Catherine's bloodcurdling scream did it overwhelmingly throb.

His hand still gripping Dessie's hair at the roots, Jimmy tilted his head to the side and placed the blade on the other cheek and started to slice again.

Catherine knew it was a stupid move, but once she got back up on her feet, she reached for the blade. As her hand closed around it, it cut her fingers. "Stop, Jimmy!"

She only managed to wrestle it out of Jimmy's hand because he hadn't expected her to reach for the knife. There was a quick struggle as he fought to get it back, but when it fell on the floor she kicked it under the refrigerator.

As she turned around to go for the block on the counter where she kept the steak knives, Jimmy reached out and grabbed the bun coming loose from the elastic. He yanked back, making her lose her footing for a second. Rag-dolling Catherine, he smashed her face into the corner of the doorway.

Disoriented, Catherine stopped fighting back when he slammed her back against the wall. His fingers clamped down on the pressure points in her neck, severely decreasing her oxygen supply. She blinked slowly, seeing stars floating around Jimmy's head, and the pressure building behind her eyes.

"Where are my guns, Dessie?" Jimmy demanded. He was changing tactics.

"Fuck you," he spat.

The harder Jimmy pressed on Catherine's neck, the haunting sound of her choking for every breath became louder.

Dessie squeezed his eyes shut, again twisting his ankles to try and break the tape. The zip tie was cutting so badly into his wrists his hands were tingling with numbness. When he opened his eyes, that's when he saw it.

He called out, "Bord."

Catherine and Jimmy looked to the table at the same time. That's when the scramble began. Jimmy dropped his hands from her neck, but she had the advantage. She kneed him hard in the groin, pushing him away and grabbing the pistol.

Her hands were so shaky she didn't trust her ability to aim. The last thing she needed was to shoot at him and miss. That would only piss him off, even more, then give him time to wrestle the piece out of her hands.

Tightly gripping the barrel, Catherine swung as hard as she should. The heavy butt collided with his soft temple. She swung again, and he hit the floor, out cold.

Not wasting a second, she tucked the pistol into her waistband while stepping over his unconscious body. From the knife block, she grabbed one before dashing over to Dessie to cut him free.

Pulling the dishtowel off the handle of the oven, she balled it up and pressed it to the worst of his cuts.

"We gotta get the boys," he said, holding the bloodied towel.

Catherine nodded, prepared for exactly this. She bolted up the stairs for the two athletic bags under her bed, which were packed and ready to go.