"We all live in a house on fire, no fire department to call; no way out, just the upstairs window to look out of while the fire burns the house down with us trapped, locked in it."

- Tennessee Williams


"We have to reach out to Filip," said Catherine, dropping her phone in her lap. "Maybe he can help us make amends with Clay."

Drumming his fingers on the table, Jimmy furrowed his brow and pursed his lips. From the corner of his eye, he could see Catherine preoccupied with texting. He didn't want to say anything about the distraction, afraid if he did, she'd take it far more personal than he meant and storm off. Trying to straighten out this cluster fuck, a disgruntled Catherine was the last goddamn thing he needed.

Cameron glared at Catherine. "No. We have a deal with the Aryans that'll keep us flush until Dessie makes up his bloody mind. There's no reason for us to be rushing back to Samcro when they have an ATF tail."

"Bonafede Nazis — that's a bad fucking look for us. Having the Ra attached to that lot will sink our reputation. We can deal with the feds; this isn't the first time we've had to work around 'em."

"What a fucking joke you are. Selling AKs to the Taliban, that's okay. But selling to Nazis, that's where you draw the line."

Catherine was sitting on the tabletop of the booth Jimmy occupied. He watched her glance at him, as if asking for help, though she well enough knew he wasn't in any hurry to come to her defense. In their line of business, Jimmy considered himself an equal opportunist. There were no qualms on his end about selling Communist produced hardware to Fascists, because he didn't have the time to give a shit about either of the obtuse ideologies. He had the heavy burden of his own cause resting on his shoulders.

Her arbitrary moral compass made no sense to Jimmy, and it was exhausting trying to figure out what she deemed acceptable from one day to the next. During marching season, Jimmy's watched Catherine incite a riot or two in North Belfast mere hours after insisting they keep the peace. Without even batting an eye she's purchased cheap cellphones from Tesco which would ultimately detonate a car bomb after telling him she doesn't want to be part of this anymore.

Now wasn't the time for Jimmy to call out her self-righteous code of ethics. Not when they needed to dump the last eight dozen AKs before heading back to Northern Ireland, and they were running out of time.

Much to Jimmy's dismay, he had no control over where the guns went because ONH oversaw their movements. If Catherine—an army council member—said no to the neo-Nazis, then it was a no from him, too. He couldn't bring himself to undermine her position. He respected Catherine too much to show such blatant disrespect, nor did he take kindly to hearing a foot soldier speak so horridly to her.

Cameron's loose mouth was an issue for him to handle on another day.

Jimmy pinched the bridge of his nose as Catherine defended herself to Cameron, who was sitting at the bar across from them nursing a bottled beer.

"You know what, Cammy? Giving youse the guns was a bleedin' favor. Keep talking to me like that and see where it gets you and the rest of the lads. You pricks are becoming so incompetent, it's a matter of time before you're running back to me and Dessie to pull your arses out'o another jamb."

"Oh, go fuc—"

Jimmy had enough. He brought his hand down hard onto the table, startling both Catherine and Cameron. He was done playing referee between the two. The thought of leaving her at the safe house was worrying him not because of the threat of being busted by the ATF. It would be too easy for Cameron to shoot her and then make it look like an accident.

"The deal with the skinheads—it's over," Jimmy ordered. "I've already got the Kings so far up me arse about it, they'll go mad if I don't at least try to fix this shite with the Sons." He pointed to Catherine, then bounced the outstretched finger to Cameron. "And whatever the fuck is going on between youse, it ends right now! How are we supposed to get anything done when you lot are at each other's bloody throats?"

From the corner of his eye, Jimmy could see Catherine drop her head. Her cheeks burned hotter than an August bonfire in Derry, and he knew she would not give him the satisfaction of seeing how him calling out her childish behavior embarrassed her.

A thick tension grew between the three of them, and it was almost suffocating. Neither Catherine nor Cameron verbally acknowledged the warning, though Cameron bobbed his head while taking a pull from his beer to show he understood. Catherine played with the dangling lace of her boot. She didn't need to say a word for Jimmy to know he'd been loud and clear.

When her phone vibrated to life in her lap, Catherine jumped to her feet.

"I have to take this," she said, heading towards the front door of the pub.

Jimmy saw Dessie's name splashed across the screen. He didn't know he gave her the impression this was the time for personal phone calls. "Where the fuck are you going?"

Catherine stopped in her tracks, spinning around. "Relax. Eamonn wants to talk. Make the call to Filip, or I will."

As Catherine went outside, Jimmy sprang out of the booth and followed her. It had been almost a month since he's last seen his son. The chance of at least hearing Eamonn's voice wasn't a chance he wanted to let slip through his fingers. Jimmy's been so tightly wound in the scant hours since they got back from Vegas, he could only hope this would sooth his raw nerves.

Out on the quiet sidewalk, he found Catherine leaning against the brick exterior wall of the pub. He took out the pack of Marlboro Lights from his pocket, lighting a cigarette, and hanging back for a few minutes so mother and son could have a moment.

Jimmy hadn't figured out yet how Catherine did it—how she put so many miles between herself and the boys and still somehow stayed so focused. For the first two years after Eamonn was born and he and Catherine were on the outs, he'd been a wreck. Unable to focus much on his work, wondering if Catherine would come around and let him meet his son. When no such opportunity seemed to be on the horizon, it destroyed him. So, Jimmy did the one thing he knew how to do best, and that was to convince himself neither Catherine nor Eamonn meant anything to him.

Even after Darragh was in the ground, it took Jimmy two months to go to her house in Andersontown. Partly because he was in Albania, smoothing out a snag in their ammunition shipment. Mostly it was because he wasn't sure how to face Catherine with so much guilt hanging over his head.

While there hadn't been that initial spark of father/son bonding that Jimmy had been expecting the first time he held Eamonn, he felt it the second time around, when Catherine was in the Markets. It was game-over from that moment on. There were only two people in this world whom had Jimmy twisted around their fingers: Catherine and Eamonn. Though, even he'd admit it was his son who had him wound a little more.

Once he finished smoking his cigarette, Jimmy flicked it into the street. He strolled over to Catherine, who surprised him by wrapping an arm around his side.

She put the call on speaker.

"Eamonn," Catherine smiled, "guess who I'm with right now?"

"I dunno… who?"

Jimmy's heart fell into his stomach. He could hear the hint of thick strain in Eamonn's voice that happened only after he'd been crying. And then it was like a kick to the gut to see how the iPhone was jittering in Catherine's hand; this call was only making her upset.

He took the phone from her, then reached into his pocket for the pack of smokes and slapped them into her palm. Nudging his chin, telling her to fuck off for a minute, Jimmy cleared his throat.

"How are ya, Eamonn?" he asked.

"Daddy!" The sharp excitement in Eamonn's voice was a knife to the chest for Jimmy. "I miss you."

Glancing to his left, Jimmy saw Catherine sitting on the curb staring back at him as she smoked. Even though there was a blinding bright smile on her face, she wiped the tears off of her cheek.

He almost choked on the lump in his throat. The hot sting of tears brimming his eyes made Jimmy turn his back to Catherine.

"I miss you, too. What've you been up to?"

As Eamonn rambled about all the swimming, fishing, and playing he's occupied his hours with, Jimmy held on to every word. He closed his eyes, thinking back to the summer days he and Catherine would take Eamonn and Sean to Templetown Beach. They'd tucker the boys out swimming, and then when Eamonn and Sean were building castles in the sand, they'd splash in the cool water like two lascivious teenagers.

Jimmy missed those days. He wished it was the four of them again; he missed his family. Having to hear about the fun he was having with Dessie at Lough Ross in Crossmaglen rubbed every single one of his nerves raw, and he was reeling in annoyance, though Jimmy didn't have the heart to tell his son he didn't care about what Dessie did with them.

Not much longer, he told himself.

Not much longer until the five of them could be together, and he'd even give Catherine the daughter she's been longing for.

"Are you all ready to start school? Did your gran take ya to get your uniform yet?"

"She did. Are you and Mummy gonna be home before I start? You promised you would."

The boy knew how to lay it on thick. Like his mother—go figure.

Jimmy pressed the heel of his palm to his eye. There was only a week left until school started for the term, and it was hard to tell whether getting back home in time would be possible. He'd forgotten about said promise when he arranged to meet with a contact in Chicago at the end of next week, and he wanted to bring Catherine.

He decided he'd cancel. Fly the American plastic paddy's out to Dublin over St. Patrick's Day instead. He could wait six months. They'd eat that shit up like the sweetest candy in existence, and he wouldn't have the nagging worry of Catherine's immigration status being discovered, nor would he disappoint Eamonn.

Plus, there was no way Jimmy could forgive himself if Catherine missed Eamonn's first day.

"Yup; I promise both your ma and I'll be there." Jimmy looked at his watch. It was almost midnight back in Northern Ireland, and he still needed to figure out what he was doing with the last batches of AKs. "It's late, so you need to be gettin' to bed." It took everything Jimmy had to force out the next words. "Be good for Dessie, yeah. I'll be home before you know it. I love ya, Eamonn; goodnight."

"I love you, too, Daddy."

Pressing that red button to end the call was one of the hardest things Jimmy's done. Once the home screen appeared, showing off a photo of Dessie holding Danny with Eamonn and Sean on either side of him, Jimmy locked it.

The iPhone clenched in his hand, Jimmy walked to the curb and took a seat beside Catherine. She took the phone from him as she crushed her cigarette on the street, then rested her head on his arm.

"It never gets easier," she said. "The moment you think it will, that's when it hits ya like a ton of bricks. Hearing their wee voices only does so much."

Jimmy nudged her head off of him so he could sling his arm over her shoulders. She moved closer to him and he kissed her temple, taking in the subtle sweet fragrance of her honey and almond shampoo. It reminded him of home. Of those rare special nights when the boys were with her parents or one of her brothers, and he'd take her to dinner, and after he walked her to her door, she'd slyly ask if he wanted to come in for a scotch which he knew was her bashful way of asking him to stay over.

Simpler times. Better days.

"I'll reach out to the Germans and see what I can do to get you home. Get ya outta here in the next couple'o days."

Catherine wrapped her arms around side, curling her fingers into his jacket. "I don't wanna go without you."

"Not gonna happen, a chuisle." Reaching over his lap, Jimmy placed his hand on her thigh, slipping it under her dress. He made random shapes along her soft skin. "I've got a commercial flight back to Dublin. But if things with Dessie are still shite when I get back, I'll rent a wee flat in Cross for you and the boys until Eamonn and Sean are done with school. Then you can move back to Belfast; I'll get the number of the brilliant solicitor Donny used when him and his wife divorced."

Pushing his hand out from under her dress, Catherine also pushed his arm off her shoulder. Jimmy was trying to figure out how he said something wrong. Her eye-roll didn't go unnoticed as she picked up the pack of Marlboros and lit a cigarette.

"I'm not having this conversation with you." The cigarette bounced between her lips.

Jimmy scrubbed his hands over his face.

"He's not gonna change. Men like him don't change, and you know that. He'll keep doing it; every time you catch him, he'll only deny it. Sean and Danny… I can love 'em as if they were my blood. I swear to ya, I can."

"Jimmy—" her voice was white hot, a tone he'd never heard from her before, and chills shot down his spine. When she looked at him, her eyes were so dark, it was as if she'd been possessed. "I'm not having this conversation with you. The only thing you need to be focused on is getting Filip here so I can fix this fucking mess you and Dessie made behind my goddamn back."

He plunked the cigarette from her fingers, taking a deep drag from it. As he blew out a cloud of smoke, he kept his lips in a tight line to keep the smile down. She was losing her edge — right where he wanted her. He just needed to push a little more, and she'd break, come crawling back.

She always came crawling back.

Flicking the cigarette into the street, Jimmy stood up.

"I'll have Fi reach out to Filip." He crouched down behind her, startling her when he tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. He grabbed her neck, his fingers digging into her soft throat. Catherine reached behind her, taking hold of the lapels of his jacket. "The Sons get their hardware, but that means the skinheads get the other four dozen. Do I make myself clear?"

He couldn't have her thinking she could boss him around. No fucking way would he put himself at the mercy of Catherine O'Toole. He crafted her, molded her — he could bring her down just as fast as he rose her up.

Sometimes she needed a reminder.

Catherine nodded, and Jimmy released his hand from her neck.

"Grand. I'm so glad you're willing to work with me on this, a chuisle."

Jimmy kissed her cheek, then headed back inside to call Fiona.


Hearing the heavy door close behind Jimmy, Catherine covered her face with shaking hands.

She bit her bottom lip to keep the scream from escaping as scorching tears slid down her cheeks. A cool breeze blew through her hair, whisking away the sweat on the back of her neck, though it did nothing to extinguish the boiling anger in her blood.

It took every ounce of self-control she had not to run after Jimmy and explode on him. She wanted nothing more than to remind him he wasn't her puppet master anymore. Where those guns went was her decision. She shed the blood, sweat, and tears it took to earn her position on the ONH council, and all it did was make her feel like a fool for not putting up a big enough fight on ending the deal with the neo-Nazis.

The entire shipment was rightfully the Sons. Those other deals falling through were all the confirmation she needed that going against the Kings would only end badly for them. ONH was already in their bad graces by taking Misha and claiming territory that once belonged to the True army, she didn't have the energy to fight in some stupid fucking gang-war, which was nothing more than Dessie trying to prove his cock was bigger than theirs.

Completely dismantling the True army was never her intention. All Catherine wanted was to see the Kings pay for their role in Darragh's death, but after what's happened over the last several months, she knew Dessie wouldn't be satisfied with that. The deep, puffy pink scar on his cheek was his kryptonite now. He'd never come right out and admit it, but Catherine knew him enough to understand he would never stop until he had control of what was theirs — what was Jimmy's.

She also knew Jimmy enough to understand he wouldn't go down without a fight. A long, tiresome, expensive, bloody fight that would cost them more than Jimmy would ever suffer. Jimmy planted such deep roots in Belfast, taken care of so many issues the police would never bat an eye to in their community, ONH would never garner the trust and support they'd need to take over, and that was a fact Dessie was disastrously blind to.

Sniffling, Catherine wiped her eyes. She had to pull herself together before any of the guys saw she was upset. God forbid she felt something.

Her phone started buzzing again on the pavement beside her. Catherine's heart leapt out of her chest, not because it startled her, but because there's a small piece of her that was hoping it was Dessie calling for them to work out the gratuitous bullshit they were putting one another through.

Picking up the phone, her stomach dropped when she realized it wasn't him. Stretched across the screen of her personal phone was a number she'd never seen before. A local number, at that. For a moment, she thought about letting it go to voicemail. Unsure of whether the PSNI or MI5 had this phone bugged, she was weary of answering calls from people she didn't know. She pushed those worrisome thoughts to the back of her head, giving in to her intuition and answering.

"So, you're in town and I had to hear it from Filip, of all people?"

Catherine's jaw dropped into her lap when her brain registered the Belfast brawl on the line.

Liam.

"I—I was gonna call you, but I had to head out of town for a bit to take care of some things," she lied.

Catherine never intended on calling him. It was better for them both if she ignored his existence.

"Right." At the flat tone in his voice, Catherine winced. He wasn't convinced. "Look, I won't waste your time with bullshit because I know you're a hot commodity these days. I was wondering if you'd meet for a bite. I miss you, Catherine. But I understand if you tell me to go fuck myself."

Staring down, Catherine played with the hem of her dress. She tried the best she could to make sense of the whirlwind of thoughts and emotions. Her head was in such a frenzied storm it left her dizzy and short of breath. Her eyelashes — heavy with caked mascara — fluttered. What Liam had done was still at the forefront of her brain, and no matter what Catherine did, there was no shaking the liquid indignation her heart pumped.

She hated him. Or so she thought.

Because for reasons she couldn't comprehend, hearing her brother's feathery voice prickled her skin with goosebumps. A soft wave of comfort held her tight. When she was around Liam, Catherine knew she was always going to be okay. He did what any good older brother would do: he picked her up when she fell and kissed the bleeding scrapes left behind.

If he wanted to see her, then she at least owed him that.

Besides, Catherine realized how stupid it was that she was depriving herself from one of the few sources of genuine human connection in her life over the fear of being found out by the Kings.

"Since when do you give a shite about what the bloody Kings have to say?" she remembered Patrick once told her.

Never. She never has. And that was precisely why Catherine was already half submerged in their cauldron of scalding water. Seeing Liam wasn't the worst thing she could do.

"Go fuck yourself," she said. Her light-hearted tone etched the way for Liam's full-belly laugh, which Catherine couldn't help herself from smiling at. Her soul wept at the realization of how his laughter sounded like Patrick's. "I'd like that, Liam. I would. But we can't do it here."

"I figured as much. There's this wee place, Black Bear, in Modesto. It's an hour outside of Lodi, so there shouldn't be any eyes around."

"That's if Jimmy doesn't put his lap-dog on me to keep tabs."

Liam laughed again, and Catherine squeezed her eyes shut to force the tears back. God, she missed him. He mused, "Moran?"

"Aye. But if he tries to come with me, I'll just say I'm heading out for tampons. That'll get the pudgy bastard off me back. What time?"

"I get off work at five, but I've gotta pick up Erin from volleyball after, so we'll shoot for eight?"

"Brilliant. I'll be there." They were wrapping up their conversation with goodbyes when Catherine interrupted him. "—Hey Liam… thank you… for — for reaching out." The line was silent and Catherine worried the call dropped. "Liam?"

She heard him sniffle.

"Eight o'clock. And let me know if you run into trouble."


There were a million and one questions sitting on Chibs' tongue as he drove the local route to Oakland.

They tasted sour, though the last thing he wanted to do was swallow them and make his heart bitter. He needed to spit them out. He needed to get the truth out of Fiona, know that his daughter was okay and not just surviving.

Like her and Catherine.

When he'd gotten the edgy, vague phone call from his estranged wife telling him they needed to meet — and they needed to meet now — it left him fuzzy from the anxiety. He never got this fidgety. He'd learned early on how to handle the un-welcomed jitters, but ever since the accident, he's been more on edge than usual.

Breaking free of his distracting thoughts, Chibs slammed on the breaks. He avoided careening into a Ford sedan. Chibs' blood boiled, and it had nothing to do with the act of getting cut off in the intersection itself. He'd been in America long enough to recognize an unmarked, undercover cop car when he saw one.

Shoving the gearshift into park, Chibs killed the engine. He jumped out of the black van, juiced. His nerves were already shot from thinking about Fiona, Kerrianne, Catherine, Jimmy — he was itching for a fight.

Too bad for him two male federal agents were faster. Not because his reflexes had gone to shit. They'd just caught him off guard is all. With his arms twisted in the all too familiar way behind his back, Chibs spat a flurry of choice words at them before they shoved him onto the hood of the sedan.

"Whoa, whoa—" That husky female voice infected him like a cancer. Chibs' blood turned from lava to ice in a split second. "Keep clear of his head."

What the fuck did she care, he wondered. Chibs was half-surprised she didn't throw him on the ground and stomp on the soft spot he'd been gifted with after the bombing, a courtesy of all the shit his club has put her through.

When the wimpy agents let him go, Chibs straightened out. Coming face-to-face with Special Agent June Stahl was the cherry on top of his soured day. He looked over her head, now noticing the blacked out SUV parked behind the van. Six agents in total were surrounding him.

"You've got a warrant?"

Stahl put her hands up, as if she were trying to appear nonthreatening. He saw right through her facade. She was just as slimy and conniving as Jimmy.

Not to be trusted.

"It's not that kind of traffic stop."

Chibs pulled his kutte taut, tonguing the inside of his cheek as he tried to gauge the other agents. They all pushed their cheap suit jackets back, making the pistols on their hips obvious.

"What do you want?"

"Not so much as what, but who." She cocked her eyebrows. "Catherine O'Toole."

A throaty, cutting cackle escaped Chibs. Was this bitch serious? Did she think he'd hand Catherine over to her on a silver platter?

When his laughter died, he wiped a faux tear from his eye. "Sorry love; never heard that name in me life."

Stahl pursed her lips into a thin, tight line. She put her hands on her hips for a moment, then out-stretched one behind her. An agent plopped a manilla folder into her open palm, and Stahl pulled out a surveillance photo, holding it up in front of Chibs.

He swallowed hard.

It was a photo of him and Catherine sitting on the dingy stairwell of a motel in Oakland. They were sharing a joint. He remembered every detail of the painful conversation he and his niece had that night.

"Where'd you get those?"

"The FBI. Who got them from MI6 by request of MI5." Stahl tucked the glossy photo back into the folder, then took out another. "This was taken by one of our agents three days ago in Las Vegas."

Chibs clenched this jaw. It was Catherine in a casino at some table game. Jimmy stood behind her, his hands on her hips.

Oh, Catherine, no.

Now Chibs felt like a trapped animal. With the evidence staring him right in the face, there was no getting Catherine out of this mess. Didn't mean he wouldn't try.

"If this is about getting to Jimmy, she won't be much use to you."

Stahl shoved the folder into another agent's hands. "I beg to differ. I know they're back together and I know you'd just hate to see her pop out another one of his offspring. But I've seen the photos, and even I hate to admit they made a cute kid. What's your great-nephew's name?" She snapped her fingers. "Patrick — that's it. Patrick Eamonn. A little too mick for my taste, but to each their own."

Chibs was ready to rip her goddamn head off. She was playing him like an instrument, knowing what strings to pluck to entice a reaction from him. He wouldn't give her the pleasure of such a thing; not when she got off on that shit.

"Wherever you got your information from, it's wrong. They're not back together. Haven't been since she was up the duff with the wee boy."

"I really didn't want to do this," she groaned.

Reaching into her pocket, Stahl produced a handheld tape recorder. With a slender, boney thumb, she pressed the button on the side to play the audio recording.

It started off a little fuzzy, like television static, so Chibs had to strain his hearing.

There was some jostling around, and then it hit him like a freight train at full speed. The breath was knocked out of his lungs.

He heard breathless, whimpering moans of a woman. The animalistic grunts of a man. The undeniable, tasteless, gross echo of skin slapping.

"How am I doin' now? Still not enough for you?"

Jimmy's voice, full of gravel and dripping with a burning lewdness, slapped Chibs across the face.

"Ohh… fuuck. That's it, right there."

"Tell me who owns your sweet pussy."

"You do. My pussy is all yours."

The sound of Catherine's silken, silvery voice made her sound far more innocent than she was.

"I'm gonna cum, Jimmy… I'm so—"

Chibs tasted the acidic bile frying the back of his throat.

Stahl stopped the recording.

Despite his stoic appearance, Chibs' eyes gave away what he was feeling.

"We recorded this earlier in the morning. Before you made your unannounced visit at the surplus store," she taunted.

Inside, a bubble burst. He filled with a rage he's never experienced before. An all too consuming, totally inconvenient rage that was like being struck by lightening over and over.

She lied to him.

She fucking lied to him.

Catherine sat only three feet from his hospital bed and told him she was done with Jimmy.

And to make it worse, it happened right under his nose. Never in his life had Chibs felt like such a blind, suckered fool.

To make matters worse, this was not how he wanted to learn the store was bugged. He was on tape too, admitting to being in bed with Jimmy's crew.

The personal gripes Stahl was orchestrating between him and Catherine, Chibs would handle on his own terms. Throwing Catherine to the wolves of the ATF wasn't even an option to Chibs. He wouldn't even do that to Jimmy. That just wasn't who he is. Nothing excused ratting.

"I have no idea where she is. We're not exactly close," he said.

His answer seemed to pacify Stahl. For now.

Tucking the tape recorder back into her pocket, she pulled out her business card. A smirk that chilled Chibs to the bone was plastered onto her face.

"We both know how he prefers his women — young, beautiful, and with Telford blood. Before he goes after your daughter, I suggest you call me."

Chibs exhaled, watching Stahl and her goons head back to their vehicles. Sitting there in the front pocket of his kutte, the card was a heavy weight on his chest.