To Emily's great relief, Ian's idea of "getting out of here" entailed going to a different, much nicer bar down the street. She knew what would be required of her sooner rather than later, but she didn't feel ready to go to bed with Ian. And there was a very good practical reason not to anyway. She needed Ian to see her as a long-term option, someone he could get close to. Best to avoid the risk of being a one-night stand. That wouldn't do her any good.

They barely acknowledged Fahey on their way out.

"Hey, where you kids off to?" he asked, trying to sound unbothered, but with the unmistakable air of a little brother feeling left out of the fun.

"I'll be back," Doyle replied gruffly. "Put the lady's drinks on my tab."

Ian and Emily left the Black Shamrock and entered a chilly but clear Boston evening.

"Fahey looked put out," Emily observed.

"Fahey's pathetic and that place is a dump," Ian said dismissively. "This is more to my liking."

Ian held open the door for Emily to enter a place called "The Harbor" which turned out to be a much nicer bar. It was clean and minimalist, with a large bar in the found and a series of private booths along the side. It had an expensive air.

"Private table," Ian semi-asked, but mostly demanded, of the maître d'.

"Of course, Sir," the man complied.

There was an unmistakable attractiveness to Ian, Emily thought. He had the alluring assuredness of a man who was used to getting what he wanted. But there was more underneath that was far less attractive. A lurking menace about what might happen when he didn't.

Ian and Emily were escorted to one of the private booths. Noting her surroundings, Emily recognized they were among few in the private area, but they weren't totally alone. That was reassuring.

"We'll split a bottle of Macallan," he ordered, to the trailing waiter.

Emily noticed he didn't ask what she wanted, just assumed she'd be impressed by his order for her. Noted.

"Bit of an upgrade from the Shamrock," Emily observed, seating herself across from Ian.

"Like I said, that place is a dump. I did my time on the rough streets. Time to enjoy the finer things."

So Doyle may have been an IRA brawler in the day, but with money he was growing expensive tastes. Again, noted.

"So why go there? Why bother with Fahey?" Emily challenged. She was being playful, but Ian's response was serious.

"It was hard to find friends during the Troubles," he said. "The Boston Irish were good to us. I don't forget."

Loyalty came even above the newfound expensive tastes. Yet again, noted.

"But," Ian continued, "they aren't exactly my best customers. I hear you can take them off my hands."

"I can," Emily said confidently.

Ian examined her thoughtfully, sipping his Macallan.

"Where do you come from, Lauren?" he asked, his tone one of gentle interrogation.

"Belgium by way of Virginia," Emily lied, easily.

"Interesting combination," Ian observed.

"My dad got around. In the arms business" Emily continued. "The legitimate arms business."

"And you?" Ian pressed.

"I learned that the word legitimate was a thin veneer of bullshit that allowed him to sleep at night," Emily continued, casually raising criticisms she didn't believe against a father she never had. "People live and die the same. It's just money. Why pretend any differently?"

Ian bought the lie. Hook, line, and sinker.

"That it is," he agreed, inclining his whiskey glass toward her slightly. "You married?"

"I'm not really the marrying type," she answered swiftly.

"No little ones, I take it then?"

"Oh no."

"Hmmm," he hummed. For the first time, Emily sensed a shadow of hesitation. "So what do you want in life, Lauren Reynolds?"

Emily audibled.

"I'm trying to figure that out," she answered. "But I know I want in. I want in this business. I know it. And I know it without my father's cheap scruples."

"I'll give you Fahey and the Boston people," Ian allowed. "They're more of a pain to me anyway. But perhaps I can interest you in more? Boston is an awfully small pool. Maybe you're interested in a more sophisticated clientele. Or at least some that pay a little better."

"I'm all ears," Emily said.

"It could be more than business," Ian suggested, broaching the unspoken subject between them for the first time. "I'm staying at a hotel nearby."

Emily hesitated, but stuck to her gut.

"I'm not a first date kind of girl," she said, trying to sound flirty but firm. "I don't care how expensive these drinks are."

Ian considered her.

"Alright," he said. "I can respect that."

"But next time," he added. Emily understood that wasn't an invitation, but a demand barely cloaked in subtlety.

"Sure," she allowed, cloaking her gut-level reluctance. "When?"

"Saturday. Meet me at the Shamrock at 8. We can finish your deal with Fahey's people. And then maybe"

"Christ, where have you been," Clyde demanded immediately upon answering the phone.

"Working," Emily answered, impatiently, visually scanning the street below her hotel room from the thinnest slit in the blinds. Doyle seemed the sort who might have a new person of interest tailed. Sure enough, there was a tall, somewhat overweight man lingering just too-obviously in the shadows of the streetlamp.

"And I'm not totally alone," she added.

"What do you mean?" Sean asked, much more calmly than Clyde.

"There's someone down in the street."

"You didn't tell Doyle where you were staying?" Clyde interjected.

"Of course I did," Emily corrected him.

"Why? How could you be so stupid?" Clyde nearly spat into the phone.

"I'd be stupid not to tell him the truth," Emily countered. "I knew he'd have me followed. He's the type. If I lied to him, he'd know and then I'd be dead in the water."

"I didn't tell him what room I was in," she went on to assure Clyde. "And I can tell you, nobody's been in here."

Emily had learned early in her agency training how to subtly arrange her home or room to tell if anything had been disturbed. She was certain nobody—whether housecleaning or a Doyle crony—had been in her room that day.

"Alright," Sean interjected. While Emily couldn't see the two men on the other side of the world, she could sense Sean cutting off further protest from Clyde as the hovered over the speaker phone in the JTF office. "So where do we stand? You met with Doyle?"

"You should be happy," Emily assured him. "I spent six, hours with him tonight, I'll meet him again tomorrow. And we're going to take over as suppliers to Boston. So you better have some more arms for me Clyde."

"That won't be a problem," Clyde assured her. "I can get whatever you need."

"Just make sure it can't get traced to us," Emily insisted. "I don't really want to be the star of some reporter's expose about how the U.S. government is arming the mob."

"Don't worry about it, darling," Clyde insisted. "Just keep doing what you're doing and I'll get you what you need. No one will be the wiser."

"Just keep us apprised," Sean said. "And don't forget to…"

"Be careful. Yeah, I know," Emily finished his thought. "I'll call you when I know more."

…..

For the third straight night, Emily was back in the dinginess of the Black Shamrock. On the clear Friday night, the crowd was much heavier than it had been the previous two nights. Emily had to squeeze through patrons to find her way to the bar, where she found a different bartender than the condescending prick who'd served her the last two evenings. This one was either a lot more tolerable than the other bartender or at least too slammed with orders to act like a jackass, because Emily received her whiskey without a side helping of snark.

The crowd size and the bartender weren't the only thing different about the bar that night. Instead of finding a table and waiting, Emily found someone already waiting for her. Three someones, to be exact. Crammed into a booth in the corner were Ian, Fahey, and a man Emily didn't recognize. At least, she didn't precisely recognize him. He looked like he could be the leader of a motorcycle club, with grayish greeneyes, a thick handlebar mustache, and thinning gray hair. Even seated, Emily could tell he was well over six feet tall and had a decent paunch. She strongly suspected she was looking at the man who had been lingering outside of her hotel the night before. The man sat next to Ian, with Fahey across the table.

"Lauren Reynolds," Ian said, offering the seat next to Fahey. "You already know Jack Fahey obviously. And this is Liam." Emily noticed that "Liam" didn't seem to come with a last name. And Emily wasn't going to ask.

"Pleasure," Emily said, extending he hand toward Liam.

"Aye," game a response in an Irish brogue almost as rough as the hand that shook hers. Liam seemed much more of a lurker than a talker.

Emily's next comment was a gamble, but a calculated one.

"But I'm not really meeting Liam for the first time, am I? You were outside of my hotel last night."

Liam did not like her comment one bit, shooting her a look of mixed anger and suspicion. But Liam wasn't Emily's target audience. Ian only half suppressed a smirk that revealed he was both impressed and amused.

"Can't be too careful, Lauren," Ian said. "Nothing personal."

"I never dreamed it was," Emily said, taking her seat. "It's business, I get it."

"Speaking of business," Fahey interjected, all too eagerly. Emily could tell l it was driving him crazy to play third wheel to their conversation.

"Right, sure," Ian said. "Jack and I have been talking and I've decided to bless your arrangement to be the new supplier to Boston."

"Very good," Emily said.

"I'm going to need the key to that storage shed you showed me," Fahey said greedily.

"And I'm going to need payment," Emily said, confidently. She wasn't worried about embarrassing Fahey. Ian found him insignificant, and now that she was taking over as supplier and had a direct line, Fahey needed her now far more than she needed him. The power dynamic between them had shifted in an instant."

"It's under the table," Ian assured her. Emily shifted her foot slightly. Sure enough, she felt a bag of some sort underneath.

"How do I know the money's all there?" she asked.

"Because I'm telling you it is. You don't trust me?" Ian said, studying her carefully.

Emily actually did believe him. And even if he was lying, keeping a good rapport with Ian was far more important than getting the money.

"Alright," Emily agreed, pulling the key to the storage locker from her coat pocket and sliding it to Fahey. "Leave the key in the return box when you're done. I won't use the same one again."

"I love it when a deal comes together," Fahey smirked, pocketing the key. "Guess I have some picking up to go do," he added, rising from the grimy table.

"Liam, go help him," Ian commanded.

"But," Liam protested.

"Go," Ian commanded again, more roughly. Liam did not protest a second time, and reluctantly trailed Fahey out of the bar.

"The money really is all there, Lauren," Ian assured her once they were rid of Fahey and Liam. "I made Fahey count it in front of me."

"I believe you," she assured him. "Thank you for arranging this.

"You really are doing me a favor taking Fahey off my hands," he said. "Anyway…I wanted to let you know. I'm leaving Boston tomorrow."

"That's too bad," Emily said, a bit suggestively.

"Maybe," Ian said. "But I still have tonight. Let's get out of here."

Emily knew this time he was talking about more than going to another bar.

Emily wasn't sure how she'd feel the first time going to bed with Ian. She was no Puritan, she also wasn't one to sleep with someone she just met, and generally kept a "no sleeping with terrorist" policy. But when it came down to it, it wasn't so bad. Predictably, Ian was not exactly the most sensual, but he was not rough or violent either, and was evens surprisingly attentive at times. Emily could definitely tolerate it.

"I'm glad you came back with me," Ian said to her, when the deed was done and they were lying atop the soft cotton sheets in his expensive hotel room.

"Me too," Emily said.

"What happened to your leg?" he asked – nodding at the twisting scar running over he left calf. It seemed a question of genuine curiosity than of any disgust or repulsion. Emily couldn't help but notice Ian had plenty of scars scattered across his chest. She'd spend enough time in Afghanistan to recognize shrapnel wounds when she saw them. She thought best not to ask about it.

"Skiing accident," she lied easily. She'd chosen a cover story that would be easy enough to pull off if push came to shove. She'd learned to ski with her grandfather years ago in France.

"Looks like it hurt."

You have no idea, Emily thought. She decided to steer things to the more pressing issue.

"When we see each other again?" she said.

"I'll be traveling for awhile," he answered.

"Where are you going?" she asked, hopefully innocently enough.

"Europe, for awhile," Ian answered. It was not an invitation to ask for more specifics.

"I can go back home to Belgium and wait for you," she suggested.

"I'd like that," he said, smiling softly. "Once my business is done, I'll come find you."

He may have meant to sound romantic, but there was slight ominousness to that last part that Emily did not like one bit.