Chapter 7 – The Double Game
Na Fianna Nua HQ, Dublin – 06:45
Smoke still curled from burning SUVs in the shattered courtyard as dawn broke over the battered stronghold. Medics moved among the wounded, triaging shrapnel wounds and blast injuries. The tang of blood and cordite mixed with drifting petrol fumes.
Salty stood on the cracked concrete balcony overlooking the yard, sipping strong coffee from his chipped enamel mug. The dark circles under his eyes betrayed no weakness; his mind moved rapidly through tactical permutations.
Behind him, Sarah approached quietly, her blonde hair tied back under her tactical baseball cap. She wore her grey fatigue trousers tucked into black leather boots, Glock holstered against her ribs.
“They hit us hard last night.”
Salty didn’t turn. “Omega Prime is Rahmani’s best. He’s pushing for final destabilisation before Europe’s winter summit.”
Sarah rested a hand lightly on his back. “And Niamh?”
He exhaled heavily. “She’s ours now. Whether she wants to be or not.”
🕷️ Niamh’s Mission
In the underground comms room, Niamh sat alone, tears streaking mascara down her pale cheeks as her fingers moved across her wristpad. She activated her Omega handler channel, transmitting a calm, neutral voice despite the tremor in her chest:
“Na Fianna Nua HQ is critically damaged. Salty injured. Leadership in chaos. Recommend Omega final strike at 0500 tomorrow.”
The comms screen flickered with Rahmani’s reply. His handsome face appeared, cold eyes assessing her.
“Excellent work, Silken Viper. Your sister will live another day.”
When the feed ended, Niamh sank back in her chair, whispering to herself:
“Forgive me, Seán…”
But she didn’t know Salty stood silently behind the blast door, listening to everything, his gaze steeled to iron resolve.
⚔️ Susan Arrives
Outside in the dusty yard, a battered old Land Rover rolled through the damaged gates. Out stepped Susan O’Callaghan, mid-40s, auburn hair tied back in a tight bun under her boonie hat, her hazel eyes sharp with tactical calculation. An ex-Ranger turned freelance operator, she was known only as “Red Fox.”
Ruairí strode up, grinning broadly despite his blood-smeared fatigues. “Susan, ya mad yoke! We thought you were off hunting poachers in Mozambique.”
Susan clapped his shoulder hard enough to stagger him. “Had to come back and babysit your sorry arses. Salty called me in for Omega Prime cleanup.”
She strode past him towards HQ, assault rifle slung across her back, tactical gear bristling with fragmentation grenades and breaching charges. “Where’s the old bastard himself?”
🦅 Briefing Room
Salty, Sarah, Susan, and Ruairí gathered around the flickering tactical table, littered with half-eaten protein bars, crumpled field notes, and brass casings.
Niamh entered quietly, her face pale. She froze seeing Susan, who raised an eyebrow at her.
“Who’s the goth waif?” Susan asked.
“New tech op,” Ruairí replied casually, though his eyes flickered with hidden knowledge.
Salty rapped the table for attention.
“Listen up. Omega thinks they’re coming in for final kill at dawn tomorrow. But thanks to our ‘Silken Viper’ here,” – he nodded coldly at Niamh – “we’ll be ready.”
Susan smirked, pulling out her scarred old SIG P226 and checking the slide. “So, what’s the plan, bossman?”
Salty’s mouth twitched into a humourless smile.
“We give them hell. Then we take the fight back to Rahmani’s doorstep in Brussels.”
Sarah placed her hand gently over his, squeezing it.
“Together,” she whispered.
He looked around at his battered but unbroken team – Sarah’s steel, Susan’s ferocity, Ruairí’s unshakable humour, and Niamh’s trembling guilt-ridden resolve.
“Together,” Salty echoed, his gravelly voice low and certain. “For Ireland.”
💀 Rahmani Watches
Back in Brussels, Rahmani sipped thick Arabic coffee, studying satellite feeds over Dublin. A cruel smile curled his lips as he whispered to himself in Arabic:
“Let them gather. Their end will be magnificent.”
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