All Chapters of Twice You: Chapter 31 - Chapter 40

The phone rings at ten forty-three in the morning, cutting through the tense silence of the main office like a blade through silk.We are gathered in the nerve center of Callahan operations—a spacious room with dark oak panels and high-tech screens that clash with the Gothic architecture. The dossiers on Viktor Lang are scattered across the mahogany table like pieces of a deadly puzzle. Declan stands, sleeves rolled up, pointing out smuggling routes on a digital map. Harvey sits in the leather armchair on the other side, legs crossed, tablet in hand, processing data with that silent, frightening speed.I watch from the sofa in the corner, supposedly there because I am “part of the target,” but I know the real reason is that neither of them wants to let me out of their sight.The tension is a constant background noise until it is shattered by the insistent sound of Harvey’s encrypted phone.Harvey doesn’t rush. He finishes reading the line of text on the tablet, locks the screen with a

The news arrives at two in the afternoon like a blade cutting through the already unbearable tension in the library.We are leaning over tactical maps of Viktor Lang when Harvey’s tablet vibrates with that specific pattern I recognize from Boston—maximum alert from the Prescott Tower security systems. Harvey glances at the screen and, for the first time since I’ve known him, I see the mask of absolute composure crack in a way that doesn’t seem calculated.Only a second. But I see it.He turns the tablet toward us without saying a word.The screen shows a live feed of the fifty-second floor of Prescott Tower in flames.It isn’t an accidental fire. I recognize that even without tactical training, the explosions are symmetrical, calculated, and designed for maximum destruction with surgical precision. Four simultaneous detonation points, each covering a different quadrant of the apartment I called home for six years.The external cameras show fragments of glass raining down fifty-two floo

Declan CallahanThe castle breathes heavily at two in the morning.Claire has been asleep for hours, exhausted from a day that involved explaining, without frightening her more than necessary, why school was canceled indefinitely and why there were new armed men in the gardens. Evie is in the observatory, exchanging encrypted messages with Maeve, trying to extract a location from the girl that could either save us or kill us. Luka and Zion are coordinating the perimeter reinforcement. Harvey’s men are confined to the guesthouse, exactly where I ordered them to stay.That leaves the two of us.In my office, the bottle of Jameson Gold Reserve sits on the mahogany table, one-third empty. I’m sunk in the leather armchair, legs stretched out, staring at the map of Dublin projected on the wall as if the red dots marking Lang’s positions could reveal secrets under sufficiently intense observation. This is my city—every street, every alley, every pub where my name opens doors and shuts mouths.

Harvey PrescottI follow them at ten seventeen in the morning.I activate the GPS tracker that Sabine discreetly installed in the SUV during routine maintenance three days ago.The signal appears as a pulsing dot on the tablet, with coordinates updating every fifteen seconds. I maintain a distance of four hundred meters — close enough to avoid visual detection, far enough not to lose contact. Declan drives with the familiarity of someone who knows every curve of Dublin, but familiarity is not a countermeasure against military-grade surveillance technology.The road climbs the hills. Dublin shrinks to a map of lights below. Forty-three minutes of silent driving, then the dot stops on an isolated plateau.I park three hundred meters below, hidden by a bend in the terrain. Engine off. Night-vision binoculars adjusted to maximum magnification.Through the lenses, I watch them get out of the vehicle. Declan with his hand on the small of her back — an automatic, territorially possessive gest

Declan didn’t say anything for the rest of the night. Not when we put our daughter to sleep, not when we entered our room and lay down. He kissed me and held me, and we fell asleep like that, but his silence is consuming me.He is still asleep when Claire enters the room and calls me, making no noise, pulling me out so we can prepare breakfast for her father in bed. I smile and follow her.We make a controlled mess in the kitchen. In forty minutes, we have a tray ready: fluffy chocolate-chip pancakes (Declan’s secret weakness), scrambled eggs with cheese and herbs, crispy bacon, slices of mango and strawberry, and the strong black coffee he drinks without sugar. Claire insists on arranging everything with care—the napkin folded into a star shape, the salt and pepper shakers perfectly aligned, and the small jar of honey she brought from the pantry herself.“Now we’re just missing one thing,” she says seriously, already heading for the back door. “I’m going to the garden to get a rose. R