![]() ![]() I stay behind the scenes, for now, and run operations of my own. ![]() I used up my nine lives a long time back. The size of this country means a field agent’s shelf life is short two ops, maybe four, and your risk of being spotted gets too high. The kid is well behaved so far, the city is Dublin, and the job is on the Undercover Squad, so it may sound obvious which one I’m most likely to wind up dying for, but it’s been a while since work handed me anything scarier than a paperwork megaturd. ![]() I would die for, in no particular order, my city, my job, and my kid. These days they hold steady, and I like that it feels like something a man can be proud of. Later, for a while, things got more complicated. At first it was easy: my family, my girl, my home. As far as I recall, he was willing to die a) for Ireland, b) for his mother, who had been dead for ten years, and c) to get that bitch Maggie Thatcher.Īll the same, at any moment of my life since that day, I could have told you straight off the bat exactly what I would die for. I was thirteen and he was three quarters of the way into a bottle of Gordon’s finest, but hey, good talk. If you don’t know that, he said, what are you worth? Nothing. My father once told me that the most important thing every man should know is what he would die for. ![]()
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