"They Thought You Might Say That..."

"They thought you might say that," Margaret Begins. Opening a laptop that she had in her hand she punches in a code and hands it to me. Pulled up on the screen is a browser window with four tabs. Each one is an article from a major Irish newspaper remarking on the unnaturally high and steady **** rate over the past two weeks, starting on the 29th of August 2017 and holding at 1 **** per day for the next 6 days, then jumping to two murders a day for the next six days and now, for the past two, three! At this point, I'm still skeptical so I pull up the Boston Herald (I had a subscription then...) and search for a mention of this. It's buried in 'international', yesterday, but it's there...

"Strange Spree Of Murders In Ireland: 39 Dead And Counting!" the headline reads.

"OK, I'm in, you've convinced me. I assume you have a car and a jet waiting?"

"Yes. If you'll just follow me, we'll head to Logan Airport and be on our way."

I head towards my room to pack for the trip, but Margaret seizes me by the arm.

"Mr. O'Malley there's no TIME to pack! Every second we delay risks someone's ****!" She cries, dragging me out of the door! (She's surprisingly strong for a woman her size...) She does let me take the three or four seconds to lock up, but then she basically drags me down the stairs at a run to the waiting limo out front. As we pull out I suddenly realize it is being surrounded by some kind of mercenary army. They are all dressed in bike leathers but they have this weird patch on their shoulders: a gold harp that looks like a naked woman on a green background...