Colorado IRA Liaison
MC main contact
She was nothing if not loyal. She lived and breathed for the IRA, and it had even been rumored that her entire birth was supposed to be some offering for the cause. That wasn’t true…in fact she would have been proud if her birth had held even a fraction of that nobility. The truth is, she wasn’t exactly planned. Her father had always worked hard for the cause, making a name and a small fortune for himself and his wife doing odd jobs here and there. Odd jobs lead to secrets, secrets lead to camaraderie and soon it wasn’t rare to see Mr. McKenna whispering over pints late into the night with other supporters. Shortly after she was born her mother died of a drug overdose and her father refused to talk about her, except to use her as a cautionary tale of dealers becoming junkies when they dip into their own stash. When their (crime) family moved to New York it was a mute point whether or not they would follow them. It was the “family” structure created by the IRA that would raise this little girl.
She paid attention and she learned. Oh did she learn. How to properly hide a gun, how to properly hide 100 guns, how to cut cocaine with just enough laxatives that they won’t shit themselves and how to turn cut cocaine into some very useful crack. She was usually left to her own devices around their bar during the day. Most of the men knew her, knew who her father was. They would scowl at her, talk about how she always got underfoot, but she was still one of theirs. When she was 15, going on 16, her father was involved in a job with the Mexicans. It wasn’t the first time he had worked with the Mexicans and when he returned home everything was good. He ordered up a shot and began to celebrate. The night progressed in a similar fashion, but shortly after he was picked up by the cops. His trial was quick, there was nothing they could do to refute some affidavit from a witness and so her father was deported and serving a minimum 6 year sentence. The grudge she has against the Mexicans is usually kept under lock and key, but every day that her father is gone it festers inside of her.
By this time she knew almost everything there was about the drug and gun underbelly of the business. She knew the times of the drops, the faces of the customers. She was eager as well, always the first to jump at taking a delivery that someone had skipped out on and occasionally with frowning faces they would give it to her, unsure of the moral obligations anyone held for little Meara. Moral obligations were roughly shoved aside somewhere near her 18th birthday. It wasn’t that this magical age allowed people to see her as anything but a child, but it was this point in time that Meara stopped taking no for an answer. Now she feels she earns her keep. She resides now as a hub, and a safe house, in Colorado. She has a shitty apartment that she essentially uses for storage. From her father she inherited a place in the crime family, a calling to better an Ireland she barely knew. And from her mother, a cocaine problem that kept her in that shitty apartment. Though arguably f it wasn’t cocaine she would find something else to blow her illegally earned checks on…and trust me, the little deviant had acquired a grocery list of vices. She dabbled in heroin, consistently smoked cigarettes, weed, everything but the shoelaces.
She wouldn’t have lasted this long without being smart, being adaptable. She could play whatever part was needed (yes the little tomboy owned a dress or two) and had grown up knowing the limitations of being a cute little girl in a big ugly man’s world. She rarely put herself in situations without having an out. Run or shoot, and her trigger fingers were getting itchier by the day. When around friends she had been called sweet, if not misguided. She was young and motivated; purpose, youth and cocaine created something of a ticking time bomb. She occasionally suffered from mood swings that drove her to the race tracks were she would hide and drown her sorrows for days at a time. Her moods could be so drastic that it seemed like she was bipolar, though she knew how to check herself and shut up when necessary. While she never really trusted anyone that wasn’t Irish she had learned to make temporary alliances, especially for customers like the MC.
Father is incarcerated; Mother is deceased
- Chain Smoker
- Sinn Féin prominently tattooed on knuckles
- doesn’t own a bike