He strokes himself and my mouth goes dry.
“Keep looking at me like that and this won’t take long.” He works his hand up and down his shaft. Slowly at first, then picking up speed as he finds his rhythm. It’s always been a power play for me, promising a man he can release on my body, tempting him with my naughty words, causing him to lose control. There’s a distance in it, a lack of intimacy, if you will. And I can count on half a hand the number of times I’ve been in this situation, including now. George never reached climax, not that I would have let him actually come on me. The two boyfriends I’ve had were more into the turn on of foreplay but never finished on my skin.
Really, I’ve been talking the naughty talk but not walking the walk.
Watching him, it feels like I’ve been missing out. He’s close now, and utterly fascinating in how controlled his movements are. Like he knows what he’s doing.
Like he’s done this before.
Wait a damn second . . . but I can’t finish the thought because his climax grips hold of him fast and furious.
“Brace yourself,” he grunts, then steps a half step forward as he comes, his warm seed spewing across my chest in buckets. I close my eyes, excited and disturbed and confused about why I let this happen.
When I reopen them, he’s tucked himself back in.
“Hurry and clean yourself off. I called a cab for you.”
My eyebrows pitch. “When?”
He shrugs. “Back in the bedroom. Time to say goodbye.”
“Goodbye,” I hiss. I grab the nearest cushion and use it to wipe his jizz off me. Gross, but it serves him right.
He moves toward the door.
I pull my pants back, scramble to my feet, then clutch my ruined blouse together with one hand. “We had a deal.”
“Did we now?”
“You played me,” I seethe.
“You tried to seduce me. Way I see it, we’re even. Be happy I’m letting you walk out of here with only a sticky bosom.”
This is hands down the most infuriatingly, awkwardly unsatisfying hookup ever. Being discovered in a closet with that sexist pig George wasn’t this frustrating.
I grab my purse, retrieve my gun, then stalk forward. “You’re an asshole.”
“Been called worse.”
“You kiss like a guppy.”
He puckers his lips and blows me a kiss. “Thanks for the memories, colleen.”
“El Chulo was right.” I barrel by him and swing open the door. Spinning back his way, I make invisible quotation marks in the air as I fling my final insult at him. “You’re one stupid, motherfucking CIA agent.”
His laugh begins in his diaphragm and rumbles through him like a freight train. It’s the kind of laugh that brings tears to your eyes or causes your stomach to ache. It’s riotous, like my insult struck the mother lode of funny bones.
It accompanies me out of his apartment and down into the streets and lingers in my mind the entire cab ride home.
4
Finn
Thanks to my partner, Diego, our mission has gone arseways to Sunday. Blown to pieces, literally. Months of work, ruined. With us the leading stars in our own version of The Good, the Bad and the Ugly.
Fahder, and his warehouse of AK45s, was “the good,” because we knew about the weapons. Diego and I were locked and loaded and ready to act once Hayden was satisfied all stones had been turned and even the smallest bits of new information had been exposed.
Then came “the bad”—Diego’s discovery of enriched uranium. While I was twiddling me thumbs in Mexico City and feckin’ about with nosy reporters, my partner was living large in a mountaintop mansion owned by Fahder’s son and pursuing the lead our intel from France provided about the gun trade. I’ve got to say, the news this black-market deal involved enriched uranium, a main component in nuclear weaponry, was unexpected.
Hayden ripped into us for mistaking what was actually being sold. At that point, our investigation became something entirely different. But I wish I could say that’s where the mind feckery ends.
Except I’d be lying.
“The ugly” happened in a rapid series of head-scratchers.
Señora del Leon appeared out of the mist. No one knew of her involvement, or the fact that she’d been calling the shots all along. Her abrupt entrance into this shite show had us dumbstruck like we were a sandwich short of a picnic. Just one more example of why I’ve always said women are the smarter sex.
Diego assured me he had things covered, already neck deep in the Fahder family business when Hayden said to keep things low-key, and to gather information about the uranium, such as where it was being produced and who the European buyer was, that Diego’s hearing impairment would kick in that day.
So, what does Diego, our agency’s “big boom” expert, do?
Boom!
The wanker goes and blows up the Señora’s hacienda using enough dynamite the earth shook back here in Mexico City.
All our targets are dead; Fahder, Juan Carlos, Señora del Leon. The trail of paperwork she likely left behind is now ash. And our assignment? Dead in the feckin’ water. I’ve got to say, if Diego had another bitta wit, he’d be a half-wit.
The boss is pissed—no surprise, that. Diego called me in a fine state. Panicked about getting his new beour, Aubrey, out of town before Hayden found out about her. Actions have consequences, or so the boss is fond of saying. Put the fear of God in Diego, he did. Mr. Trigger-Finger went and fell in love, making himself vulnerable. Should have kept it in his pants. Paused a moment prior to sparking those flames—his new lady’s and the dynamite’s.
Now, it’s my turn. My hand shakes as I wait for the call.
Most people believe organizations like TORC only exists in the movies. Hitmen for hire, assassins, spies—and whatever else you might want to call us—we’re the real deal. Doing governments’ dirty work. Mucking about in the shadows. Gathering intel. Killing targets. Eliminating global security threats, for the most part. Whatever Hayden demands of us. Our success is in the outcome. Failures like this aren’t tolerated.
The boss is as tolerant as a lad whose been told to eat his vegetables while everyone else is eating ice-cream sundaes. TORC is what it is because of his ruthlessness. Didn’t he sick Jaxson on Kylie after she went on the lam?
Every one of us is expendable. We’ll never see it coming, either.
Never forget it, Finn-boyo.
The phone vibrates.
It’d be suicide not to answer. And if my loose-cannon partner is still breathing, I can’t imagine I’ll be any worse off.
I press receive then immediately go on the offensive. “A real shite show it is, I can’t deny it.”
He’s quiet on the other end. Bad sign.
“All isn’t lost—”
“You know something I don’t?” he interrupts.
“Not exactly . . .”
“So, you do know something. Do tell, Finn.”
Feckin’ hell. “A week is all I ask. Give me a week and I’ll produce. A person with Señora del Leon’s disposition could piss off the pope. Someone knows something.”
He’s quiet.
“And, like I already reported, the cargo ship transporting the uranium is leaving Acapulco on the twenty-second. We’re not completely in the dark.”
I wait him out, hoping the subtle reminder about my discovering where the uranium is headed will soothe his anger. It takes three minutes and thirty seconds before he speaks. “The buyer’s name is Henry O’Brien.”
I sit up on the couch, almost knocking a candle over. “Feckin’ brilliant, you are.” From nothing to something, and we’re back in the game.
“Ever hear of O’Brien in the fight clubs you used to frequent?”
I take a long sip of beer. Searching Henry O’Brien online would be like scrolling through the Ulysses summaries then deciding which one a lazy lad like myself could use for his school paper. How Ulysses prepared me to be the killing machine I am is another stor
y. “Him, as well as that Smith fella.”
“Finn.”
“Common name, that’s all I’m saying.” No sense of humor, this one. “Can’t say I know the man. I may or may not have been busy getting my brains bashed in to rub elbows with the lad. He’s a mobster?”
“Correct. And you are assigned the job of locating him. But I’m warning you, any more surprises and you won’t like the consequences.”
There they are. The words I’ve been dreading. I nod my head even though he can’t see me. “Connect with the mobster O’Brien? It’s as good as done. Whatever you want, Boss. I won’t let you down.”
“No, you won’t.”
Boy’s a dear.
“You’ll be working as a seaman on that cargo ship leaving for Cork on Sunday. You can make yourself useful locating the containers onboard and securing GPS devices to them.”
Tit for tat, that’s what this is. Penance for feckin’ up. A bloody seaman? I hate boats, and with good reason—I can’t swim. And the Bastard knows it.
“Report in,” he continues, mercilessly, “with how much uranium is in question along with anything else useful. Don’t overlook anything or anyone. Understood?”
“Yeah,” I mutter, the wind leaving my sails. Yet my posing as a seaman has its advantages. It’s a manly job, isn’t it? A far cry from the eegit, Antonio.
Earning someone’s disrespect is easier than you think. Stroke his ego and most fellas will latch onto a lie like a bairn to a bosom. Convincing people I’m gobshite is as easy as breathing air. I’m a player. No one, aside from maybe Hayden, understands how brilliant I am. Get out a shovel if you care to dig down to the heart of Finn McDuff.
But no one gets close enough to care.
I don’t allow it.
The mad minx came closer than most. Perceptive yet misguided. Finn McDuff a CIA agent? Brilliant, just brilliant. I was playing a role in that fine head of hers I didn’t realize I was playing.
I snicker.
“Find something amusing?”
“Just thinking.”
“Save the thinking for me, Finn.” He pauses. “What kind of shape are you in? You seemed a bit soft the last time we met.”
Soft? Like shite I am. “Fit as a fiddle, Boss.”
“You’ll need to be. Head to Cork once the ship hits port. I want you back in the scene again.”
I grimace. Wouldn’t you know? “You asking me to fight again?” Eat right? Train? Give up the drink?
“Make a name for yourself in Cork. Attract O’Brien’s attention.”
And he’s played me like a fiddle. Give the man a gold medal for being the master of manipulation.
“Or I can send Jaxson back in.”
I glare at the phone.
“You’re the best fighter in TORC.”
“If you say so.” A compliment? From a man who could hand me my arse on his worst day? “My being Irish has nothing to do with it?”
No answer. Not that I need one.
“So, it’s just me?”
He’s quiet.
My eyebrows punch up.
“Do what you like so long as you connect with O’Brien. I’ve established myself on the dark web as a potential buyer with deep pockets. Let’s see if he takes the bait. Report in when you have news.”
I feel a grin form. Did I hear him correctly? Do whatever I damned well like? My operation. My call. This is the best feckin’ thing to happen since the Irish Footballers qualified for the 2012 Euro finals.
“Don’t fuck up again,” are his parting words.
“Buck up, Finn-boyo,” I say to no one in particular, yet wanting to hear the words aloud. “Yer back in the game.”
Clarissa
When the bombing in Aleppo began, I knew what to do.
My host family, The Nassars, and I had practiced for this in a way that’s reminiscent of how children practice fire drills and lockdown drills at school. A quick exit from my host family’s third-story apartment down a sturdy, cement stairwell. A hurried three block sprint to the recently constructed bomb shelter. An orderly descent down another concrete stairwell into a large underground space. A well-thought-out plan that was drilled into our daily routine.
In case of the worst happening.
What no one could prepare for was a person’s natural response to danger. The confusion caused by a sudden rush of adrenaline, when a person is subconsciously deciding between fight or flight. Scientists have proven that, when activated by real or imagined threats, the neural connections between the cerebellum can cause a person to automatically freeze.
And, God forever bless them, that’s what happened to my host family. I was outside playing with Christiana when the Russian aircraft appeared on the horizon. The Nassars were three-stories up, standing outside on the apartment balcony. He was talking on the phone and drinking tea. She was watering plants.
Flight kicked in for me. I grabbed Christiana’s hand and began running. It wasn’t until we were two blocks down—one block away from the shelter—that I looked back.
And there they were, still as statues on that balcony.
A bomb hit the apartment building, killing them.
Another landed a block in front of me, a direct hit that destroyed the bomb shelter.
Bomb after bomb.
With me in full-fledge flight mode, running through street after crumbling street, little Christiana in tow.
Boom!
Boom!
I’m suddenly fully awake and rolling up in bed, shaking off the nightmare while trying to get my bearings.
For a few panicked seconds, I don’t recognize the small room with a twin bed, two chairs and table. It’s the slight pitch of the ship that reminds me I’m on a cargo ship headed to Ireland. I booked passage—something a globe-trotting friend had told me was possible if you had the money.
I’m onboard the ship transporting illegal, black market cargo. Except it’s not drugs or weapons as I previously thought. It’s uranium. Enriched uranium—a main component of nuclear weaponry.
At one point in every journalist’s career, something she believes to be true turns into something far more horrific. That often beneath the ugly surface of a story, unthinkable things lurk.
Bad enough drugs and guns are sold on the black market. But uranium?
I’ve had time to research things, to do my homework and lay the groundwork for this story. In the 1970s, governments concerned about nuclear weapons being built passed the Non-Proliferation of Nuclear Weapons Treaty. Parties who sign the treaty will cooperate with each other in developing nuclear energy for peaceful purposes, with consideration of developing countries. In 1974, the United States added Section 123. For non-NGS member, US consent is required for any material or equipment designed or prepared for processing of uranium.
The worry? If uranium reaches the wrong hands, every country, every citizen is at risk.
No wonder I’m having nightmares.
Part of being a smart investigative reporter is recognizing when a good opportunity changes into an excellent one. For me, everything changed when I stumbled upon a small slip of paper I found stapled to the original shipping manifest on my return visit to the Acapulco port. The new clerk had taken it upon herself to organize the scribbled bits of note paper her boss had stuffed inside a drawer. I’d interrupted her while she’d been muttering about “unorganized operations” and stapling the fragmented pieces to their corresponding files. Rough, torn edged paper. Scribble I can barely translate.
Señora del Leon
Hacienda Santa Miguel, Tepoztlán
52 33 4500 1122.
$2.97 per kilo (American dollars).
50 crates.
Enriched uranium.
Sunday 22/8
Cork
A67H4C222-422
This slip of paper not only changed the course of my investigation but listed the name and address of a woman who was irrefutably involved in the illegal trade of uranium. It was exactly the forward push I neede
d after the wasted time spent with that barbarian.
I went to Tepoztlán and gained temporary employment at the señora’s hacienda, tipped off the CIA using the phone number El Chula had given me, then waited for the CIA to make their bust. Witnessed true evil—the señora killing her husband then burying him in her garden. Three weeks of terror then . . . boom.
No bust.
No paper trail on the uranium.
Just my videos and commentary.
I roll out of bed and grab my phone, thumbing through the videos I recorded until I find the one I’m searching for. Sitting down, I hit play. I wince as I relive the nightmare of what happened at Tepoztlán. Señora del Leon’s hacienda blowing up into smoke. My screams, my terror as real as it’d been back in Aleppo. My phone falls to the ground yet is still recording. Capturing me cowering and covering my head, unsure if my hiding place in the bushes in the front yard will protect me.
It’s hard to watch.
It’s even harder to explain what happened.
Did someone intentionally dynamite the horrible woman’s home? Killing her and any chances I had of using her as a lead?
You’re lucky to have been in the front bushes when it happened instead of buried beneath the rubble or along with the poor soul in her garden.
With a sigh, I take a minute to upload all my videos to my cloud file, something I have a bad habit of forgetting to do. Backup in case my phone mysteriously blows up or more insanity interrupts my work. Once finished, I toss my cell onto the table, take a deep drink of water then crawl back into bed.
“Whatever it takes, Christiana,” I whisper my promise into the night air, the last words I say each night. Words that keep me grounded. Words that remind me what I’m about.
Whatever it takes.
Finn
“Antonio.”
I stop short when the captain calls me name from across the deck. The man’s got an ego the size of a bull’s balls and needs to be handled accordingly, which means me alter-ego is proving harder to kill off.
“Cap?” I turn, a smirk on my face. The man has a raging hard-on for me and he’s taken it upon himself to “right God’s wrong”—his words, not mine.
Player: An Enemies to Lovers Romance (A Deadliest Lies Novel Book 4) Page 4