She exhales sharply. “I’m here for the same reasons you’re onboard.”
“Feck’s sake but I was worried you’d say that.”
“If your organization had made the bust, we wouldn’t be in this situation,” she reminds me. Though of course we’re speaking different languages when it comes to which organizations.
“I’m asking you nicely what you know. As compensation, I’ll put you on the first plane out of Cork.”
I feel her stiffen beneath me. “No.”
I lift an eyebrow at that. “No?”
“Get off me and I’ll tell you what I know. But I won’t be going anywhere.”
“We negotiating?”
“Whatever you Irish call it.”
I move but not in the way she’s expecting. Instead I drop my hands to the sides of her arms and lower myself so my face is a breath away from hers. My intention is to intimidate. She needs to understand who is the boss. I’ve a job to do and she’s got to buy into this nonsense about the CIA if she’s going to be any help.
The plan is to feed her some bullshite in a whispered voice. The CIA doesn’t negotiate with naughty minxes. It’s her patriotic feckin’ duty to share information.
But as I draw in close, she gapes at me in surprised horror.
“Listen up. We’re going to do things my way—”
“Oh. My. God. Your eye.” She pauses, and being the clever thinker she is, puts two and two together. “It was you, wasn’t it? The crew member the captain assaulted?”
“Yours truly.”
“He hates you with a passion.”
“That he does.”
“I should have known.”
“Given how we left things between us, you should have.”
Her eyes go wide then narrow. “I’ll have the special of the day,” she hisses. “The woman running the tortilla stand in Acapulco called me a prostitute then called the police.”
I grin. The horror.
She pokes me in the chest with her free hand. “You lied.”
“I warned you you’d remember me.”
“We had an agreement.”
“The CIA doesn’t make agreements. Against company policy, or didn’t you discover that during yer time abroad?” I add the last part on a wing and a prayer. The CIA must have been on the ground in Aleppo. No way did she spend months in a city under siege without protection, right?
“How do I really know you even work for the CIA?”
I blink. “Eh . . . what?”
“I mean how could you, with that accent? Do you have dual citizenship? American and Irish? To work for the CIA . . .”
Right-o.
I lightly tap her on the forehead, and she gasps. “Yer thinking too hard.” Damn it. She’s good at catching me off guard. “Tell you what. I’m going to climb off you now. Then we’re going to have a heart-to-heart about the uranium.”
Her eyes light up like I offered her a lick of me lucky lollipop. Good to my word, I roll off her and come up to stand beside the bed.
I take a seat on a small wooden chair and gesture toward the other. “Whenever yer ready.”
She’s out of the bed in seconds.
Ready.
Eager.
Mine to use. Mine to manipulate.
7
Clarissa
There are nightmares and then there are nightmares. Antonio, bending over me with whiskers a half inch from my face, is as horrible as they come. It took me a few seconds to realize I was awake, and that somehow, someway, he was onboard the ship.
In my cabin.
In my bed.
He’s quiet as we sit at the small table. Shaking off a lingering sleep, I decide now is as good a time as any to get to the truth.
“What’s your real name?”
“Antonio.”
I roll my eyes in an exaggerated way.
“Name doesn’t matter. We’re not going to be mates.”
Ouch. I feel the sting, though his assumption is spot on. “No, we’re definitely not. Not friends, not anything resembling friendship. I don’t take kindly to liars.”
He opens his mouth like he wants to argue with me but then changes his mind. With a shake of his head, he looks away to do a slow survey of my cabin. I feel slightly nervous. It’s a subtle thing, the difference in the energy between us. He no longer seems like the man I knew in Mexico City. He’s different, a far cry from the bumbling barbarian. More capable. More intense.
And he’s a hot mess. Hair longer and sticking up at odd ends. Beard uglier and just as unkempt. His eye is four distinct colors, black and blue being the two primary ones.
He must be well-trained to defend himself. Why did he let the captain do that to him?
“I suppose you’re undercover,” I murmur.
His head swings my way. “Could say that.”
“Is that why you didn’t defend yourself? You want the captain to believe you’re weak?”
He gives me a hard look. “Best be careful with the accusations.”
Is he threatening me or offering a stern warning? Hard to say, he’s impossible to read. I pretend not to feel the chill in the air between us.
“It was a compliment. I’ve had the misfortune of touching you, remember? So, couldn’t you have handed the captain his ass if you’d chosen to do so?”
A familiar sparkle lights up his eyes. “His arse forward and back, all the way back to Acapulco.” He gives me his full attention. “Like I said, yer quick on the uptake. But are you loyal?”
“To you?” I gasp. “Mr. I’ll-have-the-daily—”
“To our country. The good ol’ US of A?”
So, he is American. I give myself a mental shake of the head for doubting it. I’ve visited Boston. Accents like his are a dime a dozen, though his word choice is often more descriptive—
“I need confirmation I can count on you.” Another hard look and icy vibes. “That you won’t expose me.”
I swallow hard, reacting to the subtle threat. He’s big and strong. Muscles everywhere. My eyes rake over him. In a black T-shirt, his chest and arms are well-defined. His biceps are beautifully formed, and he’s not even flexing. He looks less bulky, more lean mass. And moments ago, I asked him if he could defend himself.
“You finished?”
My eyes snap back to his face. Except there’s no humor reflected there, no quick comment about me eye-fucking him. Pure ice.
I shrug. “I like you better without the poncho.”
He snorts.
I relax. “And despite our lackluster history, your secrets are safe with me.”
“I’ll hold you to it.”
“My word is gold.” I lean in. “And the captain did share something interesting you should know.”
“Did he now?” is his casual reply. But he’s listening, intently.
“Just remember I tipped you off. If you can return the favor—”
“Anything you want.”
I frown, thinking this is too easy. And he did lie to me before. But the CIA should be alerted about the mines in Africa before enriched uranium replaces drugs in illegal trafficking. “I’m going to hold you to it,” I murmur.
“Of course you are. Natural born ballbuster, that’s what I say. Well, go on. What’s the story now?”
I take a deep breath. “The captain didn’t confirm this directly. But the uranium onboard likely came from a mine in Africa. The captain said the mine is a very lucrative business and there are plans of expanding production.”
His eyes narrow. Despite his casual manner, he’s not the sort you piss off. Not without consequences. “Africa is a massive continent. Where specifically are we talking about?”
I shake my head. “He didn’t say.”
“Not much help, are you?”
With a quick smile, I stand and retrieve the notes I’d made. I give them to him while I search for a paper and pen so he can copy the information. His eyes light up as he records the Ogdenhayer name. I finally settled back in m
y seat, slightly unnerved by how quiet he is.
“Alarming, isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“Your agency will send a team to locate the mine? Determine how expansive their business is then shut it down?” I stop and bite my lip. He seems so calm about this. Underreacting, like he’s intentionally keeping himself from showing his surprise.
He sits there and doesn’t answer.
I don’t know why I need reassurance. Acting on instinct alone, I reach over and place my hand on top of his. “Your boss will pursue this, right?” He stiffens beneath me.
“He should be pleased you were tipped off. Or do you make a habit of pissing him off, like you’ve done with the captain?” The screeching woman at the tortilla stand . . . the way he did his worst then promptly escorted me to the door . . . I’d say him pissing people off is a common occurrence.
“For a smart individual, you ask too many questions.”
“I’m a journalist, it’s what I do.”
He makes a noise in his throat. “Do me a favor, will you? Don’t go running yer mouth about the mine. Not until I give you the go-ahead. My boss likes to do things on his own . . . terms.”
“I promise to wait awhile. Discovering who’s purchased the cargo is more urgent at this point. But my summary will include the uranium mine production. How can it not?”
“I’ll be sure to give you a ring once the investigation is settled.”
“A ring?” I frown.
“Telephone. Offer up some details for you to include in the story.”
Wait. A. Minute. “And where will I be in this scenario?”
He smiles, though it doesn’t reach his eyes. It’s meant as a challenge rather than a sign of mutual camaraderie. “You can’t stop me from pursuing this story.”
“Think not?”
Furious, I scramble to my feet. Looking down at him—the intimidated becoming the intimidator. “Try me,” I snap. Jesus, I tipped him off and now this?
“Don’t be that way.” Words meant to console but said in such a smug way, I feel like giving his chair a shove in the hopes of knocking him off his high perch. God, I’d love to see him grovel, though something tells me the barbarian has never begged for anything in his life.
I step around the table then kick the leg of his chair.
It doesn’t budge.
“Stop acting the maggot, colleen.”
“I’m not your colleen,” I snarl, bringing my face down to his level. He stares at me, unflinching.
Amused . . . yes, he’s enjoying this.
Frustrated and feeling an unreasonable need to piss him off, I reach out, snatch hold of the tip of his beard and give it a firm jerk. As a kid, I despised getting my hair pulled, the sharp, immediate pain to my scalp. I tug once more. This has to hurt, right?
Except he’s smiling. Not only that, he’s tilted his head back like his beard is the featured item on a carte blanche menu.
I glare at him, then do it again. This time with more force.
Everything happens at once. He’s on his feet. I’m hauled into the air. Our bodies are bouncing across the mattress, me on the bottom, him on top.
I struggle to escape, but it’s futile.
“I get that you feel inclined to prove yourself,” he murmurs, soothingly, like he not only understands the sentiment but can relate. “That, or your bleedin’ mad.”
“Our definitions of mad might differ. And if I’m both, so what? Not. Your. Problem.”
“But it is. See, I feel the need to offer you advice. This is me, being kind, if you will. Go home.”
“Go home? That’s your advice? Well, allow me to offer you two words of my own,” I hiss. “Fuck. Off.”
He goes still.
My chest is heaving like I’ve run a mile. Or have had my patience snapped in two then stomped on and kicked for good measure. God, he’s infuriating. I consider threatening him. I’ve half a mind to report him for unprofessional conduct. Government agencies have rules, a quagmire of dos and don’ts. Protocol. And I get the impression this man’s violated every single one of them.
I’m inclined to hit where it hurts but, instead, keep quiet. Unless he plans on locking me up, there’s little he can do to force me home. Once we dock, I’ll disappear. We both have the uranium distribution to worry about.
“What’s haunting you?”
I blink. “Excuse me.”
“This isn’t about proving yourself, is it. There’s more.”
Oh, no. How does he know? Am I that obvious? Can he see right through me to the hole in my heart? I never discuss Christiana. Not to reporters. Not for the cameras. Not to anyone who might exploit her death for his or her own purpose. I tried to save her yet failed. Horribly. In the worst possible way.
I escaped Aleppo with Christiana.
Only to watch her die in my arms.
My colleague saw it happen. I begged, pleaded, and threatened lawsuits if the footage were ever released. He caved and sold me the exclusive rights to the video for a tidy sum of money. Despite viewers liking their happy-ever-afters, sometimes news stations show flashbacks to the days when the raw truth was told. Sensationalizing the death of an innocent girl might sell. The grief and despair expressed in every fiber of my being might have sealed the deal.
But not her truth.
This is my tragedy. My sad tale to keep buried.
But I made a promise that day. Her death wouldn’t be in vain. Or insignificant. Or meaningless. Hundreds of innocent people died in Aleppo. Not many noticed, news coverage was scant if at all. So, I vowed that no matter how honest or how raw, the truth would be told. Without it, we’re ashes. Dust in a grave with the tiniest of markers.
Whatever it takes.
My throat hitches, and a tear slips from my eye.
“What bollocks is this?” He stares down at me in horror. “That bad?”
I nod, chest heaving.
“I feckin’ knew it.” He rolls off me to stand. “Water?”
“Yes.” Tears roll down my cheeks, despite my attempt to stop them.
He grabs a water bottle from the table, plucks off the cap, and thrusts it into my line of vision. “Drink.”
I drink, deeply. Until the oh, so familiar pain lessens and I can collect myself.
He watches it all. Me falling apart. Me stitching myself back up again. I bet he’s sorry he pushed so hard.
“Better?” I hear him ask.
“Yes,” is all I can muster. I brace myself for his smart-ass comment, my psyche far too delicate for the likes of him.
I jump when I feel his hand on my cheek. He guides my head up to look at him. Then, without a word, he wipes away my tears with his thumb.
“Nothing to say,” I whisper.
His thumb drags across my skin one last time as he lifts the last of my tears away.
Then, he walks away without a word. Leaving me more confused about him than ever.
Clarissa
I make the most of the last few hours onboard. It’s a clear, bright day, with a cool breeze blowing in off the water, anticipation of our arrival in the air. Knowing what I know about the CIA’s involvement and that this shipment could possibly be one of several sourced from that mine in Africa, I decide to reshoot my opening segment. A tall line of containers flank both sides of me. I’m tiny, just a speck in this vast environment.
Small, yet unstoppable.
The agent did me a favor last night. Embarrassing as it was, the sudden onslaught of emotion that took me by surprise—both of us by surprise, I’d say—helped lift the overwhelming burden I carry. He turned from being annoying to becoming my reluctant therapist, without me muttering a word. But I realize now that holding my emotions in for all that time wasn’t healthy. I was bound to crack. Why it had to be with a man I don’t trust, who I have a perverse history with, and who might very well interfere with my story, I can’t explain.
I hear the captain calling out. His words are undecipherable, his anxious tone is anythi
ng but. Whatever it is seems urgent. Usually, I’m alone on this end of the deck so I’m curious what’s brought the men out here. Small knapsack in hand, I make my way toward the anxious voices. Once close by, I’m careful to stay hidden within the row of containers.
“Two small boats, sir,” a crewmember shouts.
“Should I call the coast guard?” another asks.
“We’re in Irish waters now,” a third man says. “The Irish Seafarers Association are the ones to contact—”
“No,” the captain cuts him off. He’s frowning something fierce and keeps looking off to his right. At this angle, it’s impossible to see what’s caught his attention.
“They’re not coming onboard for midday tea, captain.”
“I’ll handle them. Keep your mouths closed, understood?”
There’s a unanimous round of “yeses.” The crew’s fear of the captain more apparent now than ever.
“We’ll pay the goddamn bribe and move on.”
“But who are they, sir?”
“Irish mob.”
I blink. The Irish mob? And by the sound of things, modern day piracy off the southern coast of Ireland happens regularly.
An opportunity.
Quickly, I rummage inside my knapsack for my phone. Then, drawing closer to the open deck, I position myself to film and hit record.
“Go inside the bridge,” the captain orders. Sweat drips off his forehead despite the gentle breeze. “Bring ten stacks of American dollar bills.”
The men look at each other in confusion, then at the captain with suspicion.
One word and I’ll let them kill you,” he warns, verbal proof he’s as unscrupulous as a man can be. I shudder but keep recording.
“Toss the rope ladder off the side and show them we’re open to negotiations. Whatever happens, we need to contain them to the deck. We can’t have them searching the ship. Understood?”
The ten or so men nod.
“Glad we’re in agreement. Your life depends on it.”
The ship falls silent, its engines turned off. Men shout directions about lowering the anchors, a task that can take twenty or more minutes depending on the water’s depth. I hear the boats approaching.
Player: An Enemies to Lovers Romance (A Deadliest Lies Novel Book 4) Page 6