Player: An Enemies to Lovers Romance (A Deadliest Lies Novel Book 4)

by Michele Mannon

  My hand quivers with nervous excitement as we wait. The captain’s curses and the jitters of the crew echo across the deck.

  I swallow hard as the mobsters appear on camera. Ten men. Some with holstered guns, several drawn.

  The oldest man, with salt-and-pepper hair, steps forward. “How much?”

  He asks a simple question that all the men onboard seem to understand.

  “Ten grand. US.”

  “Not enough,” the man tells the captain.

  I lean forward, desperate to include everyone on video. You can never predict how a story is going to unfold . . . haven’t I learned this lesson time and time again?

  “Fifteen is all we have,” the captain lies.

  It’s obvious. And stupid.

  “And the cargo.”

  Dead silence spreads out across the deck. I hold my breath, afraid to exhale.

  “We’re going to die,” a crewman murmurs.

  At the same time, the captain lays out another lie. “Nothing of value.”

  I frown. These men aren’t here for tea, obviously, but what if they’ve come for—

  “I’ll spare yer lives,” the mobster says in a booming voice, “if one of you speaks up and answer my bloody question. Where is it?”

  The crew looks at each other in confusion.

  My hand is shaking so hard I almost drop the phone.

  And someone whistles.

  All eyes turn toward the sound, seconds before chaos erupts.

  Finn

  “Would ye get a load of him?” one of the mobsters says.

  I amble toward the clusterfeck like I don’t have a care in the world, mindless of the drama unfolding on deck. Acting the maggot, as Antonio is keen on doing.

  They react as expected; a quick, dismissive glance. A hasty assumption I’m not a threat and therefore unworthy of attention.

  “Stomach won’t quit,” I mumble, loudly. “You should avoid going back yonder for a spell.”

  “He’s been vomiting the entire voyage,” an ever-so-observant crewmate comments.

  No one laughs. The mob paying a visit to yer ship tends to quiet the best of men.

  Now I may be a bit thick in the head on occasion. But I can put two and two together without a feckin’ calculator. It doesn’t take a bleedin’ math wizard to figure out why the mob is on the ship.

  Beneath a mess of unkempt hair, I study the new arrivals, until I settle on one fella who seems to be the most astute. Yeah, I’ll bet Sunday’s supper he’s going to pilot this ship to port.

  Which port? Now, that remains to be seen. I suspect customs in Cork will be waiting to inspect the goods, especially declared goods like what’s inside the containers. Illegal goods like the captain’s stash of coke will likely sail through inside his private luggage without question.

  I’ve got to say, O’Brien’s not feckin’ around.

  Not so sure good ol’ Cap is aware his ship is about to be pirated. Or that his fate has been sealed.

  “Take my watch,” Cap continues, trying his damnedest to ignore me. He hands a fine piece of jewelry to the white-haired mob boss.

  The man looks at it then back to Cap then to one of his men, whom he tosses the watch to. With a grin, the man turns into the next World feckin’ Series pitcher, winding up then throwing the watch like it’s a game-winning strike out.

  Yeah, with the Cap at home plate.

  The watch sails across deck and disappears overboard.

  Cap looks ready to the shite himself. But I don’t feel sorry for the drug-dealing, uranium-pushing shyster. He deserves everything coming to him.

  “Time’s up, it seems,” I comment, looking straight at him.

  A few men snicker.

  “We got a comedian onboard, do we?” someone else adds.

  “What’s yer name?” the mob boss demands.

  Cap answers for me. “Goddamn worthless piece of pigeon shit.”

  I shake my head.

  “You deny it?” he bellows. Easy to get a rise out of, easy to fall all the same.

  “Nah. Just meaning to ask you what you got against pigeons.”

  That’s when Cap grows a set and charges forward, fist raised.

  I turn my head as it comes sailing my way. And in that split second, in the smallest fraction of a bleedin’ moment, I see her.

  Clarissa.

  Filming everything.

  Feck’s sake.

  His fist connects with my good eye. I stumble back like he’s the next Conor McGregor. Yeah, I played him like a fine fiddle. Now his song is about to come to an end. Despite my best intentions, I hear myself say, “Go mbrise an diabhal do dhá chois.”

  “He’s cursing you to the devil, mate.”

  I reach in my pocket, retrieve a white brick, then toss it on deck. “Captain’s cabin is yonder . . .” I gesture to the general vicinity, “and he’s got drawers full of them.”

  Time stands still with everyone frozen. Mobsters. Crewmates. Cap. What it feels like in this moment is that I tossed a lifeless head into the mix of things.

  Maybe I did.

  “No shite?” the mob boss asks.

  I nod.

  Cap launches himself at me, but I neatly sidestep him. “You motherfucking snoop. You. Are. Dead.”

  “Liam. Bring the ship to port, will you.”

  “On it.”

  The mob boss rolls up his sleeves, then bends, scoops up the brick, and smashes it down onto poor ol’ Cap’s head.

  Cap goes down.

  They haul him up, drag him over to the railing, and toss his drug-smuggling, uranium dealing body overboard.

  “Show us his cabin,” the mob boss demands, eyes on me.

  Jaysus.

  Quickly, I mutter, “Did you have to kill him?” I follow this by placing a hand over my mouth like I’m going to hurl.

  “We’ll show you,” a crew mate offers.

  I wait and count to ten. Wanting to clear the deck with minimal casualties. Can’t have the authorities investigating multiple homicides—myself and the mob will be on our merry way by the time anyone gets courageous enough to confess why the Cap is missing.

  “Let’s find out if what he says is true. Leave him.”

  I stay, crouched over and pretending to dry heave, until the footsteps have faded.

  With long strides, I rush over to Clarissa, catching her fiddling with her cell phone. I grab hold of her arm. “Time to fly the coop.”

  “Leave?”

  “Disappear. Or you planning on dining with the Irish mob?”

  “So, you’re simply going to allow them to pirate the ship?”

  “Looks that way. I’ll be alive to say it’s so.”

  She taps the container with her hand. “What about this?”

  “If they kill you, would it matter?”

  She makes a face.

  I sigh. “Leave it to me, will you?” I look around, quickly running through our options and coming up short. When my attention finally settles on her is when an idea strikes.

  “Maine is the land of lakes, right?”

  “Yes,” she replies, hesitant as all hell.

  “Can you drive a boat?”

  Her eyes go wide. “A boat? Or a ship?”

  I laugh. “A boat.”

  “Yes.”

  Before she can question me, I tug her arm. “Let’s do this then.”

  I hurry off with her in tow, thinking about how I’m going to pull this off. I’m good with electronics, engines, guns, knives, and explosives. But I can’t recollect hot-wiring a boat before. With everyone occupied with tearing apart Cap’s cabin and celebrating the unexpected loot and newfound wealth, it’s now or never.

  We hit the deck at a full sprint.

  I find the rope ladder with little problem.

  “Wait. We’re stealing their boat?” she whispers loudly, but for my ears only.

  “You plan on swimming?” I release her arm and peer down at the two boats. “No one is home. So, get your sweet arse
moving, will you?”

  She listens. No argument. No refusing to obey. But the look she gives me says I’m as mad as a box of frogs.

  And the lass is just figuring this out now?

  It takes less than a minute to descend, unfetter both speedboats, and push free of the cargo ship.

  I hurry into the cabin, knowing the tide could send us back into the large vessel or the mob could rain bullets down on us. Hoping I haven’t lost my mechanic’s touch.

  When I spy the keys in the ignition, I whistle a fine tune. Jaysus, too feckin’ easy. Next, a handful of cruise line employees will appear out of bleedin’ nowhere to take my drink order.

  “See if the keys are in the other boat, will you?”

  Wide-eyed, she does what I ask, scrambling to and from boats and returning with keys in hand.

  I take them from her then toss them over my shoulder and into the deep, blue waters, before turning my attention to the task at hand.

  “Two things you need to know,” I warn her.

  Her lips part in surprise, as she fears the worst.

  “One, you best take cover. It’s going to be a shit-show of bullets once this engine starts.”

  I turn the key. True to form, the engine starts with a roar.

  “What’s two?” she hollers over her shoulder, already heeding my first warning.

  “You’re on your own if the boat sinks.”

  I shrug at her disappointed expression then laugh. Though the truth is anything but funny considering the amount of time I’ve been off land. Or the fact I just pulled off the biggest lie imaginable. For Christ’s sake, a seaman?

  “Can’t swim, colleen. I can’t bleedin’ swim.”

  9

  Finn

  Now what am I going to do with her?

  If Clarissa were hard liquor, she’d be one-hundred percent proof. Pure mind-numbing trouble. Bad news. Yet I’m fond of the drink, as well as a glutton for punishment, aren’t I now? I admit I’m surprised at how calm she is after a hail of bullets accompanied our hasty departure away from the ship. We made it out by the skin of our teeth and with, literally, the clothes on our backs.

  I look over my shoulder and glance past her hurrying behind me, to where I parked the speedboat in some bloke’s private slip. It’s only a matter of time before someone notices it, though no one seems to have yet. I plan on disappearing into the mist before the mob descends on this place.

  “Is there Uber in Ireland? Or we can call a cab? However we make this work, I’d like to be in Cork harbor before the cargo ship arrives.”

  Now I don’t have the heart to correct her. Share with her that the mob has a different port in mind, a less-busy, more mob-friendly place thirty kilometers south in Kinsale. That we can go hunker-down and twiddle our thumbs until they turn blue, but they’ll be no ship pulling into Cork.

  Still, I could call her a cab and be done with her. She’d be safe enough; it’s not like they got a gander at her pretty face. And it’s doubtful they think a woman helped steal their bleedin’ boat.

  No. It’s Antonio they’ll be hunting for.

  It’s about time I give that wanker a quick death.

  She curses under her breath, forcing me to stop and turn. “We can go our separate ways,” the ballsy minx informs me.

  I can hear me da’s whispered warning in my ear. That I’m twice cursed by Adam’s slipup, that when Eve handed Adam the apple, he should have resisted. He should never have nibbled on the forbidden fruit.

  “Or we can do this together,” I hear myself mutter.

  “What?” she gasps from behind me.

  I keep quiet and keep moving forward. Quickly running through my options.

  Let her get on with things alone.

  Use her.

  A stunner like her? A girlfriend? Another set of eyes and ears? It’s feckin’ brilliant.

  She grabs my arm from behind and halts our progress. “I don’t even know your name. But, I mean, of all aliases, you chose Antonio?”

  Keen as a priest hearing confession. “Ever hear of Black Irish?”

  She snorts. “I believe the term applies to coloring. For example, hair color. And, you, Antonio, are red-headed.”

  “Red-headed?” Not on yer nelly. “I’m blond.”

  “Ginger.”

  “Strawberry blond.”

  “Whatever.” She pauses. “And I’ve decided to call you Patrick. Or maybe Reilly. That has a nice ring to it.”

  “Just don’t call me late to supper,” I say, my tone a wee bit gruff. Reilly? Not on me worst day.

  Next, she’ll be demanding I share a list of my favorite things. Violent video games. Sex. Good food. A fine pint of the Black Stuff. Sex. A good, honest fight. The craic. A woman’s touch. Not soft but hard, like her firm hand wrapped around my cock. Or her teeth biting my neck while I knock her boots off. A dirty, no-holds-barred fuck. I bet with that filthy mouth of hers, she’d be down with it. I’ll bet the winnings of my first fight that Clarissa can handle my brand of loving.

  You eegit, I catch myself. Dead men can’t drink, fight, fuck, or consider riding a lass like the one staring at me. If Hayden discovers I’m risking exposing TORC by bringing her into the mix . . .

  No. I’ll use her then send her packing. That’s it.

  “So, Conor. We’ll clean up, catch our breath, then wait at the dock for the ship to arrive.”

  “No.”

  “No?” She glares at me.

  “The name’s Finn, not Conor.”

  For a second, she looks confused. “Finn.”

  “You heard me. Last name’s McDuff.”

  “Your name’s Finn McDuff.”

  “Better ring to it than feckin’ Antonio Nobody, yeah?”

  “It does.”

  My chest swells with pleasure. Feels good to be recognized, even if just in name.

  “So, Finn McDuff, are we off to the port?”

  I spin on my heels, dodging her and her questions. I need a drink. A shave. Time to fix me head back on me shoulders after losing it over this mad plan.

  Yeah, she can be my lack. My ears while my fists are flying and while I’m drawing O’Brien’s attention. She’ll make a brilliant good cop, her with her bleeding heart and grand intentions.

  And me, I’m the bad cop. A man the world needs but nevertheless dislikes acknowledging. A hitman for hire. A killer.

  I quicken my stride, not wanting her to see how pleased I am with this new plan. We’ll draw O’Brien into the fight clubs. Get in good and tight with his men, and their women.

  Clarissa is going to get a story, all right.

  It just might not be told exactly as she’s expecting or end the way she believes it will.

  10

  Clarissa

  Finn McDuff wants to work with me.

  But the newfound spring in my step lasts an entire fifteen minutes, until we come upon a brown sign with white lettering that reads: Cork 9.44 km behind, Kinsale 9.44 km ahead. Behind, as in the other direction. I stop and point. “We’re headed away from the port?”

  “Looks that way.”

  “Did you not say we’ll be working together?”

  “I did.”

  “And did I not make it clear I wanted to track the mob’s arrival?”

  “You did.”

  I glare at him. He’s a sore sight, with one bruised eye swelling shut and the other a yellowish-brown color. His beard is matted and caked with sweat and dirt. He’s feral-looking, like the cat I tossed scraps of food to back in Aleppo. He seems like a man who throws all his straws in the air then waits for the longest one to land at his feet. A person who pushes the boundaries on his own terms and time. Someone who doesn’t worry about tempting fate. “So?”

  “Suppose I should make something clear.” He runs his hand across his beard and rolls his eyes up to the sky before fixing his attention on me. “We do things my way.”

  The arrogant man.

  He leaves me standing there, his strides lengthening
as he stalks off, and I chase after him down a one-lane road. Rolling hills flank either side like a picturesque postcard but all I see is red. Sure, I could dig into my knapsack for my phone, check for service, and, if I’m lucky, call a cab to take me back to the port. Continue on without his help. But he has resources and connections I can’t ignore—along with a common goal to pursue.

  I shake off my pride and do what’s sensible, picking up my pace then drawing up alongside him.

  “Plan is to let things cool down,” he informs me, as if expecting me to chase after him. Arrogant, yet intelligent. “Rent a room, smarten up, drink a pint, relax.”

  Smarten up? Like cleanup? But it’s his last word that has me doubting his sanity. “Relax?” Okay, perhaps not so intelligent. Does he not understand time is an issue?

  “Close yer mouth, Clarissa, or a fly might slip inside it.” He grins at me, and at my obvious irritation with his so-called plan.

  “This plan is horrible. How does distancing ourselves from the uranium make sense?”

  “The buyer will come to us.”

  My eyebrows rise. “You know who he is?”

  “I’ve me suspicions.”

  “I can’t believe this. All this time—” I throw up my hands. “You think he’s connected to the mob?” Of course. It makes sense. The mob did pirate the cargo ship.

  “A room. A pint. Some supper. Afterward, I’ll answer every bleedin’ question you have.” He stops to lift the hem of his shirt to wipe his face.

  I resist the temptation to glance down. What I have to make sure he understands is more important than eye candy. “No more secrets.”

  He pauses, mid-wipe. Frowning.

  “If we’re working together, we’ll share information. Understood? I promise to review everything with you before my report is published. And I’m assuming you’d like me to protect your identity as well?”

  He ignores me and continues wiping the sweat away with his T-shirt.

  And Lord help me, I can’t help it. My eyes drop, then fix on his ripped abs. Lift that shirt a bit higher and I bet he’s cut with an eight-pack. The orange jumpsuit the crew wore, which Finn stuffed beneath a bush with a muttered “good riddance” about a mile behind us, didn’t do him justice.