“Judging by that face, yer not liking what yer seeing. But I’ll have ye know this is the most accurate system in the European Union. Says so right on the wall.”
A plaque does indeed hang on the wall to the right.
The nagging question rolls around in my mind but I’m hesitant to ask it. After all, what would a Yankee graduate student know about the Irish mob?
“The amount of ships coming and going is impressive.” I bite my lip. “Especially in a port that’s low key and environmentally conscious. But, still, it’s a port and, like in other ports, there must be . . . crime?” I allow the last word to dangle.
Joseph snorts. “Even the mob knows to avoid us, being half the residents work for the guards. Government offered them special housing as an enticement to live here. Part of the big picture when developing this place.”
“Seems they thought of everything.”
“That they did. Shame Kinsale didn’t fare as well.”
My ears perk up. Kinsale is a beautiful, quaint town to the west of Cork. It’s also on the water.
“Like New York, we’ve our share of problems. I’ll show you something, but you can’t include it in yer report.” He steps beside me and clicks the computer mouse. Additional data immediately filters into the information on the screen. “Those crooks aren’t as clever as they think. Updated their computer systems, Kinsale did. Our systems and data are linked.” He points to the screen. “See here? A cargo ship scheduled for Cork docked in Kinsale a few days shy of a week ago. Suspicious in itself, but the lack of information in the system has O’Brien and his crew written all over it.”
“O’Brien?” I murmur, trying to calm my excitement.
“Biggest feckin’ wanker this side of Armagh. Up to no good again. Wonder what he’s got himself into this time around.”
Uranium, I think. Trading explosive materials.
“The garda won’t step in?”
“They like to line up all the eggs before shooing the hens out of the hen house. Less violent. Less bloodshed that way. Now if it were hard drugs the mob were pushing, that’d be a different story.”
If you only knew the truth.
I stare at the screen. Hard proof the uranium is in Ireland and in O’Brien’s possession stares back at me. But where is the shipment now?
“What did you say yer field of study was?” he asks, catching me by surprise. But he answers before I do. “You should pursue journalism. Then you could expose the corrupt and honor the deserving.”
I’m at a loss of words. How does he know? How can a complete stranger see deep inside my heart within a matter of minutes? Clever man, I think. Because exposing the corrupt and honoring the deserving is exactly my mission.
“The mob won’t have an easy time of it, bringing cargo into Kinsale. Rain has ruined the larger roadways leading in and out of the place. Large lorries can’t move heavier goods out of the port until the roads dry.”
My eyebrows lift. “You think they’ll wait out the weather?”
“Know it for a fact. This isn’t the first time they’ve used Kinsale to move illegal goods. The cargo will sit inside a rinky-dink storage facility near the port while the rain keeps up. At night, when the weather is poor, the mob likes to filter into Cork City for the fights. Aside from me arthritis, it’s the other reason I dislike the rain.”
My pulse quickens as the puzzle pieces fit into place. The uranium, for now, sits inside a warehouse while the roads dry.
“You know a story when you hear one, eh? Yes, you would make a fine journalist. Think about it.”
“I will. Promise.” I smile.
He winks. “Enough about those hooligans. Let me give you the tour.” He proceeds to show me how efficiently the port is run and how clean the water remains despite the industrialization. And although I’m anxious to move onto my next location, I allow myself time to appreciate what they’ve done here. One day, when my career takes off, I’ll cover this port and honor the deserving. I might even reconnect with Joseph to share how I took his advice.
Several pictures and a few hastily typed notes later, and I’m in a cab heading to Kinsale.
I ask the cab to wait in the parking lot in front of the port’s small office building. But instead of entering, I steal around the building and head toward what can only be the rinky-dink storage houses. The driveway dividing the buildings is quiet and, from what I can tell, void of security. It’s not until I reach the end that I spy the security cameras. Positioned on those last storage houses.
Bingo.
It’s raining yet it feels like a spotlight of sunshine has fallen across those buildings. Highlighting what’s hidden inside—the uranium.
I take out my phone, and, careful to stay out of the security camera range, begin to record.
“Hidden within the aluminum-sided storage warehouses located in the quaint, picturesque village of Kinsale . . .”
20
Finn
The minx breezes past, pretending not to notice me lurking near her door. “Where’ve you been?” I demand, a wee bit more forcefully than intended. The damn drink has me head feeling like I’ve been hanging upside down by me ankles with me lips plastered to the Blarney Stone.
I can see it’s going to require a bit of malarkey to set her straight.
“Here and there,” she says.
“You’re soaked to the skin.”
She shrugs her shoulders.
I focus on her face, not allowing my gaze to wander to where her T-shirt clings tightly across her breasts. Hold on, is she smirking?
My eyes narrow. I was anticipating anger, possibly rage, after her dumping water on the ol’ noggin. The soggy note she tossed at me lay drying on the windowsill.
But that secretive smirk is feckin’ unsettling.
“Want to tell me something?” I ask.
“Sure do.” She spins and pins me with the heat of her stare. “Fuck off.” With that, she pushes her door open and disappears into her room.
Bloody hell.
Good thing she takes to documenting important information like a swan takes to water. Whatever that smirk is about, I’ll find out. I wander back to my room and begin a set of grueling exercises. Preparing my body for better fighters to come. Punishing myself and my love of the drink. Pushing past a wicked hangover and a nagging sense of regret.
A professional, semi-functional relationship. That’s what this will be.
This is what you wanted, bucko.
This is all yer allowed to want.
21
Clarissa
The underground seems different tonight. Conversations are filled with less boasting and more careful consideration of who’ll survive the cage. Great secrecy falls over the wagers being made. A prevailing somberness hangs over the crowd.
Even Finn is all business, on the other side of the cage and in full training mode. Giving away no signs of the wicked hangover he must be feeling, or the strained tension between us.
I was surprised when he knocked on my door and in not-so-many-words, told me, “You don’t wanna miss tonight’s shenanigans.” As if it’d been my fault I missed the last fights. But I’m not one to look a gift horse in the mouth. This is business. If Finn’s decided to include me once more, so be it.
“Your wan is fine,” Fiona says.
I shrug. “He’s okay.”
They look at me like I haven’t a clue.
My eyes drift back to Finn, who’s doing curls with a heavy set of weights while talking trash to the fighter next to him. I know this because the poor man is trying to do the same amount of curls as Finn, at the same aggressive speed yet looks ready to pass out.
“How can a black eye add to someone’s sex appeal?” I mutter. In the short time I’ve known Finn, he’s sported one or two. And before that, you thought he was a barbarian. “And your guy? Is he hot?” I ask, refocusing on what really matters, seeking out more information about her mobster boyfriend.
“Johnny? When he’s
not effin’ and blindin’ nonstop he’s tolerable.”
“Has a way with words, that one,” Shirley adds.
“If he had a wee smidgeon of your wan’s fine looks, he’d be tolerable and easy on the eyes.”
I know I shouldn’t, but I’m still pissed off at Finn’s hot and cold dance. “Don’t tell him I told you,” I murmur, loud enough that my new friends lean in closer, eager to hear my lie, “but he’s useless in the bedroom.”
“You don’t say,” they gush, their heads turning in unison to look at Finn.
“If it weren’t for Viagra . . .”
“Viagra!” Their heads swing my way, and I force my smile back.
“He has a lifetime prescription. Needs to take three of them to get it up.”
“You taking the piss, are you?”
“Who would have thought?”
“So, you saying he’s taking performance-enhancing drugs?” Fiona comments. They snicker and I laugh.
Revenge complete.
“But, please, don’t tell anyone. He’d be mortified.” I pause, satisfied with the damage I’ve done. Because I’ve no doubt the entire club will know of Finn’s predicament before the night’s over. “I’ll be right back. Need to use the restroom.”
Halfway across the room, I look back. Sure enough, my friends have scattered, eager to share the news.
When I return, they gather around me, completely mute like no one has anything to say. Like all the talking that’s transpired in the brief time I was gone has caused their throats to go hoarse.
“Eddie looks ready to keel over.” Fiona finally says, gesturing to Lucy’s boyfriend, a scrawny, freckled kid who’s struggling to lift a barbell.
“I told him this was a bad idea but he dinna listen.”
“Always trying to one-up Johnny. Admit it. That’s why he took a laborers job.”
“Yeah, but the company likes Eddie better. Says he’s got brains while Johnny’s got brawn.”
My ears perk up. Company . . . like the mob? So, Eddie is connected, too?
“Johnny’s his brother. He’s not here tonight because of Eddie. He can’t hit the pubs until all the heavy lifting jobs have been filled.”
“He’s looking for help?” I blurt.
“Manual labor. Pay is okay.”
“Finn’s in construction,” I toss out, a bit too eagerly, so I tone it down. “Needs a steady paycheck to pay for all that Viagra.”
They laugh, and I give myself a mental pat on the back.
“Yer wan is a laborer then?”
“Back in the States, he is,” I continue with my lie. “Heavy lifting. Laying bricks. Stirring concrete even, when the mixer is broken.”
“By hand? That’s how he’s got those biceps?” Lucy coos.
I roll my eyes.
I watch them eyeing Finn. He catches on quickly, and our eyes meet. “He likes to be hands-on.”
“I bet his big, manly hands are on you frequently.”
“When those magic pills kick in, they are.”
They break out into a fit of giggles. Finn offers me a cheeky smile, assuming his manliness is what has everyone flustered. Cocky and certain of the female attention he draws. Not a humble bone in his body. Wonder what he’d say if he knew his prowess, or lack of it, was in question?
“I’ll talk to Johnny on yer behalf.”
My grin is broad enough to fill the room. “Thank you, Fiona. Finn will be thrilled.”
For a heartbeat, it feels like I’ve struck gold. Plan B is now in full force. If Finn fails to draw the mob’s attention through fighting, he can make contact through work.
We’re all watching Finn when he says something to Edward.
For crying out loud.
Lucy’s boyfriend drops the weights he’s been struggling with, then charges over to him, clearly agitated by what was said.
I wave at Finn in an attempt to get his attention.
He’s too busy tossing barbs at Edward to notice.
“I’m going to the bar,” Lucy says, and saunters off. Annoyed at me, for my boyfriend upsetting hers?
“Johnny won’t like him much if he antagonizes his baby brother. You might want to have a word with your wan. Just saying.” Fiona stalks off after Lucy.
Edward takes a wild swing at Finn.
Finn easily sidesteps but keeps on taunting him.
And the progress I’ve made tonight goes up in smoke.
22
Finn
“You’re an idiot.”
I scratch my chin and give Clarissa a firm look. It’s the first full sentence she’s said to me since I went into total wanker mode. “You still sore about the other night?”
In a voice barely above a whisper, she lays into me. “You broke your promise that we’d do this together. And why? Because we had okay sex then you couldn’t handle the aftermath, so you ghosted me like I had a contagious disease. Yes, I’m pissed. There’s nothing worse than a liar, and you reneging on our agreement is a step toward that fine line.”
Nothing worse than a liar? Jaysus, if she ever discovered the truth. Everything about me is a lie. “Okay sex?” I say in a booming voice, deflecting by trying to make her laugh. Her on my side tonight is what I need. Not her brooding over the illusions of us.
Behind me, a few eavesdroppers snicker.
She breaks into an earsplitting grin.
I frown in confusion.
She waits until the crowd’s attention turns elsewhere. “You’re an idiot because the guy you were antagonizing is Johnny’s brother. I spent an hour discussing how you’d be perfect for the laborer job he’s looking to fill. You know, plan B in case you get your ass handed to you in the cage.”
“Ye of little faith,” I mutter. Me arse handed to me? That’s as likely to happen as these fine lads walking out of the cage without limping. But her cleverness makes me smile.
“I bet half your life is spent pissing people off and the other half apologizing.”
“Partially true.” I pause. “But usually my colleen’s gentle heart finds a way to forgive me.”
She scowls. No forgiveness there.
A bell rings just as I’ve half a mind to apologize for being a shyster. She deserves better than the trouble I’ll be causing her.
“Wish me luck,” I say.
“I’ll be waiting over there by the stretchers,” the sassy woman says, quick with a comeback. Jaysus, I must be rubbing off on her. “Make amends with Eddie, Finn,” she adds. “If you can.”
I can.
Clarissa stalks off.
But I won’t.
My first bout is against Donovan, a lad with a wild uppercut and the patience of a saint. Conor McGregor would be an easier opponent.
I can tell from how Donovan’s warming up that he’s ambitious. It’s in every jab, every kick, every cool assessment he passes over the other fellas. There’s a reason the pup has a winning record in these fight clubs. He’s hungry for more than a few quick quid.
I know the feeling. Lived, breathed, and almost died for it. Excellent preparation for what was to come, TORC’s Hell Camp. Thanks to my stint as Antonio, I’m nowhere near the maximum physical condition I’d been in.
Clarissa returns with a pint and a whiskey.
“Here.” She hands me the shot glass. “You sure this is a good idea?”
“Can’t say that I do.” I toss back the whiskey then follow it with a sip of Guinness.
“He’s a professional fighter. Everyone says he can punch.”
“Then I’ll just have to get out of his way.”
“And he’s fast.”
“Then I best finish my drink and savor the anticipation.”
She rolls her eyes. But her sassy attitude has been replaced by concern and I’ve got to say, I like it. I like her worrying her pretty head about me getting me head smashed in. I like her caring about me.
“What if you lose?”
“I won’t.”
She sighs. “Did you speak with Edwar
d?”
“That would be a no.”
“Finn,” she grinds out my name. I feel my cock twitch, liking the sound of it, liking it very much indeed. “It’s one thing to be confident but—”
I snatch her elbow and tug her into me before she can finish.
She gasps as her chest collides with mine.
I lean in. “I’ll show you confidence later when we’re rolling on the floor and having subpar sex again.”
That quiets her down.
The bell sounds. I finish my pint, ignoring Clarissa’s concern.
She thinks I’m as mad as a box of frogs.
Maybe I am.
“Finn?” she says, pulling free.
“Yeah.”
She looks me square in the face. So serious. So feckin’ beautiful it stirs up things inside me that are better left alone. “If you’re losing, give me a signal and I’ll interrupt the fight.”
I give her arm a squeeze, needing to touch her again. “I can do that,” I reassure her. Fretting her pretty head over a scrapper like me, who was born with a clenched fist and whose fighting skills were what attracted Hayden into recruiting him in the first place. Broken leg? Keep fighting. New style of attack? Take a beating while you adjust. Cheap shot to the groin, hold yer breath then get even. Fight till you win. Period. If I lose, they’ll be carrying my lifeless body away on the stretcher.
“You did good tonight. Now it’s my turn to show you a thing or two.”
I place a kiss on her forehead without thinking.
Her eyes flash wide, though I’m pretty feckin’ sure my surprise mirrors hers. Quickly recovering, I hand her my empty pint glass and stalk off before things can get any more awkward.
I rip off my shirt as I enter the cage. Whipping it in circles overhead, I jog around the octagon, playing the buffoon. I release my grip and it sails into the crowd. Two dodgers fight for it, my new T-shirt bringing out the best in men.
Half the crowd are friends of Seamus’s and fist pump the air in solidarity. The other half are team punk-Edward, easily identifiable by the pints of the Black Stuff being hurled at me. Slicking up the mat, and as luck would have it, unintentionally giving me an unexpected advantage.
Player: An Enemies to Lovers Romance (A Deadliest Lies Novel Book 4) Page 14