“You taking the piss?” she demands. When I don’t respond, she presses on. “Where’d she go?”
“On a slow boat to nowhere.”
“She ended things with you, did she?”
“Right about now, I’d say so.”
Fiona huffs. “Can’t say I didn’t see it coming. Not with yer problem and all. And, Clarissa, well she seems like the sort who likes to shag twenty-four seven.”
I choke on my beer.
“A handsome fella like you needing the Viagra. What a shame.” She clucks her tongue.
Christ on a bleeding bike. What bollocks is this?
She elbows me in the side. “Yer secret’s safe with me. Anyways, Johnny has a word for you.”
“Right now?”
“You have somewhere else to be?” She rolls her eyes. “He’s outside.”
I cringe. Last time I stepped outside to hear a word, the boss pulled the carpet out on me.
I feel Fionna’s hand on my arm. “Don’t be so torn up about yer wan leaving you. I’m no fortune-teller but I’ve a feeling she’ll find her way back to you. Mark my words.”
Doubtful. Not even if she were an Olympic athlete and swims back to Cork.
I’ve fourteen days to bring that motherfecker O’Brien down. I push back from the bar.
Let the shenanigans begin.
Outside, the tip of a lit cigarette greets me from the darkness. I scowl, never been fond of smoking. Johnny steps forward, his tall, lanky frame reminds me of a Slim Jim beef stick. Mercifully, he gets straight to the point. “There’s a few full day’s work for you starting the day after tomorrow.”
“What kind of work?”
“Heavy lifting. Loading shite from the warehouse onto lorries.”
“Tell O’Brien I’ll do whatever he needs me to do.”
“Hard up, are you?” His gaze skims over me. Suspicious? Or simply curious?
“Or maybe it’s that you can’t get it up?”
For Christ’s sake.
He chuckles, like his quip is the funniest joke around. I’ve half a mind to knock a few yellowed teeth out then see if he’s laughing. In defense of what, my bloody prowess in the bedroom?
“Magic pills for everything these days.” I manage, causing him to laugh harder.
He finally collects himself, then, feeling more charitable toward me, says, “Word of advice. Don’t linger after you win the fight. You hear me?”
“Not even for a few free pints?” I press.
“Not if yer planning on reporting in to work at the warehouse the next morning.”
I study his expression. What are you hinting at, Johnny-boy?
He tosses the cigarette on the ground and crushes the amber out with his shoe. “One last thing.”
“Grand.”
“There’ll be an intermission during the final bout. Time for more bets to be made. O’Brien says yer to take a bleedin’ massive beating up until then.”
“What say you?”
He punches me lightly in the arm. “Good luck, motherfecker. A shiteload of money will be riding on you. Win or else . . .” He laughs as he strolls away.
And I head back into the pub to finish drowning me sorrows. If she’d been a student or a nurse or a barmaid—anything else than a feckin’ reporter—this might have ended differently. But Hayden’s right. A smart, ambitious wan like Clarissa involved in my life, given my line of work, and I’m a glutton for punishment.
And don’t I deserve to have a few fists sort me out for what I’ve done? Tomorrow’s arse-whopping won’t come close to the clatter going on within me own head.
Is this what it’s like to have a broken heart?
I grimace but not because I don’t acknowledge it. Pretty feckin’ hard to ignore the fact I’ve feelings for the minx. No, what weighs on me most isn’t my sudden revelation.
What troubles me is what Clarissa must be feeling about now.
36
Clarissa
Faking a heart attack isn’t my finest moment. I’ve ruined vacations and even a honeymoon. But considering my story is for the common good, small sacrifices like forcing the ship back to port is necessary.
No one questioned my sincerity.
Drinking four large bottles of bubbly Pelligrino within a twenty-minute span—mixed with vodka, the lesser, less effervescent, of evils—and the buildup of gas felt like a heart attack.
The nurses and doctor at the hospital in Derry think it’s hilarious.
The ship captain and cruise line less so—returning the ship to port for a passenger with chest pains? Disruptive and chaotic, yet part of the safety protocols outlined in the stinking paperwork.
A few gas-relief pills later, and I’m good as gold.
I slip my phone out of my knapsack then research what time the next train leaves Derry for Cork. Perfect. I relax back onto the hospital bed, reassured that I can finish up here and catch that train with no glitches.
I might be in time for Finn’s fight.
But, instead, I have plans elsewhere. Because the fight club storyline is an appetizer to the main course. I imagine buyers will be soon arriving to collect their merchandise. The warehouse is the place to be, a front and center viewpoint for these illegal, black market deals. And Finn wants me nowhere near.
Either he thinks he’s protecting me, or the CIA prefers not to have me witnessing the bust.
Or maybe it’s a combination of both?
Whatever the reason is irrelevant. My finishing what I started takes priority over everything else. My feelings, well, they’re not important. This is my first major investigation since Aleppo, and I’ll be damned if I allow this one to culminate with tears and heartbreak.
Later, I’ll lick my wounds.
I fiddle with my phone, check the time, glance at the door, impatient to do something. With a sigh, I take out a notepad and pen—parting gifts from the cruise ship—then sketch out the chronological order toward composing my story. Short, soon-to-be-filmed clips of trucks being loaded with uranium. My narrative on the container ship, where I’m describing where I am and what’s happening. The CIA’s involvement in infiltrating the mob.
I open the app to the cloud, half my attention devoted to scribbling words on paper. Is there anything I missed? Anything that can complement the hard work I’ve already done?
Tossing the pen onto the pad, I turn my attention toward skimming through my files.
I click on the folder I created. And blink. Nothing is there, not even the video clips from Mexico City or the explosion of Señora del Leon’s hacienda in Tecalipan.
Gone.
My stomach sinks but I try not to panic. Maybe I uploaded everything into the wrong folder? Maybe there’s a glitch in my search engine and video/audio are hidden? I slowly, methodically, begin to scroll through every blessed file, every video, every document.
I still don’t panic when I find nothing.
I double back to the video-recording app. Maybe I overlooked the fact the files didn’t upload? Maybe they’re there?
Nothing.
No. No. No. How could this have happened? I recorded an entire city being bombarded with bombs without losing a single video. I checked then rechecked the files were uploading properly before boarding the cargo ship. It’s simple technology, not rocket science.
How do files uploaded at different times just vanish?
I gasp, but the sound that fills the hospital room sounds more like a moan.
Finn, the CIA.
“I’m going to skin him alive,” I grind out, stumbling out of bed. “He deleted everything, didn’t he?” With shaking hands, I begin to dress. “What gives him the right to tamper with my files?” I shove the pad and pen into my bag and my feet into my shoes. Three firm tugs and I tear off my plastic hospital bracelet then toss it on the bed.
If I hurry, I can visit the local police, ask to speak to a CIA representative, and call bullshit on Finn. To an average citizen, this might seem impossible. But I’m a rep
orter. Getting government officials, politicians, whomever to speak to me is what I do.
What I can’t do is give up hope.
I can’t believe Finn would delete my files without making a copy, knowing how important this story is to me.
Swallowing hard, I force myself into reporter mode. Bottling up my emotions for another day and distancing myself from the sharp sting of his betrayal, I turn my attention to fixing this situation.
Within an hour, I’ve checked out of the hospital, convinced the local guarda to call in a favor, and am seated across a table from a CIA agent.
He’s handsome, and well-dressed in a suit and tie, with short hair and not a trace of whiskers on his dark complexion.
“I’d like you to contact Agent Finn McDuff,” is how I begin.
“About?”
“We have a personal history. And he has something that belongs to me.”
The agent scribbles Finn’s name on a piece of paper. “You understand the CIA is prohibited from releasing contact information on its agents.”
I roll my eyes. “Code of silence. Yes, so I’ve heard.”
The agent frowns. “From Finn McDuff.”
I nod. “Please. Reach out to him. He has my passport. I can’t leave Ireland without it.”
Or his explanation.
“What’s your name?”
He holds his pen, ready to write. “Clarissa Steele. Last name has an “e” on the end.”
“Just a minute.” The handsome agent stands up then leaves the room.
I tap my foot on the floor and wait. Wondering how I got to this moment, heartbroken that it has to come to this.
The agent returns with an odd look on his face. “You worked in Aleppo?”
My eyes go wide. “Yes.”
“My friend was there as well. He recognized your name. Said you’re a decent journalist but an even better person . . . for what you did for that little girl.”
“I didn’t do enough. She died.”
He doesn’t react as expected. “The world would be a better place if people heard the truth of what happened in Syria. You should do a documentary about it. So we don’t forget that innocent people lost their lives due to foreign decision-making. ”
Oh my God. Sometimes in life when you’re brought to your knees and barely hanging on—like I am in this moment—you’re reminded of why you’ve arrived at this point, what motivated you to take the risk, to put yourself out there.
This is my moment.
“Her name was Christiana.” I lean in across the table. “And you will be hearing her story, that I promise you.”
“I’ll be watching.” He folds his arms across his chest and leans back in his seat. “Now about Mr. McDuff.”
My eyebrows pinch together. Mr.? That’s odd. “Can I speak to him?”
“That’s going to be a problem.”
I grind my teeth together. “Isn’t it always with him?”
“I wouldn’t know. In fact, no one at the CIA would.” He doesn’t have to say anything more. Not a single word more. Because the full extent of Finn’s betrayal hits me like a led pipe.
He lied about everything.
He played me.
“You need to be very careful when dealing with this man.”
“What?” I grasp hold of the table as the room spins wildly around me.
“Whoever this man is, he’s not CIA.”
37
Finn
“You Finn McDuff?” a voice asks from the darkness. I sway on me feet, three sheets to the wind but not pissed enough to miss the accent.
“Who wants to know?”
Gravel crunches as one of the South Africans approaches me from behind. I let him jump me, push me about, then pitch me into the back of a parked car. Another fella is in the backseat, waiting for me.
So, this is a quick courtesy call, is all.
I relax, having expected something like this. “Where are we going?”
A punch in the side is the only answer I get.
“Easy,” I hiss. “You hurt the merchandise, and I won’t be in any condition to toss a fight.”
“He knows?” the man hovering in the door and blocking my exit demands.
“Mrs. O. wants us to remind him of their agreement. You hear us, asshole. You go down and let Vidal win.”
“Now why would I be doing that?”
I cough after another punch hits my side. “Merchandise.”
He stuffs a thick envelope in the elastic waist of me joggers. “An advance to whet your appetite.”
“Take the money and do as she asks,” the other fella adds. “Because she’s not leaving this country without giving O’Brien the stiff middle finger. He deserves to lose money after stealing from her.”
“What did he take, her nail polish?” Now, I admit women are the stronger sex and the nail-polish comment is something a sexist prig might say. But a lad’s got to say what a lad’s got to say to get these shite-for-brains talking.
And they do.
“Lowballed her during negotiations and tried to rob her blind.”
“That arrogant Irish fuck ignored the signed agreement they’d made. Tore the paper up in Mrs. O’s face then tossed it in the air.”
I snort. “Throwing shapes, was he?” I imagine O’Brien, red-faced and breathing fire, getting his jollies from taking the piss out of Mrs. Ogdenhayer.
“I gather this is about revenge.”
They don’t say anything. Answer enough, which I seize on. “Vindictive, is she?”
“Very. Mr. Ogdenhayer would never tolerate this petty bullshit.”
“And he’s home in . . . Cape Town?” I ask, guessing wildly at where Hayden might be able to find this lovely couple and their nefarious business.
“Yeah.”
I grin. Africa’s a huge continent, South Africa an enormous country. Cape Town might be a large city, but Hayden will still be pleased our search has narrowed.
I decide to throw them a bone then deal with the repercussions later. “Tell her an order is an order.”
Reenter the fight scene. Earn O’Brien’s interest. Get rid of the reporter. Yeah, orders are orders, but some take priority over others.
“Told you he’d do it.”
“Good call,” says the bloke whose been beating on me. He pats the envelope pressed against me stomach. “Tit for tat, right?”
Now it might be the drink or the enlightening news about Cape Town, or it might be the devil inside, but, whatever it is, it doesn’t stop me from slamming my fist into the gobshite sitting next to me kidney.
He folds over clutching his side.
I shove the other man out of me way and exit the car.
“Tit for tat, right. Be seeing you around, fellas.”
Blood burns me eyes from Vidal’s savage assault.
The minx would be horrified. Another blessing she’s on the sunny side of England by now.
Whack. Whack.
O’Brien asked for a show. O’Brien got it.
And I’m getting what I deserve.
Five. Whack. Four. Thump. Three. Two. Bugger me blind.
Bell.
I glare at Vidal through a veil of red. The bastard’s grinning, so feckin’ confident. Blissfully unaware of the danger staring him down. I shake me head like a dog, sending fluids everywhere.
He jumps back, cursing like the amateur gobshite he is.
I walk away as the ten-minute intermission begins. Everyone but O’Brien’s men are lined up at the betting table. Irish or not, bets are changing in favor of the South African. Country before money in the ol’ pocket? Not a bleedin’ chance with these disloyal wankers.
If they’d only stop long enough to take a gander at the smug faces around them. The South Africans. O’Brien’s men.
If they linger long enough after the fight, they’ll see half of those same smug faces drop.
Even a crafty fella like yours truly can’t win and lose a fight.
I’m handed a white
towel to wipe me face. A bottle of water to quench me thirst. A pat on the ol’ back for a job done well. Do I feel a profound sense of accomplishment? The sweet swell of victory feeding me ego?
Feck no. I’m hungover and bloody miserable. Missing me partner in crime, me beour.
Jaysus. Not even a savage beating can out-hurt me aching heart. I’m struggling with making amends—a plan already in play—because, if I have to let her go, I’m hell-bent on leaving the minx with something.
I search the room for Fiona, who’s unknowingly helping me with this poor arse idea. The boss won’t be so understanding, if he ever figures out what I’m doing.
Right now, he’s pleased as punch with me. The information about Cape Town has that mind of his fast-forwarding to the next steps of the game—locating the supplier then eliminating him.
Or her—Mrs. Ogdenhayer won’t be spared.
In a few days, I’ll be far away from this scene and this country.
Lorries will be arriving at the warehouse during the next three days. The boss says O’Brien is worried the bribes paid to the garda won’t silence the rumors of mob shenanigans, especially when lorries begin arriving from other parts of Ireland. He gave the buyers an ultimatum, get in and out quickly or don’t come at all.
O’Brien’s like a dog rounding up sheep, baring his teeth and barking orders. Neatly gathering the bleating and baaing herd, oblivious to the wolf, Hayden, in the pen.
My eyes connect with the South African from last night. He nods, reminding me I best prepare an exit plan or I’ll be missing out on the grand finale.
“Finn.”
I turn then twist my head away and hold up me hand. “Not in the face, will you?”
“Shy, are you?” Fiona chuckles, lowering the new phone I purchased earlier.
“Did you do as I asked?”
“That I did. I’ve video of the South Africans and also the fellas still wagering on you. But, Finn,” she pauses and offers me a puzzled look, “yer wan isn’t going to like seeing you get yer face smashed in. Aren’t roses and chocolate a better make-up gift than this?”
No. This is perfect.
Player: An Enemies to Lovers Romance (A Deadliest Lies Novel Book 4) Page 21