“Give it here.” I hold out my hand.
“You don’t want me to film yer winning? Because you are going to win, right, Finn?”
“Did you place money on me?”
“A wee bit.”
“Why don’t you go have a smoke outside.”
“A smoke?”
“You heard me.”
“Whatever.” She passes me the phone and I jam it deep inside my pocket.
I gesture to the front exit.
“May God be on yer side tonight,” she murmurs, her expression saying it all. She believes I’m going to lose.
She walks off, and I turn toward Edward, the thin fella I helped out not so long ago. He’s sporting a smile the size of Cork.
“What are you grinning about?” I grunt out.
“Just taking the piss. O’Brien had me deliver an airline ticket to the South African lady. She had a few choice words for him then ordered all her fellas to double down on their bets.”
“She’s here?”
“Right over there.” I follow his pointer finger to the group of South Africans lined up thick as thieves by the far wall. Sure enough, Mrs. Ogdenhayer is among them.
“Grand,” is all I say.
“You’re going to win, right?”
I raise an eyebrow. “Damned if I do and damned if I don’t, wouldn’t you say?”
He leans in toward me. “One good deed deserves another. I’ll be in a car waiting for you in the back alley. Yer going to want to make a quick exit.”
“You think so?”
He chuckles.
“Thanks.” I’m not a trusting fella. Whether Edward will be waiting in the alley or not is questionable. But I won’t know for sure till I get out there, now will I?
Vidal reenters the cage and positions himself dead center. His eyes tracking my movement when I don’t join him and, instead, shift closer to the steps.
The bell rings.
I wait, hands by my side.
One second, two.
Vidal charges forward for the attack.
Quick as an Irish snake fleeing St. Patrick, I strike, hitting him hard enough to lift the fella off his feet. One swift punch to the jaw, and it’s lights out.
I’m down the stairs, across the club and out the back exit before chaos erupts behind me.
I run in a dead sprint, around the side of the club toward the front, and then up the grassy hill directly across the street.
Then, like the thick-headed eegit that I am, I hit the dirt.
Down below, the South Africans come charging around the building. Cursing and screaming my name. Threatening to off me once they find me.
Floodlights turn on, illuminating the furious faces below. O’Brien’s men filing out soon after, laughing and singing me praises.
Then the fight club becomes just that—a fight club. Frustrations boils over, tempers erupt, and fists fly. A massive free-for-all brawl spreads out across the parking lot. I spy Mrs. Ogendayer in the middle of it, shouting her face off at anyone and everyone.
And me, the fella sitting pretty on the hill?
I watch it all unfold and film it all unfolding . . . for Clarissa.
I have her files. A cut here and edit there, and things will be good to go. TORC remains anonymous. My role in this murky at best. My beour can have her story from beginning to end.
I’m finishing it for her.
Phone held high, I feckin’ film it all.
38
Finn
As tight as a duck’s arse, O’Brien is. I’ve got to say, a black eye, busted lip, and bruised ribs are more enjoyable than working for his like. No sympathy for the wounded warrior Finn. No slap on the back for earning him a bleeding fortune last night. Not so much as five euros tossed my way.
I’m not looking for a handout. Just commenting on his true character. Christ, I can only imagine how he penny-pinched Mrs. Ogdenhayer.
“McDuff. Stop daydreaming and get yerself outside,” I hear O’Brien bark.
I mutter a few choice words beneath my breath then exit through a wide opening facing the loading area.
The warehouse is abuzz with activity. Everything’s moving along brilliantly. Buyers have been filtering in all morning. Lorries are loaded. Names have been secretly taken and license plates recorded.
Video clips and audio of the shenanigans have been recorded—because in this mad, guilt-riddled quest to make amends, I’m full-on away with the fairies.
Twenty-three buyers are expected in the next three days, half of which have already arrived early.
A lot can happen before Hayden arrives. In the meantime, I just need things to go smoothly.
“You going to stand about gawking?” O’Brien points to the massive crate on the ground. “Or you waiting for it to jump into the cargo bed on its bleedin’ own?” Says the big fella with a big motherfeckin’ mouth and wee, idle hands.
A few men join me and together we lift the crate and load it onto the cargo bed of the Frenchman’s lorry. When Hayden runs the plates, it’ll likely be registered to a Frenchman, like gravitating toward like when it comes down to doing their dirty work. Still, I’ve got to say, I’m curious. Is O’Brien the main middleman for Europe’s illegal uranium trade? Because it’s looking that way. Ferries, ships, and tunnels mean unnecessary risk. If O’Brien is the sole distributor then I suppose a quick jaunt to the Emerald Isle is necessary.
I hope I’m right, and then TORC can put an end to this business.
The Frenchman is having a smoke near the front end. I amble toward him then trip, pitch sideways, and bump into him. “Sorry, didn’t see you,” I mutter, gesturing with one hand to my swollen eye. With the other, I tuck his wallet into my jeans pocket.
Driving without a license will slow him down at customs, as it will with the ten other driver’s pockets I’ve picked, buying Hayden time to decide if the authorities should be involved.
The sound of the cargo door slamming shut has the driver tossing his cigarette onto the ground and crushing the tip out with his shoe before clambering into the driver’s seat.
I stand and watch him leave, thumbing my fat pocket and marveling at the ease of it all. I’m about to turn away when I notice two cars on the horizon.
“Who the feck could that be?” I hear O’Brien exclaim.
The guards? CIA? An unscheduled buyer? Whoever this is, is clearly unexpected.
O’Brien’s men assemble in front of the warehouse entrance while I, ever so slowly, make my way back inside.
Then, I do what I must, and disappear into the rows of crates.
39
Clarissa
Stealing inside the warehouse was simple. It was dark, therefore easy to avoid the cheap cameras monitoring the outside. Three men were guarding the inside, but they were preoccupied with screaming obscenities at a livestream broadcast on one of their phones.
Fight night.
Finn versus Vidal.
And Finn was getting his ass kicked.
I didn’t know how I felt about that. Mixed emotions, at best; my anger at his betrayal running deep. It was only fair he offered the necessary distraction for me to slip inside unnoticed.
I wandered about, searching for a place to hide near the warehouse entrance, positioning myself close to the loading area where I’d have the best vantage point. I found a crate half-filled with an assortment of contraband; jewelry, watches, furs, and silk. O’Brien must have robbed a high-end boutique. The top of the crate was open, so I climbed inside then nestled down into the silks and furs. It’s the perfect hideaway with thumb-sized gaps between the wooden slats where I can see and record what’s happening yet stay hidden beneath all the bling.
Dangerous? Of course.
Necessary if I want to have anything resembling a story? Absolutely. My narrative alone won’t cut it. Visual evidence—proof of the nefarious trade of nuclear weapon components—that’s the stuff that sells stories.
I began recompiling my story while the guards
were preoccupied by locating the uranium and quietly taking a video of the crates, and then the warehouse itself. I’ll add narrative later.
I was mid-video when the screaming began.
“Holy shite!”
“Did you see that? Brilliant, bloody brilliant.”
“Knocked the bastard out with a single punch.”
My breath hitched—I remember very clearly how I struggled to breathe, waiting for a sign Finn was okay.
I’ve damned him to hell and back, but, evidently, I don’t want him hurt.
Yet my worries were misplaced.
“We’re rich, mates. That smug wanker just won us a shiteload of money.”
Smug, deceitful, asshole of a wanker, I felt like correcting the man.
With the fight over, I hurried back to my hiding place and hunkered down for the night.
was jolted awake as O’Brien and company returned, arriving at the warehouse in the early morning hours. One by one, his men stepped inside. Limping, cursing, battered and bruised. The group of them looking like they’d been dragged beneath a semi-truck.
I remember wondering what happened but didn’t have to wait long to find out. My answer came from the man in the middle of what O’Brien’s men are calling “last night’s bloodbath.”
Finn.
He was standing a yard away from me and looking worse than a man who’d been mauled by a pit bull. The early morning light did nothing to hide his blackened eye and battered face. He winced as he walked and winced more when one of the men gathered around him slapped him good-naturedly on the back. “One bleeding second you were in the cage and the next you were gone.”
“The South Africans were raging.”
“Couldn’t find you so we had to step in instead.”
“Good fun. Haven’t used me fists like that in quite a while.”
Finn nodded at their comments as I tried to sort through what exactly had happened.
A fight after Finn’s fight? The Irish mob versus the South Africans? It certainly sounded like it. I suppose Mrs. Ogdenhayer wasn’t thrilled with Finn’s win?
Finn followed through on our plan. He won so he could get in with O’Brien. That means something, right?
I heard Finn’s muttered curse after O’Brien appeared and ordered him back to work. His reaction to his new boss felt familiar; he really doesn’t like the man.
The trucks began arriving less than an hour later. I captured it all, the drivers signing paperwork, O’Brien marching about and ordering which crates would be loaded onto what lorries. The direct exchange of illegal goods.
Finn, in the thick of it all.
The lies. The deception.
I mean, is he even Irish? Is his name even Finn McDuff? When I think of everything between us, the throaty promises, the banter, the friendship, love, was it all a lie?
Seeing him stirs up a myriad emotions. But my feelings aren’t important, getting this story done is what matters. I began this journey in heartbreak. It’s about to end with heartbreak, too. But this time around, I’ll have something to show for it.
I’ll grieve for what might have been later.
Right now, I have the most important part of this story to capture.
I film Finn loading the bed of truck number eleven, O’Brien hovers nearby but contributes nothing. And as seconds turn to minutes, and then more minutes, I find myself waiting, believing Finn will do something to end—or at the very least stall—this transaction.
No, Finn’s not CIA. Yes, he is working for the dark-haired stranger who wanted me gone. Beyond a doubt, he despises O’Brien. Why gain O’Brien’s interest? Why fight? Why load uranium into trucks if he doesn’t have an interest in this dirty business?
When truck number eleven drives away, I feel the tears on my cheeks. Deep down, I still believed he was a good man. That he hurt me for a valiant reason . . . to stop atomic weapons material from reaching the wrong hands. I might not forgive his lies, but I could live with that.
But now, after witnessing the truth . . .
“Now who the feck could that be?” O’Brien shouts and I quickly brush away my tears. His men rush forward to gather at the entrance. All of them . . . except Finn.
I blink as he hurries by me and away from the new arrivals. It’s hard to know where he’s gone, yet instinct tells me he’s close.
Don’t make a noise, Clarissa.
“That bitch is back,” O’Brien exclaims. My jaw drops when his men draw their guns. The thin wooden crate I’m in won’t hold up against bullets, I think yet ignore my rising panic. With shaking hands, I adjust the camera’s zoom lens until I can almost feel the heat coming off O’Brien’s reddened cheeks.
Two cars park, and Mrs. Ogdenhayer exits one of them.
My eyes go wide at her audacity.
Four South Africans jump out of the first car and three others from hers. What’s going on?
She charges toward O’Brien then gets in his face. “We had a deal.”
“Did we, now?” he growls.
Holy hell. This could be exactly what I need. This could be my Ronald Reagan moment, my Berlin Wall speech, “Mr. Gorbachev, tear down this wall.”
“The price for the uranium was nonnegotiable. And it was to be paid in full upon delivery. That’s why I’m here in this goddamn country.”
“The price Mr. Ogdenhayer quoted was reasonable.”
“The price Mr. Ogdenhayer . . .” Point goes to O’Brien because he’s flustered her so much, she struggles to finish her sentence.
“I hear Ogenhayer’s mistress is a looker. Bet Barrington allowed you to meddle in this exchange so he has time alone to feck her.”
Mrs. Ogenhayer’s face turns white, then red. “I hear you’re unmarried. They say your dick is the size of a peanut and not even a porn star with lips the size of a watermelon can get it up.”
Two . . . no, three points to Mrs. Ogdenhayer. Because O’Brien is fuming. He can dish it out but can’t take it, can he? I want to roll my eyes. It’s high school, all over. I need facts, information. Not this bullshit battle for the title of “Worst Lover.”
O’Brien erupts, as predicted. “Take that ticket I gave you and get yer sorry self back to Cape Town. I’ll be telling Barrington that any future uranium orders are to be directly handled by him.” Two of O’Brien’s men grab her by the arms and literally drag her back to her car. Her men follow, wise enough to realize they can escape while still breathing.
“Enjoy it now, you asshole,” she screeches, losing her temper and her mind. “People from around the world are lined up to buy from us. Our mine will be fully operable soon.”
Yes. Keep talking.
I gasp then cover my mouth as O’Brien raises his gun. “I shoot you in the head and no one would be buying from you.”
“Do it, and you’ll find out how much my husband really does love me.”
This is crazy. Like I’m in the middle of shooting a horror flick, the main characters petty, spiteful weapons dealers. It’s going to translate well on television.
A struggling Mrs. Ogdenhayer is forced inside her car. “This isn’t the
last—” the door slams shut, cutting off her threat.
O’Brien gestures to his men.
Guns are fired but I film through it. Capturing the cold-blooded execution, and the South Africans’ as they fall to the ground.
Oh my God. Oh my God. Oh my God.
It feels like Señora del Leon’s hacienda blowing up all over again. It feels like the moment that first bomb exploded nearby in Aleppo.
Steady now.
Steady.
The shooting stops and O’Brien gestures to two of his men. “Drive her to the airport and make sure she boards a plane.”
The men climb inside and the cars speed away.
An awkward silence slips into the space. The smell of gun powder mixed with death overwhelms the senses. Everyone seems shell-shocked, except O’Brien.
Aw, feck.
He’s looking ri
ght at me. Did I give myself away? Can he see the camera?
I swallow hard as he charges toward me.
My mind goes blank, a surge of adrenaline freezing me in place.
There’s a noise, movement, and then someone steps in front of the crate, blocking my view.
“I’ve got to say,” Finn’s voice cuts through the silence, “You might have a huge, hard dick, Boss. But it’s that tongue of yers that could use a wee bit of softening.”
The warehouse fills with laughter.
“You don’t know how close you come, boyo . . .” O’Brien chuckles from somewhere nearby, likely standing on the other side of Finn, “to me skinning you alive for running away like that. Fancy a fighter like you are, scared of a woman like that.”
Finn grunts.
“It wasn’t her that had you hurrying away?”
“No, sir.”
“No, sir. Will you get a load of him now?” Pause. “What was it then?”
“I had urgent business in the jacks.”
The warehouse erupts into more laughter. Even O’Brien’s cackle fills the space.
I relax. Danger avoided. No one’s aware I’m here.
The men go back to the business of moving illegal merchandise. Yet I don’t dare shift positions, not yet, because Finn is still standing there, his back to me.
“Tomorrow, I’ll be on the lookout for packets of those little blue pills. That limp dicked feck must have a crate of them hidden somewhere.”
I blink. Little blue pills . . .Viagra?
Is Finn addressing me? Did he learn of the rumor I spread about him?
He stalks off just as the panic sets in.
And I’m left with a choice that’s really no choice at all. Do I stay or do I run?
40
Finn
In the wee hours of the morning Armageddon strikes. I’m half-asleep on a bottom bunk bed in a large, sparse room set up for workers. Resting rather than like the other fellas, who are asleep like babies. I’ve more at risk, don’t you know?
Shouts and gunfire startle everyone awake. But I’m already on me feet and sprinting for the main warehouse floor. I’m nearing what’s left of the uranium crates when the South Africans bust open the warehouse door. Diving, I land on me stomach then crawl to the nearest crate, tucking me body behind it then carefully taking a gander at the unexpected visitors.
Player: An Enemies to Lovers Romance (A Deadliest Lies Novel Book 4) Page 22