Vindictive. That’s how the South Africans described Mrs. Ogdenhayer. But we all, the lads, O’Brien, yours truly, believed she’d go away quietly. Underestimating her, and her temperament. I’ve got to say this ambush is truer to character.
Her men file into the dark space. She sent the lot of them, and I count nearly twenty fellas. A bleeding battle, is what this is going to be. I scratch my neck, deciding how to best position myself.
And it’s then that I notice something even more unexpected— a shimmer of light reflected off metal. It comes from between the two broken slats of a crate. Disappears just as fast, where I’m scratching me head and wondering if I’m seeing things.
Not a chance. Some poor bugger is holed up inside the crate closest to the entrance, dead center from where the South Africans are entering. With a gun that caught the light so?
Or a camera?
Christ’s sake. She can’t leave well enough alone. I’ve done everything to protect her. She shouldn’t be here, and feckin’ filming the shiteshow underway.
I rise to me knees, desperate to act.
“Back room,” someone bellows. The South Africans swarm forward. In a matter of seconds, O’Brien’s crew will spill into the warehouse, guns blazing.
I haul arse the other way, my heart in me throat as I sprint to the opposite side of the warehouse. Behind me, the battle begins but my focus is on what’s ahead. I turn the corner at a dead run. Get to the crate, Finn. Get to the motherfeckin’ crate.
In my business, panic is beat out of you in Hell Camp. Calm. Cool. Collected. That’s all you can ever be. So it’s a foreign feeling that’s come over me. A blind panic that rolls over the senses and interferes with common sense.
Which is why it occurs to me too late that these South Africans most likely have military training. That the lot of them might be charging up the center isle of the warehouse yet a few may have scattered out to flank the steel stacks on both sides. The thought barely crosses me noggin before I go barreling into one of them.
And who’s the lucky fella?
Vidal.
Hard to say who’s more surprised.
Quick-like, I punch him square in the nose.
He staggers back, his half-raised semi-automatic rifle going off. A bullet scrapes the side of my thigh, ripping my favorite pair of baggy sweats.
“You,” he hisses. He kicks me in the thigh, directly on the wound. You bet I saw it coming but didn’t block it. Information comes first, and I’m already launching myself at him. I tackle him to the ground and slam a fist into him, dislocating his shoulder.
He screams bloody murder while struggling beneath me, naively believing he has any chance against me. I knock the gun he’s still grasping away and then knee him in the groin, waiting for the message to finally sink in, that the one punch I delivered to his jaw was an act of kindness from a killer like me.
I grab him by the throat and squeeze. “Where’s the mine?”
My fingers relax, offering him a chance to respond.
He doesn’t, and I give him another taste, this time hard enough his eyes bulge. “Die a quick death or I can cut you to bits and pieces. Ogdenhayer’s uranium mine. Where is it?”
“Fuck you.”
“Had to be difficult, didn’t you?” I press my Glock into his side and shoot him. He’ll be dead in minutes. Sooner, if he wants me to be merciful. Do I pity him? No, this is kill or be killed, right? Like him, that’s what I’m trained to do. That, and how to quickly collect information.
“Is the mine located in South Africa?”
His expression is answer enough. No.
I try a different approach. “A deal for a deal. Tell me, and I’ll make sure O’Brien doesn’t feed yer corpse to the dogs.”
He stiffens. Message received. “Central Africa. North of Malawi.”
“Until we meet again. May God hold you in the palm of his hand,” I offer then fire a clean shot into his heart. Tit for tat, from one fighter to another.
Someone screams. I push off Vidal, grab his rifle, and hurry forward. Feck, every second counts, and I’ve wasted a few.
As I turn the corner, I aim and fire at five men in my way. Three South Africans and two of O’Brien’s. Five wankers battling it out and sending too many bullets into the air. Far too many for my liking.
Far too close to her.
I race toward Clarissa’s hiding place, shooting another unlucky gobshite who’d just turned the corner. Another of O’Brien’s men.
But when I set eyes on the crate, I’m prepared to murder every one of these motherfeckers.
Bullet holes.
Everywhere.
Pieces of splintered wood now hold the crate together. Fragments of silk lay on the warehouse floor and form a rainbow-colored pathway leading away from the wreckage. A brown fur coat shot up by bullets hangs off a slated side. Feathers fill the air like someone’s plucked a country goose. Gold and diamond jewelry sparkle brightly from inside the holes . . . so many holes . . . too many holes.
No one could survive that. Not even the stubborn beour God placed on this earth just for me.
I see red: my anger, her blood.
I can’t look, not yet. Not until they pay.
I hear the clatter of running feet, interrupting me, from getting to her.
Pistol in one hand and semi-automatic in the other, I charge forward, catching the retreating South Africans off guard as they turn the corner.
A bullet nicks my arm, but the pain doesn’t process. How could it when the woman I love lies dying nearby? Because, yeah, I love her.
But I never told her.
I may never have the chance to.
I fire and keep firing, on and on, until there’s no one left to shoot but the last of O’Brien’s men.
It’s the job that stops me.
The knowledge that their turn on earth is short-lived.
I force my arm down, lowering my weapon, before turning and sprinting back the way I’d come.
“Holy motherfeckin’ shite. Did you see Rambo over there? Marched straight into the lot of them like he’s the star of a Spaghetti Western.”
“One moment he’s running from these arseholes and the next he’s charging into the lot of them.”
I block them out as I begin to pray. God, please forgive me. I’ll go to church, light a million feckin’ candles, and pray for the souls of every man I’ve killed, no matter if they deserved it or not.
Please allow me another chance to say the things I should have said, mostly that I’m sorry.
And I love her.
I reach the crate, push away what remains of the lid, and peer inside.
Bits and pieces of fur are everywhere. Feathers. Scraps of silk. Gold and diamond jewelry.
But. No. Minx.
Hayden arrives at twelve fifteen, wearing a business suit and aviator sunglasses. Looking GQ-worthy. Dressed like a boardroom executive instead of the deadliest of killers. It’s a subtle yet effective change in appearance, still it’s hard to guess what’s going on behind those sunglasses.
I don’t acknowledge him. And I’ve got to say, I admire his professionalism and for not reacting to my appearance—to the madman standing before him with two field dressed flesh wounds and a feral look in his eyes.
Now, with the end game in play, they’ll be no chance of finding Clarissa. Is she okay? Is she hurt? Has she even stuck around after escaping a hailstorm of bullets?
Focus, Finn, or you may not survive whatever Hayden demands you do.
The boss brought three men I recognize. TORC men. Posing as buyers number twenty-one to twenty-three. The last of the lot, then.
I search for sign of the Latin Lover, Diego, wondering if Hayden’s brought him in to help finish up. But he’s absent.
“Rambo,” I hear O’Brien bark, “Get over yerself and start loading those lorries.”
I move into action and begin helping two other fellas load the first of the lorries. Listening to Hayden calmly, yet oh, so
feckin’ brilliantly work over O’Brien.
“We haven’t reached a complete agreement.”
“What bollocks is this?” O’Brien bellows, waving his pistol around like he believes he has a chance battling Hayden and living to tell about it. The boss stands before him, arms folded across his chest and completely unaffected by the man’s shenanigans. My TORC colleagues linger casual-like nearby and give away no signs of being a threat.
“We need to settle on a fair price.”
“Would you get a load of him?” O’Brien says to no one in particular as he struts around, agitated. “A fair price, he says?”
“You heard me.”
O’Brien snorts in disbelief. “See these men?” He kicks the lifeless body of one of the South Africans. “You might want to think long and hard before running yer mouth about prices. That goes for the lot of you,” he adds in a loud voice, addressing my colleagues.
No one reacts, everyone waiting for Hayden to signal.
The boss chuckles. “You planning on sicking Rambo over there on me?”
Jaysus. Does the man not miss a trick? I’ll never live this down.
O’Brien seems to relax. Maybe he’s under the impression I’d repeat my earlier killing spree if he orders me to? Or is it that he, like so many shysters before him, underestimates Hayden.
“I haven’t signed the paperwork,” the boss presses on.
“Paperwork?” O’Brien looks amused. “My office is this way.” He gestures for Hayden to follow him.
I wait for them both to disappear before turning to the other men. “Did you hear O’Brien tell us to get back to work?”
“Hell no.”
“Then I best hit the jacks before he returns.” I say it loudly so that even the other TORC operatives hear me. Then, ignoring everyone hovering about and waiting on the next step, I head off into the warehouse in search of Clarissa.
It doesn’t take long to catch a flash of her retreating back as she ducks behind the steel stacks midwarehouse. Even the feeblest of minds could deduct that the minx hid herself nearby and filmed everything.
I cut to the right then quickly sprint toward the emergency exit in the far back. I’m through the door and tucked against the outside warehouse wall by the time she’s exiting.
Clarissa races outside.
I spring into action, placing a hand over her mouth while wrapping an arm around her middle.
She struggles—I’m not surprised, my beour is a fighter through and through.
What does catch me off guard is the evil colleen’s backward kick and the hard, evil thrust of her heel to my family jewels.
41
Clarissa
“Got to say,” a familiar voice interrupts my struggles, “you got a mean left foot.”
Finn.
“Don’t scream. Nod if you understand.”
I shake my head and the hand covering my mouth falls away. He spins me around so we’re face-to-face. All the hurt and frustration he’s caused I express with a glare.
He’s a stranger to me. Someone I mistook for someone worthy of my love.
And the things he’s done.
He single-handedly killed twenty men. Five more prior to that. One more—Vidal—even before that. With one eye swollen shut and his right arm oozing blood. “Who are you?”
“No one you want to know.”
His answer is quick, vague, and familiar—because didn’t I hear this exact response from the man in the suit? Finn abruptly lurches forward, tugging my camcorder strap free from my shoulder.
I slam my elbow into his chest, desperately trying to knock him off-balance. But I’m fighting a brick wall. “Go ahead. Take it.”
A frown mars his handsome, lying face as he fiddles with the Bluetooth camcorder’s high-tech buttons and curses beneath his breath.
“Good luck.”
He looks up at me.
“Once bitten, twice shy.”
“Clarissa.”
I point a finger toward the invisible iCloud above. “With a click of a button, everything is uploaded and saved on a highly-encrypted drive. Practically military-grade, according to the CIA agent who recommended it.”
If looks could kill.
“Password. Right now.”
I snort. “As if.”
“Feck.” He stalks forward, forcing me to step backward until I’m up against the building. “Do you have a death wish?”
“Are you threatening me?”
I don’t know him.
I’ve witnessed what he’s capable of.
I should be afraid. Very afraid.
“You take any videos of the man in the fancy suit?”
I swallow hard. It’s all the answer he needs.
“Christ on a bike.” He pauses. “I need that password.”
“I need to protect what’s left of my story.”
We lock eyes.
“You’re in over yer bleeding head, Clarissa. I’m asking you nicely, whatever footage you took of him or me, you best erase it now.”
“Then there will be nothing left.”
“Clarissa . . .”
“You hacked into my files and deleted everything. You ruined any opportunity I had . . .”
“I saved yer life, just like I’m trying do right now.”
“Who are you?”
“Do not use anything that will expose us,” he replies, ignoring my question. He gestures to the field behind us. “You want to live long enough to tell that little girl’s story, right?”
I gasp.
“Now run like the dickens through that field and keep running. No one can know you were here.” He nods toward the field. “Go, before he notices I’m gone.”
O’Brien?
Or his boss, the man in the suit?
“Why?” I whisper. So many whys. So many unanswered questions.
Ever so quietly and with my confiscated camcorder in hand, he opens the warehouse door. “I’ll answer one of yer questions if you do as I say.”
Do I trust him and his instructions?
Do I hate him or love him?
I study him. Easygoing, smart-talking Finn. Except he’s none of that now . . . instead he’s panicked.
And dead serious.
“Okay.” I dislike accepting defeat. But sometimes in life, taking a step back is necessary. His warning couldn’t be clearer. Another day, another place where it’s safe, I’ll sit back and process everything. At this point, it’s all I can do.
“One question answered, and you get yerself gone. Understand?”
“Yes.”
“Ask me who I am.”
I don’t know if it’s the softening of his eyes or his raw tone that has me whispering the question. “Who are you?”
“I’m the man who loves you.”
42
Finn
I’ve got to hand it to Hayden. He may be a fella of few words but he can provoke a reaction out of you that feels like you’ve been lacerated by a sharp, curved knife. I resume my position up front a few minutes before the shite show begins.
O’Brien charges out of the back room, bellowing at the top of his lungs. “Stop. Don’t load one more goddamned crate.”
His men exchange worried glances.
“Thought O’Brien told us to wait while he was fleecing the suit?”
“That he did,” someone answers. “Barely loaded a thing.”
“Unload everything.” O’Brien is in rare form. “We no longer have an agreement.”
My colleagues pretend confusion, playing their parts perfectly.
Hayden returns with a white hand-towel slung over his shoulder. Went and wash then dried his hands, did he? Casual. Unaffected by O’Brien’s threats.
I’ve got to say, he’s handling the mob boss beautifully.
“No deal, this arsehole says,” O’Brien continues to rant. “Going to South Africa, he says. Wants to deal directly with Barrington, he says.”
“With the exorbitant, overinflated prices y
ou’re offering?” Hayden calmly states. “I prefer to deal directly with the source.”
“Get the feck out of here or you’ll be getting a taste of what the South Africans got.”
The boss turns his back on him to address the others. “I’ll negotiate a better deal with Ogdenhayer on your behaves? How about we take a quick trip to South Africa, even take a tour of the mine. Are you with me?”
Heads nod.
O’Brien’s eyes bulge. “Think yer so fecking smart, eh?” Quick-like, he points a gun at Hayden’s head. “Got a real Einstein on the premises, we do. A dead one.”
Everyone stills.
I step forward and hold up my hand. “Wait.”
Slowly, everyone’s attention turns my way.
“Can’t die twice, can you?”
O’Brien is the first to respond. “What the bleedin’ hell is this eegit going on about now?”
“Einstein. Didn’t he like die a few decades ago?”
Complete, utter silence. You’d have thought I’d tossed Einstein’s head onto the warehouse floor.
O’Brien explodes. “Shut yer trap or you’ll be joining him.”
I hide my smirk, knowing I bought Hayden a few seconds just in case he needed them.
Everyone snickers. Everyone that is, except Hayden and O’Brien.
“You believe this fella? Think you can trust him? I’ve got two reasons why you shouldn’t. That mine he’s going on about is in central Africa, not South Africa. Couldn’t even get that straight and he’s going to negotiate a better motherfeckin’ price?”
Ever so slightly, Hayden shifts on his feet. You would have to be watching for it to see it. The same sensation I get when Diego is mucking about with his explosives washes over me.
O’Brien laughs. It’s not a pretty sound. “And two, never trust—”
“—a dead man.”
Hayden shoots a bullet point-blank into O’Brien’s head, then as my colleagues fall into action, wipes away the spray of blood with the bleedin’ towel.
Player: An Enemies to Lovers Romance (A Deadliest Lies Novel Book 4) Page 23