And me?
I sit back and watch. Because, after a long day—months—on the job, sometimes a man needs to kick back and appreciate the culmination of his hard work.
“Everything accounted for?” Hayden addresses us, as he places a box filled with O’Brien’s paperwork into the back of a lorry.
“Yes, Boss.”
Hard to say if Hayden is pleased or not. He should be doing a jig with what O’Brien’s left behind. The mob boss was old-school in his bookkeeping. Kept handwritten ledgers on all transactions. Names, numbers, addresses. Important information that can be used in tracking down the buyers so we can terminate the lot of them.
But my job in Europe is at an end. Time to head back to the States, before the CIA close in on Finn McDuff.
The name Michael has a nice ring to it.
“Rambo. You coming?” My colleague, the comedian, snickers as he approaches.
I’ve been called worse.
“Keys.” I hold out my palm, claiming the right to drive. Easier this way, because I can tuck my duffle bag—with Clarissa’s camcorder—beneath the seat. Later, I’ll take a gander at what’s there. There will be time to figure out what military-grade, encrypted drive she’s using and if it’s as inaccessible as she believes. Because I’ve a good idea what password she might be using.
“In the back.”
I stop in me tracks and narrow eyes at Hayden. “Me?”
His silence is answer enough.
With a shrug of me shoulders, I climb into the flatbed. Hayden has valid reasons for me being tucked away and out of sight.
It’s when he climbs in beside me that I get the sense I’m in trouble.
He signals the other drivers and the lorries pull out.
Our vehicle . . . idles.
I lean back, stretch out me legs, fold me arms across my chest, and wait the Bastard out.
Until it becomes unbearable.
I arch an eyebrow. “You wanted a private word with me?”
He watches me like he knows I was the lad who stole the last cookie from the jar. Jaysus. Might as well toss him a bone in good faith. “Found out where the mine is.”
“Where?”
“Somewhere north of Malawi.”
“You certain?”
I study him. Not a hair out of place, not a single hint about what he’s truly thinking. Yet we both know this particular location is important, as is the lucky colleen living there.
Women flock to Hayden like bees to a honeypot. But there’s never been mention of his taking an interest in anyone special. One more reason everyone calls him the Bastard behind his back. A hardened, ruthless man, if I ever met one.
“Jaxson. Kylie. Declan. Even Diego. So many secrets being kept.”
Aw, feck. He knows about Diego and Aubrey.
“Didn’t expect him to cuddle up in bed with a few tons of TNT, did you?”
Hayden doesn’t respond, not even a snort.
“Even you have secrets,” I press on.
“I’ve sacrificed everything for the job. And now, so must you.” He places his fingers to his lips and whistles.
It happens in slow motion. My curiosity changes to alarm. Alarm to panic. Then, when a large burlap is rolled into the flatbed by two men, panic to blind disbelief.
Hayden taps the hood and the lorry pulls away from the warehouse.
But my single-minded focus is on that bag . . . as it, too, begins to move.
43
Clarissa
I break free from the coarse material and come up gasping for air. The truck bed is cast in shadows but not enough to hide the two men seated in back.
Finn.
And the man in the suit.
The same man who warned me away, who negotiated pricing on the uranium, and who, if the murmurs are true, shot O’Brien in the head.
I untie the rope holding the burlap in place. Feeling helpless, scared, and slightly annoyed that I was caught. Because I listened to Finn. I trusted him and followed his directions, running away from the warehouse, empty-handed and heartbroken. A few minutes passed before two men appeared out of nowhere, hoisted me into the air, then stuffed me inside a burlap bag.
I kick away the material, freeing myself. How fast is the truck going? Perhaps I can jump.
“Don’t.”
My eyebrows arch at the suited man.
“Finn is about to explain what you’re doing here. I’ll interrogate you later . . . alone.”
“Like hell you will.”
My attention swings toward Finn. Despite his casual manner, his voice sounds strained.
This is bad. Really, really bad.
“Tell me something, Clarissa.” I flinch at the man’s use of my name. “Did he drink the water?”
“Excuse me?”
“This must be why Finn allowed you to be here. Permitted you to witness the uranium exchanging hands. Allowed you to film him . . . me.”
“He deleted my videos.”
“He let you go. Twice.”
“Yes. But I only came back willingly once.” I gesture at the burlap then frown at Finn, who has yet to jump in.
“You’re unusually quiet,” the man addresses Finn. “That in itself is telling. But I’ll give you a chance to explain yourself. Is there something in the goddamn water that would cause you to defy me?”
My eyes lock with Finn’s.
“Don’t hurt her.”
I blink.
“She knows too much.”
Finn’s bright blue eyes pierce through me. “I hacked her accounts and removed everything. She’s harmless.”
The man snorts. “She reveals secrets for a living.”
Finn is silent for a few agonizing seconds. Studying my face like he’s memorizing every tense line, every frightened look.
“I love her.”
I blink.
His boss grunts. “Tell me something I don’t know.”
Finn said the same thing earlier, when he ordered me to run away. Considering the circumstances, I didn’t believe him. And now?
God help us. He’s afraid for me, isn’t he?
Because he loves me.
I remember cuddling Christiana in my arms as she passed away. Protecting her and loving her. Hopeless to do anything more.
Is that how Finn feels?
I face his boss. “I won’t lie. I intend to tell this story.”
“Now’s not the time for honesty,” Finn hisses. “Bleeding lie, will you?”
“He erased all my work. With limited visual proof, it’ll be difficult to sell what remains to a major news source. But whatever I can pull together, I’ll give the CIA credit for what’s happened. No faces. No names unless I replace Finn’s name with an alias. But I think you’ll agree that O’Brien is fair game.”
His boss is as easy to read as a marble slab. But he’s listening, and I grasp hold of that fact with both hands as I press on. “I promise strict confidentiality under one condition.”
“Christ.” Finn shakes his head.
“Are we negotiating now?” his boss asks.
I shrug in a very Finn-like way.
“Boss, don’t listen to her. You can see she’s a stubborn beour. I’m asking you nicely to let her be. I’ll figure out a way to silence her without hurting her too much.”
“Don’t you want to hear her out?”
“Feck, no.”
I glare at Finn. He returns it with a warning look. It’s funny because in this moment, our roles have been thoroughly reversed.
“What condition, Clarissa?” says his boss in a velvety-smooth voice.
“I’ll protect you and your men’s privacy while telling the truth if you promise me you’ll find the uranium mine and stop future black market sales.”
Silence. Horrible, stifling silence. It hangs over the space like the burlap bag at my feet. I wait and worry. This man is dangerous. I’m clearly a threat, a woman who knows too much. He could kill me, toss me out of this truck, and leave my lifel
ess body lying in one of these rolling green hills, and likely never be held accountable. Dare I negotiate with him? I must have bathed in that crazy-infused water he keeps talking about.
“That’s your one condition?”
I jump when he abruptly answers. “Yes. This entire journey was about me producing a meaningful piece of reporting, a true story about the dangers within the world. Real news about real people who are acting on behalf of the common good.”
“Is that what you believe? We were acting on behalf of the common good?”
I think about it. “Yes.”
More silence. Hope springs alive. He’s considering it? I don’t dare look at Finn.
“Boss. I swear on me life she can be trusted. Like I said, I’ve accessed her files and have done what was necessary. Everything except this.” Finn grabs hold of his duffle bag, opens it up, removes my camcorder then hands it over to his boss. “She had to go and get all high-tech on me. Whatever new footage, she’s stored in the cloud. But I know the password in.”
“Impossible.”
His boss looks from me to him. “What is it?”
“Christiana.”
All the blood drains from my face until my cheeks feel frozen. “How could you?” I snarl at Finn.
“A desperate man will do desperate things.” This comes from his boss. My heart thumps loudly in my chest as I watch him press button after button. Even with the weak internet, I can see that he’s online.
It’s the gleam in his eyes that tells me that somehow, someway, he’s found then hacked into the drive.
“Please don’t delete it. Allow me to have something to pitch this story with. I won’t expose you . . . or Finn. Most of what was filmed features O’Brien and his men. There’s a few short clips of you negotiating pricing and then marching off together. Due to my position in the warehouse, I filmed you with your back to me. Distort your voice and you could be anyone.”
“See. It’s of little risk. Let her keep them.”
The man locks eyes with Finn. “I could kill you. Then there’d be no risk involved.”
“You’d be down a man and possibly injured in the process.”
I gasp. Holy shit. Did Finn just threaten his boss?
“Doubtful.”
“I’ve more to lose than you do.”
They glower at each until I can’t stand it anymore. “Please. This story means more than you’ll ever know.”
I have the man’s attention now. But before I can say more, Finn jumps in.
“She carried a wee tyke for seventy-five miles through the desert after the bombing of Aleppo.”
“Finn, no,” I croak.
Finn leans toward me. “He needs to understand you the way I do.”
“Christiana,” his boss murmurs.
“Yes.” Finn nods. “The little girl died in her arms. A journalist filmed it and was planning to sell the story. But Clarissa wasn’t going to allow anyone to benefit from this tragedy. She paid the journalist off and bought the rights to the video. Now ask yerself, what does she do next?”
“Finn.” Tears race down my cheeks, but it doesn’t stop him.
“Exploit little Christiana’s death? Use a very real tragedy to advance her career? Sell her soul in order to make money? No feckin’ way. That’s not who my beour is.”
His beour.
His girl.
I force myself to speak. “I want Christiana’s story told. What happened to the innocent people in Aleppo acknowledged. Just, in an honorable, respectful way. This investigation will open doors and then I can move forward with more meaningful work.”
His boss remains silent for a long time. It’s unnerving, terrifying.
“A do-gooder.”
“Yes.”
“You remind me of someone. Like you, she’d move heaven and earth to get her way.” He hands back my camcorder and I stare down at it in shock.
“We’re nearly CIA. Isn’t that right, Finn?”
“If you say so.”
“Which is why, when we return home, you’ll spend a few weeks in Hell Camp.”
“Feckin’ grand,” Finn mutters.
His boss takes out his wallet, removes a wad of hundreds, and hands them to me. “Airfare home. We’ll drop you near the airport.”
We. My eyes swing toward a somber Finn.
He offers me a quick, fleeting grin that doesn’t reach his eyes.
I’m free to return home.
I’m free to scrape together this story.
I’m free to pursue my dreams, my life.
Without Finn.
44
Clarissa
Two Weeks Later
To say my story concludes with a happy ending is like saying everything that happened is now behind me. The period at the end of a complete sentence. The last page of a mind-blowing, heart-pounding book. Except I can’t seem to put the book down or stop with the run-on sentences.
And am I happy? I can’t focus. I can’t eat. I can’t sleep. All I can do is think about Finn. It’s what I imagine withdrawal must feel like. Falling victim to a gut-wrenchingly addictive mindset, where I’m fixated on what could have been.
It’s foolish. He sabotaged my story, didn’t he? Manipulated and deceived me.
But did he lie about everything?
Did he lie about loving me?
I’ll never know, I bitterly think. Finn is gone, vanishing with a snap of a finger almost like he never existed. Even if I broke my promise to keep their secrets, how would I label them? Clandestine agents? Spies? Hitmen?
CIA—as promised, I vaguely credit that organization in my soon-to-be-published New York Times article.
The article is the best I can manage with what limited visual support remains. When I left Ireland, it was clear my story was destined for print.
All that’s left to do is hit send.
I close my laptop instead and wander out onto the deck. Autumn in Maine is beautiful, with leaves changing to yellow and orange and a fresh chill in the air. The house I’ve rented overlooks a small lake. I find myself outside on this deck a lot, searching for peace of mind and a long overdue quest for tranquility.
But Finn’s larger-than-life personality ruins the moment. “Ever knock a man out with a single punch?” I remember asking him while we sat beside a pond much like this one.
“A time or two.”
I didn’t believe him, not after witnessing him fight. I frown, trying to remember what he said next. What was it? Something about learning from the man who recruited him? Right. His boss at the CIA—or so I assumed.
I touch my chin, feeling his light caress as he described where to hit a man. “They recruited you?” I’d asked. “You didn’t seek them out?”
“It’s the truth,” was his reply.
“Good,” I clearly remember answering. “There’s nothing worse than a liar.”
I shake my head in a half-hearted attempt to drive away the memories. Because there is something worse than a liar.
Being in love with one.
It’s best to move on. Send the article and hope it will generate enough interest to get me noticed. I have another story to tell, after all. And after what I’ve been through, no way in hell am I giving up on it.
Heading inside, I pull up my finished article then access my online file to save a duplicate. I use a different account than the one Finn hacked. Knowing, given his skill set, he could likely do the same here. His boss doesn’t seem the trusting sort and might need confirmation I’m honoring my word.
Or they might not care at all. They might be off to Africa to fry bigger fish, to lie, spy, and ruin someone else’s life. Hopefully, Mrs. Ogdenhayer’s life, after they locate that mine.
I finish uploading my story and decide to let it sit for a spell. Imagining Finn accessing it. Wondering if he thinks about me even the slightest bit.
Silly, right? How I cling to the idea that he loves me?
Maybe I simply need a reminder about what he’s done? Wi
th that thought in mind, I log into the other drive. Feeling my disappointment, my anger returning.
Good. More of this, and I’ll get over him.
I open the drive, prepared to find nothing except the sting of his betrayal.
Except . . .
“What?” I gasp. Quickly, in case my eyes are deceiving me, I open the first video of my harrowing footage of the hacienda exploding. It’s all there.
I open the video of me on the ship, the wind blowing my hair as I introduce the contents of the cargo behind me.
Curious, I skip ahead to video of Antonio arguing with the captain. It’s there, too. Slightly edited to conceal Antonio’s face.
Heart racing, I skim through everything. Discovering other edits have been made though none that would disguise the villains in this story. Everything is here.
And more.
I gasp when open a video I’m unfamiliar with and stifle a scream as I witness the shootout at the fight club. The South Africans are running around like chickens without heads. What has them so enraged? And then there’s O’Brien’s crew spilling into the parking lot, stirring the pot.
Did Finn film this?
Yes, colleen. Of course he did.
And the answer becomes clearer after I scroll through the remaining files and discover more unexpected videos.
Holy hell. Everything I need is here . . . and more.
Finn didn’t delete my files. He saved them. For me.
The last file is a Word document. With a shaky finger, I open it.
So you can honor that little girl’s life.
I’m sorry.
“It’s true, isn’t it?” I whisper. “Why else would he restore my files? He lied about everything except this—Finn loves me.”
45
Clarissa
Two Months Later
“To Clarissa. For her commitment to quality journalism.”
I’m in a circle of champagne flutes, which are held high in my honor. The tears I shed are not caused by the bubbly or the fact that my investigation into the uranium trade is a huge success. Or even that the biggest network on television bought Christiana’s story. These tears aren’t for Finn, and the loss of what might have been.
Player: An Enemies to Lovers Romance (A Deadliest Lies Novel Book 4) Page 24