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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.
