Page 17 of Player
I wait him out, hoping the subtle reminder about my discovering where the uranium is headed will soothe his anger. It takes three minutes and thirty seconds before he speaks. “The buyer’s name is Henry O’Brien.”
I sit up on the couch, almost knocking a candle over. “Feckin’ brilliant, you are.” From nothing to something, and we’re back in the game.
“Ever hear of O’Brien in the fight clubs you used to frequent?”
I take a long sip of beer. Searching Henry O’Brien online would be like scrolling through theUlyssessummaries then deciding which one a lazy lad like myself could use for his school paper. HowUlyssesprepared me to be the killing machine I am is another story. “Him, as well as that Smith fella.”
“Finn.”
“Common name, that’s all I’m saying.” No sense of humor, this one. “Can’t say I know the man. I may or may not have been busy getting my brains bashed in to rub elbows with the lad. He’s a mobster?”
“Correct. And you are assigned the job of locating him. But I’m warning you, any more surprises and you won’t like the consequences.”
There they are. The words I’ve been dreading. I nod my head even though he can’t see me. “Connect with the mobster O’Brien? It’s as good as done. Whatever you want, Boss. I won’t let you down.”
“No, you won’t.”
Boy’s a dear.
“You’ll be working as a seaman on that cargo ship leaving for Cork on Sunday. You can make yourself useful locating the containers onboard and securing GPS devices to them.”
Tit for tat, that’s what this is. Penance for feckin’ up. A bloody seaman? I hate boats, and with good reason—I can’t swim. And the Bastard knows it.
“Report in,” he continues, mercilessly, “with how much uranium is in question along with anything else useful. Don’t overlook anything oranyone. Understood?”
“Yeah,” I mutter, the wind leaving my sails. Yet my posing as a seaman has its advantages. It’s a manly job, isn’t it? A far cry from the eegit, Antonio.
Earning someone’s disrespect is easier than you think. Stroke his ego and most fellas will latch onto a lie like abairnto a bosom. Convincing people I’m gobshite is as easy as breathing air. I’m a player. No one, aside from maybe Hayden, understands how brilliant I am. Get out a shovel if you care to dig down to the heart of Finn McDuff.
But no one gets close enough to care.
I don’t allow it.
The mad minx came closer than most. Perceptive yet misguided. Finn McDuff a CIA agent? Brilliant, just brilliant. I was playing a role in that fine head of hers I didn’t realize I was playing.
I snicker.
“Find something amusing?”
“Just thinking.”
“Save the thinking for me, Finn.” He pauses. “What kind of shape are you in? You seemed a bit soft the last time we met.”
Soft? Like shite I am. “Fit as a fiddle, Boss.”
“You’ll need to be. Head to Cork once the ship hits port. I want you back in the scene again.”
I grimace. Wouldn’t you know? “You asking me to fight again?” Eat right? Train? Give up the drink?
“Make a name for yourself in Cork. Attract O’Brien’s attention.”
And he’s played me like a fiddle. Give the man a gold medal for being the master of manipulation.
“Or I can send Jaxson back in.”
I glare at the phone.
“You’re the best fighter in TORC.”
