Page 39 of Player
Clarissa
Finn McDuff wants to work with me.
But the newfound spring in my step lasts an entire fifteen minutes, until we come upon a brown sign with white lettering that reads: Cork 9.44 km behind, Kinsale 9.44 km ahead. Behind, as in the other direction. I stop and point. “We’re headed away from the port?”
“Looks that way.”
“Did you not say we’ll be working together?”
“I did.”
“And did I not make it clear I wanted to track the mob’s arrival?”
“You did.”
I glare at him. He’s a sore sight, with one bruised eye swelling shut and the other a yellowish-brown color. His beard is matted and caked with sweat and dirt. He’s feral-looking, like the cat I tossed scraps of food to back in Aleppo. He seems like a man who throws all his straws in the air then waits for the longest one to land at his feet. A person who pushes the boundaries on his own terms and time. Someone who doesn’t worry about tempting fate. “So?”
“Suppose I should make something clear.” He runs his hand across his beard and rolls his eyes up to the sky before fixing his attention on me. “We do things my way.”
The arrogant man.
He leaves me standing there, his strides lengthening as he stalks off, and I chase after him down a one-lane road. Rolling hills flank either side like a picturesque postcard but all I see is red. Sure, I could dig into my knapsack for my phone, check for service, and, if I’m lucky, call a cab to take me back to the port. Continue on without his help. But he has resources and connections I can’t ignore—along with a common goal to pursue.
I shake off my pride and do what’s sensible, picking up my pace then drawing up alongside him.
“Plan is to let things cool down,” he informs me, as if expecting me to chase after him. Arrogant, yet intelligent. “Rent a room, smarten up, drink a pint, relax.”
Smarten up? Like cleanup? But it’s his last word that has me doubting his sanity. “Relax?” Okay, perhaps not so intelligent. Does he not understand time is an issue?
“Close yer mouth, Clarissa, or a fly might slip inside it.” He grins at me, and at my obvious irritation with his so-called plan.
“This plan is horrible. How does distancing ourselves from the uranium make sense?”
“The buyer will come to us.”
My eyebrows rise. “You know who he is?”
“I’ve me suspicions.”
“I can’t believe this. All this time—” I throw up my hands. “You think he’s connected to the mob?” Of course. It makes sense. The mob did pirate the cargo ship.
“A room. A pint. Some supper. Afterward, I’ll answer every bleedin’ question you have.” He stops to lift the hem of his shirt to wipe his face.
I resist the temptation to glance down. What I have to make sure he understands is more important than eye candy. “No more secrets.”
He pauses, mid-wipe. Frowning.
“If we’re working together, we’ll share information. Understood? I promise to review everything with you before my report is published. And I’m assuming you’d like me to protect your identity as well?”
He ignores me and continues wiping the sweat away with his T-shirt.
And Lord help me, I can’t help it. My eyes drop, then fix on his ripped abs. Lift that shirt a bit higher and I bet he’s cut with an eight-pack. The orange jumpsuit the crew wore, which Finn stuffed beneath a bush with a muttered “good riddance” about a mile behind us, didn’t do him justice.
Come to think of it, neither did that poncho.
He drags two fingers across his abs, then ever so slowly dips his fingertips southward beneath the waist of his jeans.
My throat goes dry.
