Page 105 of Player

Finn

The lass is uncharacteristically quiet during our morning run despite my animated description of how an underdog like yours truly brilliantly defeated Mad Dog. Everyone loves an upset. O’Brien is no exception, so I hear.

Whiskey hangovers are the feckin’ worst. She admitted as much this morning, when I came to collect her.

“Nothing a good run won’t cure.”

“You’re the devil, do you know that?” was her reply.

I race ahead of her then jog backward in an effort to get a laugh. And find I’m disappointed when she doesn’t take the bait. I have this nagging sensation something else besides the drink is bothering her.

“Feeling better yet?”

“Define better.”

I grin. Whatever it is, I’ve now got her talking.

“The Russian did well last night,” she comments.

“That he did.”

“So, you think you’ll fight him?”

I shrug. “You never know. Fate is a funny thing.”

“Sylvia Ogdenhayer was serious about upending O’Brien’s winnings. Are you going to throw the fight like she asked?”

“Depends on who we need more. Who has more information, O’Brien or Ogdenhayer?” Directly after our breakfast being interrupted, I called the boss with news about making contact with the uranium supplier. Hayden didn’t say much—never does—but I cracked on, feeling pleased with myself. TORC will be putting an end to the black-market uranium trade sooner than later with my help.

“And what does your boss say?” Clarissa interrupts with a surprise uppercut.

What is she going on about now? “My boss?”

“Is he happy about our progress?”

“My progress. You are not in the picture.”

“So, the CIA frowns upon you working with civilians?” she presses, searching for information. What’s brought this on now?

I brush her question off with a joke. “Only the ugly ones. Now a pretty minx like yourself ...”

She scowls, and I stop midflattery. Bugger me blind because she sees right through me. Clever wan. I love this about her as much as I dislike lying to her.

“I need to tell you something.”

Alarm bells go off because whenever a woman prefaces a discussion with that bleedin’ phrase, no good follows. But just as I’m about to make my play, my attention shifts over her shoulder and onto the sleek, black town car coming over the hill.

“At the bar last night—” She stops mid-sentence, catching on. “What is it?”

“Who is it. And the answer, I’d say, is O’Brien. Now put your listening ears on, play your part, and pray he takes a shining to ol’ Finn.”

We slow our jog as the sedan pulls up and a rear door opens. We enter the vehicle and slip into the open seat across from three men, Clarissa positioning herself so her thigh presses against mine and her left arm sneaks around my back. I briefly wonder what she’s about but focus my full attention on O’Brien.

He’s easily identifiable due to his bulky size. A big fella with a soft, round middle and thick thighs, arms, and neck. His cheeks are ruddy and his eyes small. But however lacking in the looks department, he makes up for it in attitude. He carries himself like a man used to power. The two muscular thugs seated next to him seem fit enough to back him up.

“Finn,” I say without further pretense and stick out my hand for a shake. O’Brien refuses it and instead offers me the same look you’d offer an Irish midge before crushing it beneath your heel. “And this is my beour,” I push on like an eegit, hoping to loosen things up. “You come about that job? Got to say, I’m eager for work.”

O’Brien’s eyebrows arch. It’s a start.