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Finn

As tight as a duck’s arse, O’Brien is. I’ve got to say, a black eye, busted lip, and bruised ribs are more enjoyable than working for his like. No sympathy for the wounded warrior Finn. No slap on the back for earning him a bleeding fortune last night. Not so much as five euros tossed my way.

I’m not looking for a handout. Just commenting on his true character. Christ, I can only imagine how he penny-pinched Mrs. Ogdenhayer.

“McDuff. Stop daydreaming and get yerself outside,” I hear O’Brien bark.

I mutter a few choice words beneath my breath then exit through a wide opening facing the loading area.

The warehouse is abuzz with activity. Everything’s moving along brilliantly. Buyers have been filtering in all morning. Lorries are loaded. Names have been secretly taken and license plates recorded.

Video clips and audio of the shenanigans have been recorded—because in this mad, guilt-riddled quest to make amends, I’m full-on away with the fairies.

Twenty-three buyers are expected in the next three days, half of which have already arrived early.

A lot can happen before Hayden arrives. In the meantime, I just need things to go smoothly.

“You going to stand about gawking?” O’Brien points to the massive crate on the ground. “Or you waiting for it to jump into the cargo bed on its bleedin’ own?” Says the big fella with a big motherfeckin’ mouth and wee, idle hands.

A few men join me and together we lift the crate and load it onto the cargo bed of the Frenchman’s lorry. When Hayden runs the plates, it’ll likely be registered to a Frenchman, like gravitating toward like when it comes down to doing their dirty work. Still, I’ve got to say, I’m curious. Is O’Brien the main middleman for Europe’s illegal uranium trade? Because it’s looking that way. Ferries, ships, and tunnels mean unnecessary risk. If O’Brien is the sole distributor then I suppose a quick jaunt to the Emerald Isle is necessary.

I hope I’m right, and then TORC can put an end to this business.

The Frenchman is having a smoke near the front end. I amble toward him then trip, pitch sideways, and bump into him. “Sorry, didn’t see you,” I mutter, gesturing with one hand to my swollen eye. With the other, I tuck his wallet into my jeans pocket.

Driving without a license will slow him down at customs, as it will with the ten other driver’s pockets I’ve picked, buying Hayden time to decide if the authorities should be involved.

The sound of the cargo door slamming shut has the driver tossing his cigarette onto the ground and crushing the tip out with his shoe before clambering into the driver’s seat.

I stand and watch him leave, thumbing my fat pocket and marveling at the ease of it all. I’m about to turn away when I notice two cars on the horizon.

“Who the feck could that be?” I hear O’Brien exclaim.

The guards? CIA? An unscheduled buyer? Whoever this is, is clearly unexpected.

O’Brien’s men assemble in front of the warehouse entrance while I, ever so slowly, make my way back inside.

Then, I do what I must, and disappear into the rows of crates.