Page 135 of Player

Clarissa

Stealing inside the warehouse was simple. It was dark, therefore easy to avoid the cheap cameras monitoring the outside. Three men were guarding the inside, but they were preoccupied with screaming obscenities at a livestream broadcast on one of their phones.

Fight night.

Finn versus Vidal.

And Finn was getting his ass kicked.

I didn’t know how I felt about that. Mixed emotions, at best; my anger at his betrayal running deep. It was only fair he offered the necessary distraction for me to slip inside unnoticed.

I wandered about, searching for a place to hide near the warehouse entrance, positioning myself close to the loading area where I’d have the best vantage point. I found a crate half-filled with an assortment of contraband; jewelry, watches, furs, and silk. O’Brien must have robbed a high-end boutique. The top of the crate was open, so I climbed inside then nestled down into the silks and furs. It’s the perfect hideaway with thumb-sized gaps between the wooden slats where I can see and record what’s happening yet stay hidden beneath all the bling.

Dangerous? Of course.

Necessary if I want to have anything resembling a story? Absolutely. My narrative alone won’t cut it. Visual evidence—proof of the nefarious trade of nuclear weapon components—that’s the stuff that sells stories.

I began recompiling my story while the guards were preoccupied by locating the uranium and quietly taking a video of the crates, and then the warehouse itself. I’ll add narrative later.

I was mid-video when the screaming began.

“Holy shite!”

“Did you see that? Brilliant, bloody brilliant.”

“Knocked the bastard out with a single punch.”

My breath hitched—I remember very clearly how I struggled to breathe, waiting for a sign Finn was okay.

I’ve damned him to hell and back, but, evidently, I don’t want him hurt.

Yet my worries were misplaced.

“We’re rich, mates. That smug wanker just won us a shiteload of money.”

Smug,deceitful, assholeof a wanker,I felt like correcting the man.

With the fight over, I hurried back to my hiding place and hunkered down for the night.

was jolted awake as O’Brien and company returned, arriving at the warehouse in the early morning hours. One by one, his men stepped inside. Limping, cursing, battered and bruised. The group of them looking like they’d been dragged beneath a semi-truck.

I remember wondering what happened but didn’t have to wait long to find out. My answer came from the man in the middle of what O’Brien’s men are calling “last night’s bloodbath.”

Finn.

He was standing a yard away from me and looking worse than a man who’d been mauled by a pit bull. The early morning light did nothing to hide his blackened eye and battered face. He winced as he walked and winced more when one of the men gathered around him slapped him good-naturedly on the back. “One bleeding second you were in the cage and the next you were gone.”

“The South Africans were raging.”

“Couldn’t find you so we had to step in instead.”

“Good fun. Haven’t used me fists like that in quite a while.”

Finn nodded at their comments as I tried to sort through what exactly had happened.

A fight after Finn’s fight? The Irish mob versus the South Africans? It certainly sounded like it. I suppose Mrs. Ogdenhayer wasn’t thrilled with Finn’s win?

Finn followed through on our plan. He won so he could get in with O’Brien. That means something, right?