Page 99 of Player

Clarissa

My heart is in my throat by the time Finn’s second fight has ended. Dirty, viciously skilled fighters who likely honed their skills inside the County Cork jail have gone up against Finn and lost.

“A challenge,” Finn boasted, as I wiped blood from his brow after his second win.

I’m beginning to think Finn enjoys the prolonged beatings. Taking kicks and punches in the first few rounds while taunting his opponents and riling up the crowd. Putting on a memorable show so his name is on everyone’s lips, the South Africans’, O’Brien’s.

It’s worked. O’Brien was at the club earlier to place money on the fights, and on Finn. Bets are high with everyone gambling heavily.

“Getting the job done” is what Finn calls three agonizing-to-watch bouts.

Stomach ulcer, is what my unsettled stomach is calling it.

I glance around the fight club and try to settle my thoughts on the job. Has O’Brien returned? And if he has, should I approach him?

My eyes skim over a tall, dark-haired man in a black suit standing in the darkest corner of the club. I almost missed him over there, alone by the wall, hidden in the shadows. I can’t put my finger on it—power, fear, charisma—yet something about him earns a second glance.Not Russian, I think, as the group of them are gathered on the other side of the fight club.Irish then?

I nudge Fiona. “Have you seen O’Brien?”

“Isn’t coming. He’s too busy putting me Johnny to work unloading some lorries.”

“Lorries?” My body shifts her way. Darn it. I should have asked her sooner about O’Brien.

“Trucks, as you Yanks say.”

I pause, tempering my excitement. “O’Brien operates a moving company?” It’s an innocent question, if not ridiculous.

“A moving company?” Fiona chuckles. “That’s brilliant. No, you daft woman. I’m talking about cargo. Like the kind you unload off a ship.”

“Oh,” I reply. Perhaps Finn is rubbing off on me a little too well. “That makes more sense. Why would O’Brien be moving furniture when he could move ... whatnot.”

“Whatnot.” Fiona repeats with a smile and I relax, knowing I haven’t raised any alarms with my questions.

It takes great willpower and years of professional training to keep from asking questions. No need. There’s no such thing as coincidences. Where else could O’Brien be transporting the uranium if not to the hillside warehouse?

Finn is going to be pleased.

I glance toward the corner, suddenly remembering the man. South African? Irish mob? Just your average Joe in a suit? But he’s gone.

“Bad news, luv,” Fiona interrupts my thoughts. “Sign over there just went up. Looks like yer wan is fighting Mad Dog McDonald next. I heard he once beat a fella unconscious while the man was down. A dirty fighter, he is. Better warn yer wan.”

“What?” I spot the sign. Sure enough, Finn’s name is listed next to Mad Dog. “Jesus,” I whisper.

“Jesus can’t help him. You best go over there and give him a kiss while he still recognizes you.”

I swallow hard as I take her advice, pushing through the crowd toward Finn. He looks up from the floor as I approach, midcurl in a sit-up, shirt off, muscles on full display, a dopey smirk on his lips.

“Not you, too?” he comments.

I frown.

“You come to warn me?”

“I don’t think I can watch one more fight. Especially not with Mad Dog, who is rumored to be unethical in the cage.”

“Unethical?” Finn snorts. “That what you call it?”

A loud shout cuts off my reply. “Bugger me blind.”