for his school paper. How Ulysses prepared me to be the killing machine I am is another story. “Him, as well as that Smith fella.”
“Finn.”
“Common name, that’s all I’m saying.” No sense of humor, this one. “Can’t say I know the man. I may or may not have been busy getting my brains bashed in to rub elbows with the lad. He’s a mobster?”
“Correct. And you are assigned the job of locating him. But I’m warning you, any more surprises and you won’t like the consequences.”
There they are. The words I’ve been dreading. I nod my head even though he can’t see me. “Connect with the mobster O’Brien? It’s as good as done. Whatever you want, Boss. I won’t let you down.”
“No, you won’t.”
Boy’s a dear.
“You’ll be working as a seaman on that cargo ship leaving for Cork on Sunday. You can make yourself useful locating the containers onboard and securing GPS devices to them.”
Tit for tat, that’s what this is. Penance for feckin’ up. A bloody seaman? I hate boats, and with good reason—I can’t swim. And the Bastard knows it.
“Report in,” he continues, mercilessly, “with how much uranium is in question along with anything else useful. Don’t overlook anything or anyone. Understood?”
“Yeah,” I mutter, the wind leaving my sails. Yet my posing as a seaman has its advantages. It’s a manly job, isn’t it? A far cry from the eegit, Antonio.
Earning someone’s disrespect is easier than you think. Stroke his ego and most fellas will latch onto a lie like a bairn to a bosom. Convincing people I’m gobshite is as easy as breathing air. I’m a player. No one, aside from maybe Hayden, understands how brilliant I am. Get out a shovel if you care to dig down to the heart of Finn McDuff.
But no one gets close enough to care.
I don’t allow it.
The mad minx came closer than most. Perceptive yet misguided. Finn McDuff a CIA agent? Brilliant, just brilliant. I was playing a role in that fine head of hers I didn’t realize I was playing.
I snicker.
“Find something amusing?”
“Just thinking.”
“Save the thinking for me, Finn.” He pauses. “What kind of shape are you in? You seemed a bit soft the last time we met.”
Soft? Like shite I am. “Fit as a fiddle, Boss.”
“You’ll need to be. Head to Cork once the ship hits port. I want you back in the scene again.”
I grimace. Wouldn’t you know? “You asking me to fight again?” Eat right? Train? Give up the drink?
“Make a name for yourself in Cork. Attract O’Brien’s attention.”
And he’s played me like a fiddle. Give the man a gold medal for being the master of manipulation.
“Or I can send Jaxson back in.”
I glare at the phone.
“You’re the best fighter in TORC.”
“If you say so.” A compliment? From a man who could hand me my arse on his worst day? “My being Irish has nothing to do with it?”
No answer. Not that I need one.
“So, it’s just me?”
He’s quiet.
My eyebrows punch up.
“Do what you like so long as you connect with O’Brien. I’ve established myself on the dark web as a potential buyer with deep pockets. Let’s see if he takes the bait. Report in when you have news.”
I feel a grin form. Did I hear him correctly? Do whatever I damned well like? My operation. My call. This is the best feckin’ thing to happen since the Irish Footballers qualified for the 2012 Euro finals.
“Don’t fuck up again,” are his parting words.
“Buck up, Finn-boyo,” I say to no one in particular, yet wanting to hear the words aloud. “Yer back in the game.”
Clarissa
When the bombing in Aleppo began, I knew what to do.
My host family, The Nassars, and I had practiced for this in a way that’s reminiscent of how children practice fire drills and lockdown drills at school. A quick exit from my host family’s third-story apartment down a sturdy, cement stairwell. A hurried three block sprint to the recently constructed bomb shelter. An orderly descent down another concrete stairwell into a large underground space. A well-thought-out plan that was drilled into our daily routine.
In case of the worst happening.
What no one could prepare for was a person’s natural response to danger. The confusion caused by a sudden rush of adrenaline, when a person is subconsciously deciding between fight or flight. Scientists have proven that, when activated by real or imagined threats, the neural connections between the cerebellum can cause a person to automatically freeze.
And, God forever bless them, that’s what happened to my