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.
39
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, asshole of 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