throat hitches, and a tear slips from my eye.
“What bollocks is this?” He stares down at me in horror. “That bad?”
I nod, chest heaving.
“I feckin’ knew it.” He rolls off me to stand. “Water?”
“Yes.” Tears roll down my cheeks, despite my attempt to stop them.
He grabs a water bottle from the table, plucks off the cap, and thrusts it into my line of vision. “Drink.”
I drink, deeply. Until the oh, so familiar pain lessens and I can collect myself.
He watches it all. Me falling apart. Me stitching myself back up again. I bet he’s sorry he pushed so hard.
“Better?” I hear him ask.
“Yes,” is all I can muster. I brace myself for his smart-ass comment, my psyche far too delicate for the likes of him.
I jump when I feel his hand on my cheek. He guides my head up to look at him. Then, without a word, he wipes away my tears with his thumb.
“Nothing to say,” I whisper.
His thumb drags across my skin one last time as he lifts the last of my tears away.
Then, he walks away without a word. Leaving me more confused about him than ever.
Clarissa
I make the most of the last few hours onboard. It’s a clear, bright day, with a cool breeze blowing in off the water, anticipation of our arrival in the air. Knowing what I know about the CIA’s involvement and that this shipment could possibly be one of several sourced from that mine in Africa, I decide to reshoot my opening segment. A tall line of containers flank both sides of me. I’m tiny, just a speck in this vast environment.
Small, yet unstoppable.
The agent did me a favor last night. Embarrassing as it was, the sudden onslaught of emotion that took me by surprise—both of us by surprise, I’d say—helped lift the overwhelming burden I carry. He turned from being annoying to becoming my reluctant therapist, without me muttering a word. But I realize now that holding my emotions in for all that time wasn’t healthy. I was bound to crack. Why it had to be with a man I don’t trust, who I have a perverse history with, and who might very well interfere with my story, I can’t explain.
I hear the captain calling out. His words are undecipherable, his anxious tone is anything but. Whatever it is seems urgent. Usually, I’m alone on this end of the deck so I’m curious what’s brought the men out here. Small knapsack in hand, I make my way toward the anxious voices. Once close by, I’m careful to stay hidden within the row of containers.
“Two small boats, sir,” a crewmember shouts.
“Should I call the coast guard?” another asks.
“We’re in Irish waters now,” a third man says. “The Irish Seafarers Association are the ones to contact—”
“No,” the captain cuts him off. He’s frowning something fierce and keeps looking off to his right. At this angle, it’s impossible to see what’s caught his attention.
“They’re not coming onboard for midday tea, captain.”
“I’ll handle them. Keep your mouths closed, understood?”
There’s a unanimous round of “yeses.” The crew’s fear of the captain more apparent now than ever.
“We’ll pay the goddamn bribe and move on.”
“But who are they, sir?”
“Irish mob.”
I blink. The Irish mob? And by the sound of things, modern day piracy off the southern coast of Ireland happens regularly.
An opportunity.
Quickly, I rummage inside my knapsack for my phone. Then, drawing closer to the open deck, I position myself to film and hit record.
“Go inside the bridge,” the captain orders. Sweat drips off his forehead despite the gentle breeze. “Bring ten stacks of American dollar bills.”
The men look at each other in confusion, then at the captain with suspicion.
One word and I’ll let them kill you,” he warns, verbal proof he’s as unscrupulous as a man can be. I shudder but keep recording.
“Toss the rope ladder off the side and show them we’re open to negotiations. Whatever happens, we need to contain them to the deck. We can’t have them searching the ship. Understood?”
The ten or so men nod.
“Glad we’re in agreement. Your life depends on it.”
The ship falls silent, its engines turned off. Men shout directions about lowering the anchors, a task that can take twenty or more minutes depending on the water’s depth. I hear the boats approaching.
My hand quivers with nervous excitement as we wait. The captain’s curses and the jitters of the crew echo across the deck.
I swallow hard as the mobsters appear on camera. Ten men. Some with holstered guns, several drawn.
The