"Thirty seconds. That's all you have to stop the bullshit, or your son is dead."
~~~~
Six years ago, Chelsea Doherty lost everything when her husband disappeared without a trace and left her to clean up his past. Now living in Ireland, she has piec...
This chapter is dedicated to lisa_london_ whose ONC entry Where is Araminta Green? is written in the most intriguing way. Lisa is interlacing different narrative styles by weaving a fictional crime podcast with the main plot that will eventually give you all the answers. Goth mixed with mystery and witchcraft for an all around package. This entry is one to follow; it's gonna be amazing.
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Dublin, Ireland
February 2024
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Murphy is holed up in a run-down pub not to close from the Guinness Storehouse; I expect the streets to be crawling with tourists, but the area is surprisingly desolate. Entering the bar, I find an equally forlorn picture. Two patrons, one of them Nico, and an older man who could only be Murphy nursing their respective beers, a sole bodyguard loitering nearby. If I ever saw a criminal organization on its last leg, it's Murphy's shop. Icarus wasn't kidding when he told me that collecting the debt would most likely be a fruitless endeavor.
I drop into the chair across from Murphy without waiting for an invitation and measure him up. Dude is way past his prime without a suitable heir in sight to take over, desperate to hold on to a legacy that has lost its spark. Absorbing him within our group will be an ultimate relief, even if he doesn't realize it yet.
His smug smile carries the arrogance of a delusional man who feels too comfortable on his own turf. "Are you the lad in charge?"
Before I can reply, Anton snags the basket of chicken wings sitting on the table. He keeps going and folds into a chair closest to the bar. His gaze is on the barkeeper as he demolishes one of the chicken wings in under five seconds.
Murphy's furrowed brows smoothen; he apparently doesn't see the need to school Anton for his lack of manners.
My smile is cold. "Where is our money?"
"Like I told your man, I need a little bit more time."
"Icarus already granted you a rather generous extension, so I'm afraid that you'll have to settle the debt without any further delays."
"I had some issues—"
"I don't fucking care." I lean closer. "We supply weapons, no questions asked, and in return, we expect payment. It's a simple transaction."
"The IRA—"
"Dude"—I draw in an exasperated breath—"what part of "I don't care" don't you understand? I don't give a flying fuck about politics in your country."
It guarantees that I sleep better. If I had to worry about every cause those weapons were used for, I'd be a wreck.
He takes a swig of his beer and has the nerve to give me a wide smile as if this were all a joke. "Look, lad, Icarus and I go way back. I've been doing business with him when you were still shitting into diapers. He knows I'm good for the money, so why don't you and those two eejits get the hell out of my pub?"
I chuckle. The fucker has no idea whom he's dealing with.
Standing up as if I'm about to leave, I bend forward and grab a handful of his graying hair. Without much resistance, I slam his face into the table, ensuring that the sharp corner smashes his nose. He howls like a little bitch. Enough of the spilling blood pools on his lips to shut him up.
Out of the corners of my eyes, I confirm that Nico has his gun trained on the bodyguard; Anton once again has my back by shielding me from the bartender. Time to get down to business.
"You got twenty-four hours, and then you either pay up or supply us with a list of your associates with an appropriate reference that will let them know that you went out of business." His well-established contacts will make lucrative trading partners with future revenues well above what he owes us. "If not, I'll kill you, your wife, kids, grandkids, even your fucking dog, if you have one, and then I'll burn everything you own to the ground. Don't make me come back here."
He groans. "Oh, feck off. Threatening me will get you jack shit other than trouble."
I chuckle. "You still don't get it, do you? I have diplomatic immunity, so I could blow out your brains and piss on your skull right in the middle of the fucking St. Patrick's Parade, and all your government will do is ask me nicely to leave and not to come back. I'm untouchable, motherfucker."
He gulps but is smart enough not to give me lip again.
I jut my chin at Anton. "Let's go."
Slowly, we back out of the pub; Nico stays at the door with his gun drawn in case Murphy lost his mind and sends his man after us.
I pull out the phone from my suit pocket and dial the top number on speed dial. The receptionist picks up after the first ring. "Georgiou Logistics."
"It's Bastian. I need this line secured, and then put me through to Icarus."
A few clicks later, and the familiar snarl hits my eardrums. "All good?"
"Murphy is petulant. I think I got through to him, but if not, I need a crew and a cleaner on standby."
"Consider it done. How far are you with the girl?"
"Meeting her tonight, but she should be in the net."
"Good. This situation with Marcel Pierce has been dragging on for far too long. I want his head, Bastian. No more excuses."
"I promise I'll handle it."
"And if the girl doesn't play ball, tie up loose ends. And no mess this time, like it was in Hong Kong."
I roll my eyes. The fuck up in Hong Kong was totally on him. "Don't worry, theíos. If I see the need to eliminate her, I'll make it squeaky clean."
Total WP word count: 3,421
Bastian is not our most charming narrator, but I thought this chapter was needed to show how far he will go as "foot soldier" for his organization. Now to my usual question: did the ending entice you enough to read the next chapter? Please let me know in the comments and don't forget to vote if you felt this chapter deserving. Thanks for reading xD
