Chapter 44
Chapter Forty-Four
TALLY
W alsh finds his method of coping in a baggie of white powder. It gives him the kick in the arse he needs. He’s effectively back to being arrogantly cocky, and his haze from reality gives me a smoke screen where I can do my job.
“Jesus, watch the road.” I laugh while also checking my seat belt is secure.
His concentration is limited to one thing at a time, which means I’m able to work through Joe’s steady stream of updates.
Giving Walsh the task of driving wasn't a decision I made lightly; it was done out of necessity. Though the risk of dying in a crash is increasing with each mile, or perhaps it’s each line.
Miraculously, we’d managed to keep what was happening off the police scanners.
The Department of Social Protection was happy to work under the lead of the officers Joe and my local contact had hand selected.
Getting the children to safety was paramount, but keeping the bust on the quiet was equally important.
“Right, come on, let’s go through the plan again,” he says, taking his foot off the accelerator as we start driving through more populated streets again.
“I’ll follow your lead, like we agreed.” I pass over some water, hopefully to stop the way he keeps dry swallowing. The sound is slowly driving me crazy.
“Aye.” Walsh puts the indicator on and turns us down a narrow laneway before accepting the water.
While he holds the bottle, and is distracted by driving, I sign out of the chat I’ve been having with my contact and also clear the history from my phone without him noticing.
There’s a whole lot of variables to tonight, making the outcome hard to see.
It’s like juggling balls in the air, and I’m hoping they don’t all fall at the same time.
But if they do, at least I’ve managed to save three little ones, and that is a mark of success in my mind.
On top of that, I’ve finally been able to ascertain additional solid leads for my team to look into.
The people that need to know the general vicinity I’m in are aware, and that, too helps allay the stress of tonight and what’s still to come.
Walsh hands back the empty bottle, and I throw it in the back of the cabin with the rest of our rubbish, handing him his vape straight after. His vaping churns my stomach. Honestly, it’s the last thing I need right now, but I’m trying to keep him as calm and stable as possible so we stay on track.
“We put everything back the way it was. No one will know the barrels have been tampered with, and if everything goes to plan, we’ll hopefully be gone before they even touch them.”
“It’s just a drop off, Tally. So, my plan will work.”
That would be my plan. Knowing Walsh isn’t a natural-born leader—he’s simply a sheep that needs to follow someone—is something I can work with.
And have. I’ve repeated the same instructions nearly a dozen times now, and now that he’s claiming he came up with them, it’s a good sign in my book that he’ll stick to the plan.
“We unpack the truck, put things where they want, then we get back in the truck and leave.”
He’s repeating my words like we’re singing along to a song. At least I know, subconsciously, he’s on board. The real test will come when we’re face-to-face with whoever his contact is.
My stomach drops the moment we walk into the darkened room.
Maybe it’s my training or experience on the field, or it’s just my intuition screaming at me, but it’s a setup.
And since the person we’re meeting has no clue that I’m helping Walsh out, it’s a setup where Walsh was going to be nothing more than a casualty in whatever game is being played.
“Walsh,” I hiss, hovering at the door, wondering if I should race back and grab my gun.
He rolls his eyes at my hesitation, and walks in.
From the path he takes, without hitting or knocking anything, it’s obvious it’s one he’s taken before.
“We bring them in here first, cause the trolley fits through the door. The lift to the cellar is a wrench one, but together, it will take us no time.” He’s laughing under the strain of his nervous excitement.
His scent is like turned milk because of it.
I walk back out into the fresh air, leaving him to get whatever we need organized. Fiddling with the damn padlock again steals precious time and a lot of my focus, but I manage to unlock it at the same time Walsh appears with a mover’s trolley.
He hops up into the body of the truck with me, and we move surprisingly well together, untying, then moving the real kegs to the edge of the truck.
Then he impresses me more when he actually knows how to use the hydraulic lift.
After only a couple of times using it, we have the kegs lined up next to us.
I leave Walsh to take them through, using the time to keep watch.
I’m on edge, not panicking but certainly hyper focused.
It feels like the night has eyes, and I search the shadows surrounding the empty pub, not finding anything.
That doesn’t mean we’re alone, and if anything, it ensures I keep acting the part of waitress.
With the final kegs inside, we start on the first of the fake ones. Walsh nearly blows our cover when he picks one of them up by himself. Now that they’re empty of children, they’re much easier to move around.
I hiss at him, not using words to correct him, and in a moment of clarity, his eyes flare, and his scent drops in realization. I get a mumbled thanks, and then, together, we work to trolley, then carry the first two in.
As we get the third one on the trolley, a sensation like a pinch in my stomach has my awareness projecting like a thrown net into the darkness.
“Someone’s here, Walsh,” I whisper under my breath, keeping my body as relaxed as I can.
“They’ll wait till we’re gone, it’s how we do it. Don’t be stressing now, lass.” He laughs haughtily. Clearly, his drugs are starting to wear off, and I’m left staring at his back after he storms off.
Of course, I’m chasing after him in the next moment.
I’m not sure which version of Walsh I like most. Actually, I do.
None of them. He's one of those people who constantly grates on my nerves, but I can’t pass up the opportunity of being around him.
Using him to get to the bottom of who’s taking children.
And where the fuck Oscar is. And discovering who’s responsible for the increasingly noisy coup to overthrow the O’Connors which might just be the O’Connors themselves.
It wouldn’t be the first time in history the discontent and trouble is actually from within.
Joe’s sage advice that one day I’ll discover my own reasons pushing me to chase down Oscar, as opposed to hiding behind the promise I made to Mom, seems fitting to each of those reasons I’m babysitting Walsh.
The O’Connors are edging ahead of my career objectives because they are my scent-matched pack.
Although those supposedly infallible bonds we share are no doubt going to be tested after Rafferty’s heat when I try to explain all this.
Thinking of them, my mother’s final words, and Joe are the reminders I need to pull my head out of tomorrow's issues to focus on what’s currently happening around me.
Which is pretty freaking important. Walsh is completely unaware, but there’s a subtle but noticeable difference in the air. We were only gone a few minutes, but it feels like we’ve stumbled into an alternate universe. My awareness blazes to life, drowning out the white noise in my head.
The way the lift operates means our backs are to the open space at both the top and bottom levels. It leaves us completely vulnerable, and all the hairs on the back of my neck are standing up.
I really should have grabbed my gun. It’s a haunting thought.
Walsh is too hyped on this being our last trip through the dark pub and down to the cellar again to notice anything. He doesn’t even pick up we’re not alone until he’s walking backwards out of the lift with the trolley in his hands.
“Walsh,” I hiss, trying to warn him.
Whether he stumbles or realizes is lost under the sound of him dropping the trolley and the keg. It’s deafening, like a sonic boom, because of the small space. With the sound ringing in my ears like a warning, I tumble out of the confined lift area and bounce into Walsh.
“Jesus. Fuck. Mary and Joseph. I swear I didn’t do that, Tally. The cellar was empty.”
“Ssh.” Panicking isn’t going to help us.
We’re trapped in the world’s smallest space, with a dead mafia man at our feet. Not a great place to be, no matter the shoes you wear.
I can see very clearly that Arthur Kelly, Paddy O’Connor’s second-in-command, is no longer with us, despite him staring right at me.
The front of his white shirt is stained with his blood.
The deep, long cut on his throat ensures nearly every ounce of his blood is now soaked into his expensive clothes, changing the deep navy material to a saturated plum color.
“Walsh, is Arthur your contact?”
His words dry up as his mouth opens and shuts like a fish gasping for air as his shock takes hold.
Then, to make the whole situation infinitely worse, his only response is to empty his baggie into the palm of his hand and snort the pile of powder.
I lose what little patience I had with Walsh, and my mask drops.
“You fucking useless piece of shit. Go wait in the truck.” I shove at him, making him stumble into the service lift.
No chance of losing my cool any more than I already have, I risk my arm getting caught in the lift door to slam on the up button, getting him the hell away from me.