"Thirty seconds. That's all you have to stop the bullshit, or your son is dead."
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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 BrianMullin0, whose ONC entry The Summer I Really Didn't Kidnap Lance Hardwood had me dazzled today. A very strong--and very funny--narrator, a plot with loads of promise for action and fun, and a very unique take on the kidnap trope. On top of that, Brian is also the mastermind of the Strawberry Mollusk/Amber challenge -- if you want to know more, drop me a comment.
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Drogheda, Ireland
February 2024
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I've been to Clarkes at least dozens of times, and as a local who grew up just a few miles away from Drogheda, I recognize half of the patrons. As I try to catch the barkeeper's attention to order my drink, my old classmate Áine ambushes me to fish for the latest gossip.
The typical Friday night at an Irish pub.
I keep an eye on the door to check for new arrivals while smiling and nodding at the right time to avoid being rude. No sign of the man in the suit.
Don't you dare be skipping out on me, mate?
When all of a sudden a creeper breathes down my neck, I jump and almost knock the glass out of Áine's hand. She stalls mid-sentence, giving Mr. Fancy Suit an appreciative once over. He has changed into black jeans and a maroon merino wool sweater that add to the renegade vibe.
"Get lost." Despite the pleasant smile, the coldness in his eyes doesn't leave room for discussions.
Áine quirks a brow as her gaze travels from his face to mine, but Irish people seldom complain when someone is offensive, so she only squeezes my arm. "Slán go fóill."
I glare at Fancy Suit. "You could—"
"Why don't you tell me what you'd like to drink"—he points at an empty table—"and then be a good girl and sit right over there."
I would like to give him a good tongue-lashing with some creative Irish slang that would wipe the smug smile off his face, but the information he has on Marcel's whereabouts is important enough to let his ill-manners slide. "A pint of Bulmers."
Omitting the please is a small victory in itself.
Somehow, he manages to catch the barkeeper's attention on the first try; a couple of minutes later, he sets the frosted glass with the amber liquid on the table and takes a seat across from me.
I eye the empty space in front of him. "You're not having a drink?"
"This isn't a social meet-and-greet."
I fold my arms. "Well, you have an advantage over me. You know my name, but I don't know yours."
