Chapter 9 – The Offer

 

Chapter 9 – The Offer

Karen walked briskly through the humid Dublin night, the city glowing with electric blues and sterile whites from AI streetlamps. Her long platinum-dyed hair swung in its braid as she moved past shuttered shopfronts and down towards the riverside district.

She stopped at The Harp & Crown, an old-style Irish bar now repurposed for private deals. Outside, two thickset men in black jackets leaned against the brickwork, vaping and scanning passersby with bored suspicion. Karen walked straight past, hips swaying, chin lifted confidently. One of the men leered but didn’t stop her.

Inside, the bar was dim, lit only by flickering neon strips lining the bottle shelves. A dozen men sat at scattered tables, tattoos visible on thick necks and shaved heads. Their low murmurs fell silent for a moment as she entered.

She spotted him immediately.

Cormac O’Rourke – short, barrel-chested, with a rough ginger beard and a thick gold bracelet on each wrist. His bald head gleamed under the neon as he poured whiskey into a tumbler. One of The Snake’s oldest lieutenants. Ruthless. Efficient. Paranoid.

Karen walked over, her combat boots silent on the sticky floorboards. She slid into the booth opposite him, crossing her legs casually, her tight tactical trousers creasing across her powerful thighs.

“Cormac,” she purred, her voice low and honeyed. “It’s been a while.”

He frowned, squinting at her. “Do I know you?”

She let out a soft laugh. “Not yet. But you will.” She leaned forward, cleavage peeking from her black vest. “Name’s Kat. Belfast route handler. I’ve got a problem… and you might just be my solution.”

He grunted. “Go on.”

She pulled out a small chip drive and set it on the table between them. “Manifest and biometric scans for fifty heads. Fresh arrived in Armagh. Syrians, Afghans, Nigerians. Quiet, obedient, no priors. Ready for kitchen work, textile shops, and… other services.”

Cormac’s eyes narrowed. “Fifty, you say? That’s a big number to move south without customs sniffing around.”

Karen shrugged, her braid sliding across her chest. “My old handler got clipped last week. I need a new route down to Dublin. Word is The Snake has the cleanest corridors.”

He sipped his whiskey, eyes never leaving hers. “What’s in it for us?”

“Ten percent cut off the top,” she said smoothly. “And access to my next shipment. Seventy-five heads, three weeks from now.”

He snorted, swirling his drink. “And what makes you think Devane will trust a pretty Belfast smuggler walking in off the street?”

She leaned in closer, her perfume sweet and earthy. “Because I know he’s about to lose his current Moroccan shipment to Spanish coastguards. And I know which of his dock foremen tipped them off.”

Cormac raised an eyebrow, interest finally flickering across his hard face. “You’ve got sources.”

She smiled, slow and dangerous. “I’ve got everything he needs to keep his empire running smooth.”

For a moment, silence fell between them, broken only by the low hum of the AI bar system filtering stale air. Finally, Cormac downed his whiskey and stood up.

“Come on then,” he growled. “Let’s see if The Snake wants to meet his new Belfast queen.”

She rose gracefully, scooping up her chip drive. As they walked out together, his hand pressed lightly against her lower back in a possessive gesture.

Outside, the humid night wrapped around them like a cloak. Karen kept her expression calm, but her pulse thudded under her skin.

This is it, she thought. Inside the belly of the beast. Time to tear it apart from within.