Page 3 of Dublin's Danger Dancer

“That’s why I’m here, taking these risks,” I say.

“Then make wise choices,” Ferg says.

Fergus could dress it up any way he wanted. I knew he was testing me. Liam O’Shaughnessy was the prime target of this operation. And if he got away, or we didn’t find what we were looking for, it would indicate that I’d tipped him off.

He pulls his balaclava over his head, positions his earpiece in place and puts his helmet on, locking it on under his chin. He looks down at his watch.

“Come on. We’re moving out. You’re with me in the operations command van. Do me a favour, stay silent.”

“In 2022, you’d think a woman would be able to express her opinion in the workplace.

“Not if that woman is an undercover stripper and there might be a mole within the Garda.”

I push my earbud in, pull my balaclava down, and lock my helmet in place.

He says the grey locker door with much more force than a man of his age looks capable. A stray metal coat hanger swings against the slated air vents.

He opens the door, and I follow him under a pathway of fluorescent lights.

My cover internally was that I was on secondment to the metropolitan police in London. I’d progressed so quickly up the ranks, I was already viewed as a different species by the rank-and-file gardai. I got results. I couldn’t care less what anyone thought about me, but I was grateful to not have to listen to their demeaning jokes about me being an arse licker.

I follow Ferg to the arms room where the other members of our squad are signing out guns and ammunition. Ferg passes me a semi-automatic, two handguns and a combat operation rucksack with Claire pinned to the shoulder. I look inside and see a bag of A negative blood encased in a padded silver freezer bag that looks like it would turn into a blanket.

I secure the semi-automatic across my body, place the handguns on either side of my belt and pull on the rucksack.

Ferg closes the cage door leaving others pawing over weapons. He signs for our equipment and wishes the guard on duty a good day.

Surrounded by the low mumble of other officers, we don’t exchange a word. He motions at me to follow him. He turns sharply to his right and descends a concrete ramp where eight other officers bearing semi-automatics are waiting.

A black van rolls up. The back doors are pulled open and me, Ferg and eight other officers in balaclavas hop in like a squad of murderous ants.

Chapter Two

“We are all sitting in this van, holding these weapons,” says the commander stroking the top of his matte M4, “because if any of us were told we had weeks left to live we wouldn’t take our life insurance payout and sit on a tropical island in the arse end of nowhere. No. We’d be out there, hunting down every gobshite human trafficker that brought girls into Ireland and kidnapped girls out. Me, personally, I’d put a bullet between the eyes of every traffickers head I could find.”

The van rolls through the streets of Cork city centre. The folded pen knives enclosed inside my cargo pants dig into my legs. The left tinted window showcases the colourful townhouses passing in a blur of pastel. On the right, round topped walls cobbled together with ancient stones, look like they’ve been iced with green moss.

The air inside the van hangs with faintly concealed body odour. I cough, clearing my throat as the commander continues.

“Since none of us has the luxury of an impending death, we need to act within the limits of the law. This goes tits up and it’s my face on the front page of the Irish Mirror on Sunday. This goes well. No one knows about it.”

“We believe there’s 170 girls inside. Various nationalities. You know the story. Told they’re coming to clean. Sold into brothels. Intel suggests this is where they keep the girls before transporting them to individual brothels. Our objective is this man.”

He holds up a picture of Liam. He is younger. It looks like it was taken at least five years ago. His wide blue eyes are surrounded by a thicket of lashes, as thick and dark as his hair. He looks like he is gently annoyed queuing for tickets for the cinema rather than being forced to hold up his prisoner ID and look into the camera at the Garda station. His expression is tight, but his lips have a soft curl to them. His shirtsleeves are rolled up, showing his bulging muscular forearms. There’s a discernible smugness. He is clearly just treading water. He knows his da will get him off of whatever he’s been arrested for.

“Liam O’Shaughnessy rose to the top of the shit heap three months ago when his da hanged him in custody. Since we’ve seen a sixteen-fold increase in girls being brought into Ireland. Our secondary target is this man, Aaron McMurphy. Also, a total gobshite and both are likely to be armed to the teeth. Now none of you know each other. That’s by design. Based on your competences, you’ve been drafted in from all over Ireland for this operation because we are aware of an internal leak.”

“Not bleedin’ aware enough to catch the feckin bastard,” an officer with a Northern Irish lilt chimes in.

Ignoring him the commander continues, “Everyone’s faces are covered for a reason. Do not take your face coverings off during the operation. These are dangerous men we’re dealing with. And if they know who you are. Your families will be at risk.”

The van rolls to a stop alongside the target. A turquoise blue fronted dental practice. This particular shade of blue wouldn’t look out of place on some eejits souped-up car, complete with a glittery finish and orange rims. I stare at the huge polished tooth rotating above the entrance until my gaze is caught by the red tan marks projected onto the skin of the Irish traipsing past.

“We’ll split into three teams. Strength. Tactical and Resolutions. Strength is going to get us inside. Tactical are going to clear the building and resolutions are going to process those arrested. We also have full support from Cork’s finest.” he motions through the windshield to where several garda cars checked blue and yellow are waiting around the corner.

On the opposite side of the street, tourists amble past, following a woman holding up an oval patent white cruise panel. The van falls silent as we hear their tour leader announce: “And this is where Cork’s infamous eighteenth century serial killer hid the bodies. It’s believed they still roam the streets at night looking for justice.”

“If only they knew that the real evil was just above this dental practice,” says the Northern Irish man.

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