Page 4 of Dublin's Danger Dancer

I cough again. The Mercedes-Benz aircon was no match for the hot, sour air emitted by twelve people fully clothed and crammed in the back of a sprinter. And it seemed everyone except me had chosen a deodorant without aluminium. In contrast, I chose the one with the highest concentration of aluminium, reasoning that pressing the fast-forward button on breast cancer might be a less painful death.

“Sorry I didn’t get your name?” asks the operational commander, pulling me out of my haze.

“It’s Claire,” I lie.

“Okay, Claire, you can go on with Fergus, Rory and Tim. Kerry, Mirth, Simon and John are with me. Okay, are we ready?”

“Yes, sir,” everyone replies in unison.

“Remember the sole objective: we’re looking to cut off the head of the snake. So do whatever you can to get this man.” He holds up a photograph of Liam again.

This time my eyes search his face, rehashing my fantasies of how I would kill him. He’d been the last person to see my sister alive, leading the garda on goose chase with his many descriptions of her attacker. Her murder was still unsolved. The only thing I really knew about Liam O’Shaughnessy was he’d do absolutely anything to save his own skin, including murdering my sister.

“Right. On me.” announces the commander as the doors of the van open.

“Get your head in the game,” cautions Ferg under his breath as I hesitate to get up with everyone else.

“Head in the game,” I repeat. “Yes, Sir.”

I and my eleven teammates descend the steps of the van, our guns leading the way. The bright sun burns into my black bullet-proof vest, heating me from the inside.

A woman swinging two Zara bags jumps back in horror. “Oh, dear God almighty.” she says, wringing her hands. Other passers-by freeze, their mouths drop, their necks swallowed by their shoulders.

My colleague leads us to the side door of the dental practice. With one swift run up with the battering ram, he forces open the glass-panelled door fronting the dental practice.

We storm inside and up the steps, leaving dirt marks on the dental practices smooth white carpeted stairs. Within seconds, the doorway to the brothel is forced open.

“Garda!” my colleagues shout entering the reception area.

“It’s the guards!” echoes inside.

The reception room reeks of stale cigarettes. The smoke from which has stained the floral textured wallpaper causing it to recoil from the wall.

Greasy orange stained takeaway boxes crawling with ants crowd the desk.

The reception opens into a warren of rooms down a long, narrow corridor. I follow Ferg, my semi-automatic leading me forward.

A heavily tattooed and shocked man appears from behind one of the doors. He holds his hand up. Inside, two men are sipping mugs of tea and flicking through the Cork local newspaper as if a garda raid was just part of an ordinary day at work for them.

“It’s the guards. Hands up, get on the floor!” calls Ferg.

Both men throw back the dregs of their tea and lay down on the stained rose coloured carpet inside the room.

“Where are the girls?’’ Asks Ferg.

The bigger man lifts his finger pointing upstairs.

Ferg speaks into his microphone, “The girls are on the third floor.”

As we will run back through the corridor and up the second flight of stairs, I hear the door being forced open.

I enter before Fergus, training my gun on anything that moves. This floor is the opposite to downstairs. It’s clean and clinical. There is neither smell of food nor sex.

A girl appears behind a door. She’s only wearing underwear, but not the sexy kind. Just a large pair of cotton briefs and t-shirt bra. Her pale skin is dotted with freckles that seem to occur in patterns of threes. Her long brown hair is tied into a high ponytail.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” she says in an eastern European accent, holding her hands up.

“On the floor,” I command.

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