Page 62 of Dublin's Danger Dancer

“Of course. It was my tip off and I want to see what happens with my own two eyes.”

Tonight I would be there, in my balaclava and my bullet-proof vest, to see exactly what’s in those washing machines.

Despite the rain, I arrive at St Patrick’s station in my hat and sunglasses. I gear up quickly and join Ferg in the operation command van. Water trickles down the windshield as we drive to the dockyards.

“So we know that they’re bringing in the cocaine to Ireland in the base of washing machines. The reason that we won’t unscrew is for fear of pissing off the manufacturer if we can’t get them back together.” He claps his huge hairy hands together as I attach my radio and earpiece. “We’re going to take apart every bleeding washing machine we come across.”

“How good is the intelligence, sir?” asks one officer.

“Rock solid,” the operation commander replies.

We arrive at the dockyards. It’s a little after 1:00 am. The door opens. I follow the line with the rest of the guards towards the ship with our semi-automatic rifles.

The ship is surrounded. There’s at least 300 guards here. There are no lights on. The first officer mounts the pier of the boat.

“Guards, guards,” shouts the commander. “Put down your weapons. We have you surrounded, and we will seize every single washing machine on board the ship.”

“Grenade,” Fergus shouts.

A grenade is chucked from below deck. Me and several colleagues stumble backwards to avoid the blast.

Rapid fire is exchanged between us and the men of the ship.

I go with the tactical team to crack open the first container. Our headlights stop outside a rusty burgundy container. An explosive is placed on the bottom locks of the door. We step back as the door swings open.

The air inside is squalid and stale, permeated with new plastic.

My colleagues wrench open wooden boxes with crowbars. Washing machines in stapled cardboard boxes greet us. I start to rip the first open. My nails aching from the pressure.

“We need operational!” I shout as rapid gunfire echoes from above.

“We have up to fifteen shooters who are on top of the crates,” comes a voice over the radio. “All units return fire.”

Me and the three officers in the container leave our position with our semi-automatics pointing onwards.

“On me,” says the unit commander.

I follow him outside the container staying close to the edge of the box.

“Guard down. That’s guard down.” Says a voice over the radio as more machine gunfire crackles from above.

I hear the racing sirens of ambulances whizzing through the wet streets of Dublin towards the dockyards. Everything takes on a slow motion feel as I press my back into the cold corrugated structure of the container.

I look up to see Liam aim his machine-gun at me. He shoots and the bullet hits the officer right next to me in the shoulder. I dart around the corner of the container. I’m wedged between the rusting edge of the ship and a green container. I was out of breath, stars floating in front of my eyes as slices of pain shift into my system.

More fire rains. I look out to see another officer take a bullet. His body falling limply.

More rapid shots are exchanged.

“Take the shot, Ciara,” Fergus says on the radio.

I’m shocked that he used my real name.

Looking up. I realise I have a clear shot of Liam from behind. Fergus is metres down shielding by the opened door of the first container.

“Take the shot!” he screams into the radio.

With my hand trembling over the trigger. I pull, but not to the bite point.

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