I nod again. O’Driscoll points to a second sheet. Names. Extensions. Job titles. Shift blocks.
“Brona runs the scheduling desk,” he says. “Kavanagh runs yard security and manifest verification. Roarke handles perimeter and enforcement. You’ll be answering to them when need be.”
I meet his gaze. “Noted.”
He slides a third paper toward me. “You start with Byrne Imports surface contracts. Whiskey. Hospitality clients. Food-grade transport. Clean export accounts. Those loads run through predictable lanes and they keep the port calm.”
A beat passes.
His eyes stay on mine. “If you see other kinds of traffic, don’t question it. Nothing should interest you until you’re told it belongs to your scope.”
I keep my face still. “Understood.”
O’Driscoll watches for a flinch. He gets none.
He nods and stands. “Walk.”
We move through a narrow corridor and into a larger room that overlooks the yard. Glass on one side. Desks in rows. Radios crackle. A printer whines. Men work with their shoulders tight and their eyes fixed.
O’Driscoll gestures to a desk near the wall, not too central and not too hidden. “That’s yours.”
A laptop sits there, along with a phone, battered notebook, and a keycard.
I set my bag down, open it, and take out a slim planner, pen, and a small water bottle. Nothing that hints at Wicklow or my father’s house or the knives I keep in my boots. My recording device stays where it belongs.
A tiny mic sits stitched into the lining of my blazer, right along the seam near my ribs. The transmitter rests under the inside pocket, flat enough to vanish, warm enough to remind me it’s there. My father’s tech man fit it hours before my arrival and checked it twice.
O’Driscoll points at my screen. “Brona will load you into the schedules. You’ll spend today learning how we run time slots at the gates. Make a note of the patterns in who arrives early and who drifts and flag the drifters.”
His voice drops. “Early drivers create cover for late drivers. Late drivers create cover for missing crates.”
“I’ll watch,” I say.
“Good.” He pauses, then adds, “Keep your head down and your tone neutral. People test new hires.”
I glance across the room and catch a few eyes on me, then a few eyes that slide away too fast. That tells me enough.
O’Driscoll looks toward the door, then back at me. “One more thing.”
“Yes?”
He keeps his voice low. “Keep your distance from the boss unless he pulls you in. Don’t chase his attention.”
I give him a small nod. “I don’t chase.”
He studies me like he doubts that statement in a different way than he doubts my résumé.
Brona calls his name from across the room. O’Driscoll leaves me with a final look, and I exhale slowly and turn on the laptop. The dashboard loads. Gate slots. Carrier names. Container IDs. Departure windows. Yard zones. While I get to work, Brona steps to my desk and drops a folder beside my keyboard.
She’s old, broad-shouldered, hair clipped back, eyes like she has watched men try to bullshit her and fail. She doesn’t offer her hand. “Quinn,” she says.
“Brona,” I answer.
Her brow lifts at the direct use of her name, then settles. “You learn fast.”
“I prefer it,” I say.
She taps the folder. “Start with inbound whiskey loads. Match booking sheets to gate entries. You will find mismatches. List them.”