Knife Edge

Shaun Hutson

Knife Edge

***

    When Sean Doyle receives his first message from Robert Neville, he has only seven hours in which to save London - and the Northern Ireland peace process - from disaster.

    Neville is an explosives expert in the British Army, but peace in the Province has ripped a hole in his life. His demands are simple: to be re-united with his daughter, Lisa. His threats are terrifying: a series of bombs to be detonated in the centre of the capital every hour until he has the girl. Already responsible for a string of callous attacks on Irish public figures on both sides of the political divide, Neville has to be stopped before the cease-fire is dealt a fatal blow.

    As a member of the Counter Terrorist Unit, Doyle knows his own days are numbered by the cessation of The Troubles. He's close to understanding Neville's mind - closer, in fact, than it is safe to be - but now, forced to toy with the life of an innocent girl and trust the words of a cold-hearted assassin, Doyle knows only one impulse: to find Neville before London is reduced to rubble and before his own violent instincts propel him towards self-destruction…

***

    'More twists than a contortionist's convention… empty your piggy bank and buy a copy.'

    
-Kerrang

    'Shaun Hutson is an expert in the art of keeping the reader turning the pages… the energy of their telling is overwhelming.'

    
-Time Out

***

    Scaning & primary formating:
pagesofdeath.

    Secondary formating & proofing:
pua.

***

    
This book is dedicated, with the utmost respect, to the memory of Sam Peckinpah.

    
It isn't Durango, it's London, but I hope you would have approved. Wherever you're watching from…

    
'The IRA have decided that as of midnight, 31 August, there will be a complete cessation of military operations. All our units have been instructed accordingly.'

    -
IRA statement, 11 a.m. August 31,1994

    
'Man still has one belief. One decree that stands alone. The laying down of arms, is like cancer to their bones…'

    
-Megadeth

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

    These might seem a bit short and sweet compared to usual but those who've helped either before, after or during the writing of this novel, you know who you are. Those of you who've forgotten who you are… you're listed below:

    Extra special thanks to my manager Gary Farrow. A man who can always turn the screw a few more notches than anyone else I know. Cheers, mate.

    Many thanks to my publishers for their continued support. Especially to Barbara Boote and to my own 'Wild Bunch', my sales team. Look upon them, other publishers, and weep.

    Special thanks to Cathy Cremer, Jo Bolsom and Wendy at Sony, and Dee, Zena, Karen Crane and Sarah Cousar (thanks and congratulations). Sanctuary Music, Iron Maiden and my most valued friend, Wally Grove (wherever he may be at the moment). Thanks also to Duncan Stripp, Martin Phillips, Jez, Terri, Rachel and Rebecca.

    Thanks to Jack Taylor, Tom Sharp, Amin Saleh and Lewis Bloch. Not forgetting Damian and Christina Pulle.

    Many thanks to Broomhills Shooting Club, especially Martin Slack, Mark and Maurice. Although 'thanks' might not be the word I'm looking for in Maurice's case…

    Special thanks to Hailey Owen, a 'muse of fire' in her own right. To Deena and to everyone at Amex Platinum Services for organising us so brilliantly. Many thanks to Factotum too.

    Indirect thanks to Metallica, Queensryche, Clannad, Enya, L7 and Megadeth. Not forgetting Martin Scorsese. As if I could.

    Thanks also to the Rihga Royal Hotel in New York and Margaret in Lindy's in Times Square.

    Many thanks to Liverpool Football Club. To Sheila, Jenny and Joan in the Bob Paisley Lounge. Also many thanks to Steve 'red mist' Lucas, Paul 'Kevin Kuley' Garner and my co-driver and assistant maniac, Aaron Reynolds.

    Thanks seems too inadequate a word to use when it regards my mum and dad but it'll have to do for now.

    Extra special thanks to my wife Belinda for, well, just about everything really. And to my precious, beautiful daughter, whose smile in the mornings sometimes makes it just that little bit harder to kill and maim (figuratively speaking of course…).

    The last thank you is always for you, my readers. As ever, for those who've been there from the beginning and those just joining the fight, welcome.

    Let's go.

    
Shaun Hutson

7.03 A.M.

    It was like being struck in the face by a handful of razor blades.

    Sean Doyle stood motionless beside the dark blue Datsun for a moment, eyes narrowed against the biting wind. He zipped up his leather jacket, the wind whipping his shoulder-length brown hair around his face.

    He brushed it away and glanced up at the sky.

    
Fuck.
Not even light yet.

    Great swollen banks of grey cloud were scudding across the blackened heavens, propelled by the powerful gusts of wind.

    Doyle felt a spot of rain against his cheek and brushed it away. He wondered how long it would be until the threatened downpour arrived.

    Reaching into his pocket he pulled out a packet of cigarettes and jammed one between his lips.

    The raging wind made it almost impossible to light the Marlboro, the flame of the lighter sputtering even when Doyle cupped a hand around it. He sucked hard when the cigarette ignited, the tip glowing.

    Doyle spat out a small piece of tobacco and drew deeply on the Marlboro, allowing the smoke to fill his lungs.

    Christ, it was cold.

    He leaned on the roof of the Datsun and glanced around.

    The houses in London Road were unremarkable and relatively uniform in appearance. A number had been converted into flats, as had many like them in this area of Brent.

    From where he stood, Doyle could see the twin towers of Wembley Stadium less than a mile away, barely visible in the early morning gloom.

    Half a mile behind him lay Wembley Central station. He could hear the intermittent rumble of trains passing through, the sound carried on the icy wind.

    Early morning commuters travelling to work.

    Some of the occupants of these dwellings in London Road would be joining that mass exodus to the centre of the capital soon. Some already had passed him, glancing around curiously at the cars parked in the road.

    Some glanced across it.

    Doyle continued to draw on his cigarette, his dark grey eyes scanning the street, the houses.

    So quiet.

    So ordinary.

    Lights were on in some windows as the neighbourhood readied itself for the daily routine. A routine that remained the same for the duration of these people's working lives.

    Get up, go to work, come home, go to bed.

    There was a reassuring, if soul-crushing, regularity to the whole thing; a little bit of security in the midst of the insanity that was day-to-day living.

    Doyle hated routine. Always had. He hated the regimentation work brought with it, the discipline that was constantly expected. The realisation that he was merely a cog in a different type of wheel did little to lighten his mood.

    He watched a young woman scurrying down the road towards a bus stop, waiting patiently with her coat pulled tightly around her.

    A car passed by, the driver yawning, rubbing his eyes with one hand.

    He cast Doyle a cursory glance, wondering perhaps who this long-haired, leather-jacketed individual was.

    For his own part, Doyle watched as the car disappeared around a comer, brake lights flaring briefly in the gloom.

    He took one last drag on his cigarette then dropped it, grinding it out beneath the sole of his boot.

    Behind him another train rumbled past. It moved slowly, seeming to reflect the lethargy of its passengers, as if their indifference was somehow seeping into its metal innards.

    Doyle felt more rain against his cheek and

    brushed it away, his fingers tracing the long scar that ran from the corner of his left eye down to the point of his jaw.

    There were many more scars not immediately visible.

    Both physical and emotional.

    Pain.

    The one constant in his life. The one ever reliable, ever present fucking companion.

    So much pain.

    Doyle glanced at his watch and clambered back inside the Datsun.

    As he did, the Beretta 92F burst-fire automatic in a holster beneath his left arm bumped against his side.

CONCILIATION

Dromoland Castle, County Clare, The Republic of Ireland

    They were the last three in the dining room.

    The waiter watched as the trio of men, all immaculately dressed, ages ranging from thirty to forty, sat around a table close to the window of the oak-panelled room.

    The curtains were open, offering a view of the man-made lake and part of the golf course beyond.

    The sun was setting, reflecting on the still surface of the water like fire on glass.

    In these winter months the darkness came early but the death of daylight was no less spectacular.

    Apart from the three men there had been only two other tables to serve that evening. The hotel was quiet. The tourists wouldn't begin to descend for another month or two. For now the natural serenity of the ancient building was intensified by the lack of guests frequenting its magnificently appointed corridors and halls. All too soon the swarms of Americans would arrive, all of whom were convinced they had Irish ancestors in this or some part of the country.

    The waiter smiled to himself as he tidied one of the other recently vacated tables.

    A couple in their late twenties had sat there and the waiter had been particularly struck by how good looking the young woman was. He'd cast an envious eye in the direction of her companion as they'd left the dining room.

    Now he glanced across to the three men and noticed that they had finished their desserts. He wandered over to collect the plates.

    'Did you enjoy your meals, gentlemen?' he asked.

    'Superb,' said Patrick Macarthy, wiping some crumbs from his beard.

    His companions echoed his sentiments.

    'Could you bring us three brandies, please?' Macarthy asked as the waiter gathered the plates.

    'What's this, Patrick?' Liam Black said, smiling. A celebration?'

    Macarthy sat back in his seat, glancing up as the waiter propped the last of the plates on his arm and retreated from view.

    'I think we've every cause for celebration,' he said, clasping his fingers together before him on the table. 'We've won. This peace is on our terms and I'm glad it's over.'

    Macarthy had been a member of Sinn Fein for the last eight years and, prior to that, he'd spent six years in Long Keshfor possession of firearms. Now, just three days away from his fortieth birthday, he still had the lean and hungry look of a fighting man which not even the flecks of grey in his beard could diminish.

    His companions were younger, both members of the coiste seasta, a standing committee which ratified major Sinn Fein decisions.

    Liam Black was a tall, powerfully built man with thick brown hair.

    Eamonn Brady was thinner. Pale and narrow-featured with sad eyes.

    'Are you sure it is over?' Brady asked, pulling agitatedly at the corner of his napkin. 'If the Prods have anything to do with it…' He let the sentence trail off.

    'It's just a matter of time now,' Macarthy told the younger man. 'Tying up loose ends. We'll see a united Ireland before the beginning of the next century.'

    The waiter returned with the brandies and set down the crystal balloons before disappearing once again.

    Black warmed the liquor in the glass, cupping one large hand around the base.

    'That was all I ever wanted for my kids,' Macarthy continued. 'That was what I fought for when I was a soldier, what I campaigned for when I got out of the Maze.' He took a sip of his brandy, brushing his lips with his thumb and forefinger as he replaced the glass.

    'How are the kids?' Brady asked.

    'They're grand,' Macarthy said, wistfully. 'My daughter started school three weeks ago and my son's just been picked to play for his school's hurling team.'

    'He must get his athletic prowess from his mother then,' Black chuckled.

    'You cheeky bugger,' said Macarthy, patting his stomach. 'Look at that, still flat as a washboard. Pure muscle.'

    'Pure bullshit,' Brady retorted.

    Macarthy raised his glass and sipped once more at the brandy.

    The blast was deafening.

    A thundercrack which seemed to reverberate not just around the dining room but also over the lake, echoing away like wiling thunder.

    The window behind Macarthy shattered, the first bullet striking him in the back of the head, at the base of the skull.

    It exploded from his mouth, blasting two teeth free, smashing the brandy glass.

    A thick gout of blood spouted from the wound, tiny pieces of pulverised bone spinning through the air like bloodied confetti.

    The impact drove him forward, slamming his shattered face into the table which immediately upended, sending more glasses flying into the air.

    Three more shots followed in rapid succession.

    One caught Black in the chest, staving in his sternum before exploding from his back just below his shoulder blade. He remained motionless for what seemed like an eternity then dropped to his knees, hands clapped to his chest as if trying to hold in the blood.

    Brady threw himself down as two more bullets sent glass flying into the dining room. He looked across at Black who was on his knees, head bowed as if in prayer, blood pouring down his chest and stomach.

    Macarthy lay face down a foot or so from him, eyes open.

    Brady felt his stomach somersault as he looked at the back of his companion's head.

    Where the bullet had entered there was something thick, swollen and pinkish-white bulging from the hole.

    He realised it was brain.

    Brady vomited.

    Outside, the thunderous echo of the firing died away on the cold air.

    The sound of an engine drifted across the lake as a car sped away into the enveloping gloom.