Running on Empty (22 page)

Tom stood by the car, aware even in his inebriated state of the thunderous sound, ebbing and flowing nearby. It took him a moment to realize what he was hearing. Then it dawned on him. It was the sound of the sea, crashing against the rocky shoreline.

‘Well, we’d better get you inside, and to bed. You look like you’d sleep for a week’.

Tom was surprised as he stood looking at the house. For some reason he’d imagined his uncle lived in a stone built or whitewashed cottage, but it was actually a modern dormer bungalow. As they entered the kitchen, Tom got another surprise. Sitting at the kitchen table, a mug of tea in her hand, was a middle aged, rather plump, redheaded woman.

‘Tom, this is your aunt, Belinda. Belinda, meet Tom, Mike’s lad. He’s in a spot of bother, but nothing that can’t be sorted’.

Tom stood in the centre of the kitchen, nodding his greeting and smiling sheepishly, while all the time swaying slightly from side to side.

‘Get the lad to bed’ ordered Belinda, ‘we can deal with the formalities tomorrow. The poor soul looks exhausted. Trust you to be filling him full of drink, when what he really needs is to get his head down’.

‘Don’t believe what you hear about redheads and their fiery temper’ answered Pat. They’re not as bad as they’re made out to be. They’re about ten times worse. Come on and I’ll show you where you’re sleeping’.

He led Tom down the corridor to a small bedroom.

‘This will be your room for the duration. Make yourself at home. There’s some clothes and things in the wardrobe that should fit, and if you need anything else just give me a shout’.

Tom was asleep on the bed, fully clothed, before Pat had made it back to the kitchen.

‘So, how bad is it?’ asked Belinda.

‘I’m not quite sure exactly’ he answered, ‘but it’s certainly not good, not good at all. I’m going to make a few phone calls’ he continued, ‘you might as well head off to bed. I’ll be up later. Oh, it might be an idea to get yourself over to your mothers for a few days, until this all blows over. I’d tell you not to worry, but you always did anyway, so there’s not much point’.

He made his way out to the phone in the hall. The first number he dialed was local.

‘Shay? How’s it going, Pat here. Look’s like we may be seeing a bit of action. What’s that? Yeah, just like the old days, is right. Listen, contact the others. Meet up tomorrow morning at ten. Yeah, at the old house. Ok, talk to you then. Right’.

The next number was a Galway area code.

‘Brud?. Yeah, Pat here. How are things. What’s that? I’m just ringing up to ask you what the fuck is going on in that fair city of yours. You have hood rats running wild, beating the crap out of innocent tourists, that’s what. And one of them happened to be my nephew. Yeah, three of them, down the docks area. Listen Brud, I want everything they took from my Yankee nephew. And give them a few from me as well, when you’re sorting them out. That’s great Brud, appreciate that. Talk to you soon. Cheers'

The next number was an international call to America.

‘Dave? Hi, Pat Feeney here. Yeah, good, good, and yourself? Still got your arse warming that desk in the precinct? Good. Listen Dave, I need you to track down a girl, goes by the name of Sally Carmichael. No fixed abode. Living rough down by the docks. She’s around twenty two or three. Medium build with shoulder length brown hair and brown eyes. Let me know when you’ve got anything. Oh, and Dave, strictly hush hush, ok? Don’t breathe anything to a soul. Just you and me for now, ok? Great Dave, thanks’.

The final number he dialed was also to America.

‘Mary? Hi, it’s Pat Feeney here. Yes Mary. Listen, a bit of good news for you. I’d say you’ve been worrying about the whereabouts of Tom. Well, he’s safe and sound here with me and Belinda. That’s right, he’s here in Easky. No, no, he’s fine. A bit the worse for wear. He’s had a long and eventful journey, but nothing that a good sleep and hearty breakfast won’t cure. No, you stay put. We’ll sort him out and have him home to you soon. He’s out cold at the minute, it’s after midnight here, but I’ll have him call you tomorrow. Now, don’t worry. He was in a bit of trouble, but it’ll be all sorted out, mark my words. Yes, he’s sleeping like a baby right now. Listen Mary, I’ll get him to call you tomorrow, I promise. Ok, goodnight’.

Pat put the phone back on its cradle, and rubbed his chin thoughtfully.

So, they wanted a Feeney, did they? Well, now they have two. Two for the price of one.

Come to papa, boys.

****

Lowanski’s cell phone rang.

‘Hello boss’.

‘Go home and pack, you’re off to Ireland’.

‘What? How come, boss. Why am I going there?’

‘Because, that certain person you told me last week you’d have within an hour? Well he’s in Ireland’.

‘But, that’s impossible boss. How could he get to Ireland? He’s no papers, no passport no money, no clothes even. There must be some mistake’.

‘Yes, you’re the mistake you thick fucking Polak. He’s over there, take it as fact. We intercepted a call to his mother’s house. He has an uncle, Pat Feeney, in a place called Easky on the west coast of Ireland. That’s who he’s with. You and five crew are booked on a flight at eight tomorrow evening. Pack all the tools you’ll need to finish the job in one suitcase. Present it to a guy called Bert Fisher at check in, nobody but him, you got that? He’ll see to it that it it’s labeled Diplomatic’.

‘But boss, you want six of us to go? That’s nearly the entire group. It won’t take six of us to sort this Feeney guy and his uncle out’.

‘You guys are such clowns, I’d send sixty if I had them. Just do what you’re told, and stop trying to think. That’s my end of it’.

‘Ok boss, ok, whatever you say’.

‘Oh, Lowanski, one more thing. Don’t come back unless the job’s finished, are we clear? If Feeney isn’t history, find yourself a rabbit burrow over there, and live out the rest of your short life holed up in it. And it will be short, mark my words’.

Click.

*****

Pat Feeney lay awake in the gloom, the regular shallow breathing of Belinda as she lay sleeping beside him the only sound in the still night air. Three am and still awake.

His thoughts alternating between the present, and the past.

Eight o’clock on a bitterly cold and frosty January morning. Pat lay prone on the hillside, nestled in the white glinting grass between two large boulders, as he studied the road below. He adjusted focus on the scope, his Barrett M-90 bolt action sniper rifle resting by his side. The Ford Sierra came round the bend, and into view. As it drove along the short stretch of straight before the next twist in the road, it suddenly veered to the right, mounted the shallow bank, hit a tree with a heavy thud, and came to an abrupt stop.

Pat’s scope immediately switched from the scene back along the road. A British Army Saracen personnel carrier was winding its way towards the scene, about 600 yards back. The scope swung back to the crash. Sean was out of the driver’s seat, Pat noted, and was taking to Belinda at the open passenger door. So far, so good.

‘Are you all right?’ asked Sean.

‘I think so. Why did you have to hit the tree so fucking hard , you thick bastard’

‘Authenticity?’

Sean turned, and waved to Pat, and the scope moved back along the winding road. About 400 yards now. He signaled this to Sean, and also to Robbie, who was about eighty yards down the slope, to his right. Pat lifted up the M-90, slotted on the scope, and nestled the rifle into his shoulder.

Sean removed the Glock 17 handgun from the back of his waistband, cocked it, and returned it to position.

Belinda removed her pistol from its taped position under the passenger seat, checked it, and placed it on the seat, under her dress.

200 yards away.

Sean and Belinda both looked at each other.

‘Let’s hope it all pans out the way we expect’ he said.

‘Let’s bloody hope’.

Pat turned the plan over in his head once again. The Saracen had a driver and commander. It could carry up to eight more troops, but here in South Armagh it usually contained no more than three soldiers, most likely two. Pat’s job was to take out the driver, his head barely visible through the small slit window. Robbie had the hopefully easier task of taking out the commander, provided he didn’t suspect any trouble and was standing upright in the vehicle.

Pat checked the tree to his left, its bare branches covered in hoar frost. Still not the slightest hint of a breeze. Perfect. On this bitterly cold morning, he could feel the palms of his hands sweating in their leather fingerless gloves.

Not long now.

He pushed the breech lock forward, depositing a round in the chamber.

Be patient.

The Saracen ground to a halt opposite the immobile car.

He adjusted his scope. The commander raised himself through the hatch, making him visible from the waist up.

‘What sort of mess are you after getting yourself into, you dumb fucking Paddy’ he asked, in a thick Yorkshire accent.

‘I don’t know. Must have hit a patch of black ice, I suppose. One minute we’re driving along, next thing I knew we were up on the ditch’.

Some sheep were grazing nearby, foraging for sustenance among the brittle white grass, oblivious to what was about to be played out in front of them.

The calm before the storm.

The rear doors of the Saracen opened, three soldiers emerging into the bright winter morning. Two of them assumed a holding position, one crouching next to the carrier, the other kneeling to the side of the old stone wall bordering the right hand side of the road. The third approached the inert vehicle.

Shit,
thought Pat,
there would be three
.

This created a big problem. Three plus the two crew made five. They could only pick one target each, which left the opportunity for the remaining soldier to return fire. In this scenario, the fifth soldier became the target of whoever was ready. Belinda’s target was the soldier who approached the car, and Sean’s was the soldier nearest him, in this case the one crouching by the Saracen. This left the one by the stone wall. Robbie’s position to the right meant the wall obstructed his line of view, and Belinda was too far away. So, it was between himself and Sean as to who could take out the soldier, after first shooting their primary target. It was high risk, very high, especially for Sean, who was nearest, and out in open view. Sean was the man on the ground.

It was his decision.

Continue or abort.

Stick or twist.

You cannot legislate for every eventuality that unfolds in a real time fire fight. Any military expert worth his salt will tell you that. At some stage, you have to improvise, and the one who adapts best becomes the winner, while the one who doesn’t usually ends up dead.

Belinda had one hand holding her head, the other between her legs, wrapped around the handle of the handgun.

Pat waited, his eye removed from the scope, glued to Sean’s every movement. Then, Sean placed his hands on his hips, within inches of the Glock in his waistband.

That was the signal, we’re seeing this through.

He’s got balls, that lad
, thought Pat, as his eye moved back to the scope. He trained the cross hairs on the driver, who was peering through the slot of the vehicle, a look of mild amusement on his face as he took in the scene.

Now, wait.

All Pat could see, as he peered through the scope, was the driver of the Saracen. He had to react on sound alone.

Listen for the crack of the handguns, then open fire.

He waited, small beads of perspiration forming across his brow on this bitterly cold day. He could hear conversation, but he didn’t know what was being said, or who was saying it.

Then, four sharp cracks, as both Glocks are discharged in unison, two shots apiece, followed instantly by the unmistakable sound of Pats M-90 sniper rifle, and a sharp staccato burst from Robbie’s AK-47.

The tranquillity of the valley shattered as the sound of gunfire echoed through the hills.

Pat immediately spun his rifle right, to the soldier by the wall. He squeezed the trigger, but heard a short burst of fire even as he did so, and knew he was too late. He lifted his eye from the scope, a feeling of dread welling up inside him, to see what he already knew. Sean lay prostrate on the ground in front of the Saracen, a large red circle, expanding by the second, radiating from his chest. He quickly folded up the stand of his M-90, threw both into the green canvas shoulder bag, and began scampering and tumbling down the hill.