Seventy Times Seven (30 page)

This was the reason O’Leary was the head of the organisation: he could see the bigger picture and he wasn’t afraid to make difficult decisions. No problem was so big that a few simple executions couldn’t put it straight.

It was getting late, but he could at least make a few phone calls and set the wheels in motion. After that he might take the dogs for a walk.

E.I. left the lounge and made his way down the short corridor and into his study. He placed his glass of whiskey on the large oak desk and lifted the receiver before sitting down. He didn’t know why, but he suddenly felt uneasy. Something was wrong. Instinct or intuition made him slide his hand under the desk and unclip his revolver.

The dogs had stopped barking.

Sean chose a lighted window and waited a few moments to make sure there was no one moving around inside. He didn’t want to hit someone by mistake. When he was sure, he lifted the AR15 and fired two short bursts, then chose another window and fired again. A few seconds later there were figures running around the yard, their outlines silhouetted against the white walls of the farmhouse.

E.I. looked up from his desk. The sound of the upstairs window crashing to the floor made him start. He jumped up from behind the desk with the revolver in his hand and ran into the hallway. ‘Seamus, Brendan, are you there?’ he shouted down the small corridor. ‘What the hell is going on?’ But there was no reply. More gunfire and another window shattered. He could hear his men outside shouting to one another. E.I. ran back into his office and pulled the corner of the paisley-patterned rug aside, then lifted the heavy latch on the trapdoor and descended into the underground tunnel, letting the trapdoor fall closed behind him.

As he squeezed his way along the narrow passage the trapdoor suddenly flew open again. E.I. tried to twist round, but the confines of the tunnel and his large bulk made it almost impossible. He finally managed to turn enough to aim his revolver, but there was nothing to shoot at. The air around him filled with smoke as he fired off a couple of warning shots.

O’Leary shouted over his shoulder, ‘You’ve picked the wrong man to fuck with,’ but again, there was no reply.

Something dropped onto the ground with a dull thud and the trapdoor slammed shut. E.I. twisted sideways to allow more light from the string of worker-lamps hanging overhead to illuminate the floor. As he strained to see what the object was, he suddenly recoiled.

‘Holy Mother of God!’

Sean watched the silhouetted figure sprinting across the field towards the car. There were muzzle-flashes from various locations round the farmhouse and bullets whistling overhead. He raised the AR15 and pointed it out of the window, fixing the crosshairs of the sight on the advancing figure; when it was less than twenty yards away Sean fired a short burst either side, then slid the rifle back under the coat on the back seat. A few moments later the passenger door flew open and Danny climbed in.

‘Jesus, you nearly took me down there, big fella. What were you firing at me for?’

‘If I’d been aiming at you, you wouldn’t be sitting here now,’ replied Sean. ‘I was making sure O’Leary’s men kept their heads down.’

Suddenly there was a loud bang and the window behind the driver’s seat shattered.

‘What are you waiting for?’ said Danny, trying to catch his breath.

Sean crunched the gearstick and the car sped off along the narrow lane.

‘How’d it go?’ asked Sean.

‘Fine!’

‘What did O’Leary say?’

‘He never said a thing,’ answered Danny.

‘What did you say to him?’ asked Sean.

‘I never said a thing,’ replied Danny. ‘I left him talking to a hand grenade.’

Slim Jim McMahon took a couple of faltering steps onto the wet pavement at the front of the Bridge Bar and stopped to light a cigarette. He cupped his hands together to shield the fragile flame from being extinguished by the cold easterly wind. It took several attempts, but eventually the cigarette glowed fiery orange and a cloud of smoke swirled and twisted into the night sky. Slim stood impatiently with his head bowed against the stiff breeze and waited for a car to splash its way along the road.

He was about to cross North Street when he caught sight of a figure withdrawing into the grimy shadows of the building opposite.

Slim’s brow creased to a frown. It was just before midnight. He had been drinking Guinness for nearly five hours and was willing to accept that he’d had too much to drink: his inebriated mind could be playing tricks on him. But he knew instinctively that what he had seen had nothing to do with the alcohol.

Slim’s eyes narrowed, trying to detect further movement. But apart from a line of parked cars on either side, the street appeared to be empty. Slim decided to go back into the bar and put a call in to O’Brien: tell him what he’d seen . . . the rumours were true. Sean McGuire was back from the dead.

As he turned there was a flash of steel that reflected the glow from the street lamps. Slim felt a sharp stabbing pain at the top of his stomach. The blow appeared to come from nowhere. There was another bright orange flash and another stabbing pain. Before he could react or retaliate, a knife was rammed home for a third time, penetrating just below his ribcage and puncturing his left lung. Slim reeled backward and stumbled with the handle of an eight-inch ‘Black Bear’ combat knife protruding from his dark overcoat. He reached his arms out and tried to twist round to break his fall, but the speed and ferocity of the attack had taken him off guard; his reactions were too slow. Slim hit the ground hard, his nose and forehead striking the solid pavement with a sickening thud. He tried to stand up, but the sole of a boot stamped down on the side of his face, pinning his head to the ground, making it impossible for him to move.

‘Do you know where your abdominal aorta is, big fella?’ said a quiet, familiar voice.

‘Fuck you,’ Slim spluttered.

‘The amount of blood you’ve got pumping out your stomach I’d say I’ve scored a direct hit. Blood in your mouth too, that means I got your lung. Bull’s eye on both counts! Tell me where the girls are and I’ll call an ambulance, but you’d better hurry up, you could drown before it gets here. Simple question: where are the girls?’

Slim Jim McMahon was already gasping for breath, the short, sharp inhalations making an unpleasant gurgling noise in his throat.

Everything was happening too quickly.

His left lung had already started to fill with fluid. That, in combination with the rapid blood loss and lack of oxygen, was making him feel nauseous and confused.

On the other side of the street the figure he had noticed earlier emerged from the darkness and stood staring across at him. No question this time; Slim definitely recognised him. ‘It
is
Sean McGuire,’ he said, answering his own question.

‘He’s waiting for me to give him the nod,’ said the figure standing over him. ‘If I do, he’ll go into that telephone box over there and dial 999. But the longer you leave it the less chance you’ve got. The choice is yours: priest or paramedic? Where are the girls, Slim?’

McMahon was dying. His breathing was becoming increasingly noisy and laboured.

‘Cochron Road, near St Joseph’s,’ he replied, spluttering out the words. ‘I told that fucker O’Brien it was wrong. And I tell you, I played no part in what happened to the Fitzpatrick girl.’

Slim felt the pressure on his skull suddenly ease.

He tried to sit up, but the effort made the pain in his stomach worse and started a coughing fit that had him writhing around on the wet ground, moaning in agony.

A shadow passed over his face and he could feel a presence close by, but in the dim light it was impossible to make out anything other than a hazy silhouette.

‘I had nothing to do with it,’ he repeated, sounding increasingly desperate.

Slim could feel the figure’s warm breath on the side of his face. A voice, barely raised above a whisper, said, ‘You were there.’

Slim Jim McMahon was disorientated. The figure appeared to float away from him: hovering just inches above the ground like a spectre as it travelled silently across the street to join Sean McGuire on the other side. It didn’t stop, nor did it turn as it moved away.

Danny and Sean McGuire walked together for less than twenty yards, then climbed into a car. There was never any intention of an ambulance being called.

The blood gurgled in Slim’s throat as he rolled over and swallowed his last breath.

Fifteen minutes later, Sean scaled the slatted wooden fence at the end of the rear garden of a small semi-detached house in Cochron Road and dropped silently onto the overgrown lawn. There was a light on in the kitchen. Three men sat round a table drinking beer from cans and smoking cigarettes, but there was no sign of Angela or Niamh.

As Sean edged closer to the rear of the house he recognised them. Chip O’Shea: a ratty little prick with rotting teeth and a permanent sneer. Marky-Mark McGuigan, who rode shotgun for O’Brien‚ and the big man himself, sitting at the head of the table scowling at the hand of poker Chip had just dealt him. He was positioned at the far end of the kitchen closest to the door and was partially obscured by the other two.

Sean hadn’t seen any of them for almost ten years, but aside from slightly heavier-set faces and less hair they all looked exactly the same.

He had a clear line of fire to McGuigan and O’Shea, but O’Brien was more difficult.

There was no clear plan. All Sean had to do was wait for something to happen: that’s what Danny had said as the two had parted company.

He didn’t have to wait long. Suddenly all three men stood up. O’Brien reached behind his back and pulled a handgun from his belt. The skinny guy, O’ Shea, picked up an Armalite from underneath the table and was already on his way out of the room with Marky-Mark following close behind, a shotgun clamped across his chest.

Sean raised the assault rifle to his shoulder and took aim.

On the other side of the building, outside the front door, stood Danny with his finger on the doorbell. He wasn’t going to release it until someone answered.

In his left hand he held a Heckler & Koch P7 with a suppressor fitted: the small round end of which was pressed firmly against the spyhole situated two-thirds of the way up the door.

He heard a voice from inside. ‘Who is it?’ asked Chip O’Shea.

‘The bogey man,’ replied Danny.

Danny counted three seconds for Chip to put his eye up to the door and fired a single shot through the spyhole.

From the far end of the hall Owen O’Brien saw a jet of blood spraying out of the back of Chip O’Shea’s head before his skinny frame slumped slightly and collapsed limply to the floor.

Outside in the garden Sean squeezed off two short bursts. The kitchen window shattered and O’Brien saw Marky-Mark’s body suddenly lift three or four inches off the ground and fly backwards against the kitchen wall. Half of his face was missing and there was a stream of blood pumping steadily from a cluster of bullet holes in the middle of his chest.

There was a loud rapping noise next to O’Brien and a cluster of ragged holes suddenly appeared in the door frame just above his right shoulder. Splinters of sharp wood lacerated the side of his face. He lurched to the side and tumbled out of the kitchen.

O’Brien’s instinct was to run. He considered heading out through the garage, but there was no way of knowing who, or how many, were involved in the attack: it was too risky. His best option was to get the girl.

The garden was now in total darkness. Sean was sure he’d taken down Marky-Mark with his first burst of fire, but he couldn’t be sure if he’d been killed outright. He made his way over to the kitchen window and climbed onto a waste pipe. Marky-Mark’s body lay still on the kitchen floor.

Sean hauled himself onto the ledge and swung his legs over the sink, then dropped onto the linoleum-covered floor. As he cleared the doorway he saw O’Shea’s body lying at the other end of the hall.

Suddenly there was movement upstairs and the sound of a young girl screaming. Outside‚ Danny could hear the screams too. He stood back and emptied a full clip into the front door, then started kicking.

Sean made his way quickly down the hall. ‘Wait up, Danny, wait up, it’s me, I’m inside,’ he said with an urgent whisper.

Sean bent down, dragged Chip O’Shea’s limp torso clear of the door and yanked it open. There were a few more muffled screams then the house fell silent. Danny dropped the clip out of the bottom of his gun and reloaded. ‘You keep me covered till I get to the landing, then I’ll cover you,’ said Danny.

Sean knew what his brother was doing. The first person onto the stairs was the most likely to get shot. Danny was volunteering to be that person.

Sean shook his head. ‘I’m going first.’

Before Danny had a chance to argue, Sean was already at the foot of the stairs. With his AR15 pressed firmly to his shoulder Sean cautiously made his way up to the first landing. After checking that there was no one on the floor above, he gestured to Danny to join him. Sean then edged up the next flight of stairs until he was standing outside the door of a bedroom on the upper landing. There were two other doors leading off: all of them closed. Sean tried the first handle. It wasn’t locked.

Danny was squatting on the step just below him, with his back against the banister – his gun pointed at the bedroom door. When he gave the nod, Sean twisted the handle and pushed. The door swung open and crashed noisily against the wall inside the room.

The men stood stock-still and waited, listening.

An uneasy silence returned to the house. Sean moved first, slipping sideways into the darkened room. The stench of urine, dried faeces and vomit was overwhelming. He immediately put his hand up to cover his mouth and nose. Danny was right behind him, standing in the doorway, peering into the gloom: unaware that this was where Angela had been just a few days earlier. The windows were boarded up and all the furniture had been removed except for a single solitary chair that sat in the middle of the floor. Sean knew instantly what the room was used for. If he’d learned anything from his years away it was that he no longer wanted anything to do with this life. If he survived the next few days, he was getting out and never coming back.

A muffled thumping noise from overhead made them both turn back to the hallway. The hatch leading to the attic was open: the hole cut in the ceiling was much larger then normal.

‘O’Brien’s trying to get next door through the roof space,’ said Danny, as he climbed onto the banister and tried to hoist himself up into the dark void.

There was a sudden flash of light from somewhere deep inside the attic and the wooden rafter just above Danny’s head made a loud cracking noise as a bullet from O’Brien’s gun burst through it. Danny ducked out of the line of fire, but lost his footing on the banister and fell heavily onto the floor of the landing.

Sean quickly pulled him up. ‘You okay?’

‘Fine,’ replied Danny. ‘O’Brien’s in the roof space of the other house.’

‘I’ll head out the front and see if I can get in next door,’ said Sean, already on the move. ‘You stay here in case he doubles back.’

But Danny had no intention of staying anywhere: he was already balancing on the banister, reaching up to try again. He grabbed hold of the ceiling joists that ran along the inside of the trapdoor and heaved himself up into the darkness.

O’Brien had wrapped some tape round the girl’s mouth to try and shut her up, but she was still hysterical, writhing around, making it difficult to move quickly. It would be much easier just to shoot the little bitch in the head. He considered it for a second, but right now she was more valuable alive. Once he was clear of the house he’d rethink.

The IRA owned both properties and had knocked through the dividing wall in the attic to provide an escape route in case the security forces raided either of the houses. But some arsehole had padlocked the attic door in the other house shut. O’Brien stamped down heavily on the flimsy hardboard panel with his foot, but it didn’t budge.

There was a movement to his right. He glanced over and saw Danny McGuire’s head poking through the open hatch in the roof space next door. O’Brien fired one round, but it was impossible to tell if he’d hit him or not. Two more shots at the metal plate that secured the padlock in place, and the trapdoor dropped open.

He only had one full clip – twelve bullets in total – after that he was out. The rest of his shots had to count.

The first-floor landing next door was in darkness and the air smelled damp and fusty. Moments later O’Brien was climbing down the foldaway ladders with Niamh slumped over his shoulder like a rag doll.

Just as he reached the head of the stairs, there was a burst of automatic gunfire and the front door flew open. He pulled Niamh round in front of him and pressed his gun roughly into her temple. She flinched and started struggling again, but he simply squeezed more tightly, crushing the air out of her until she stopped.

O’Brien had nowhere to go, but that didn’t matter. He had the girl.

He glanced quickly from side to side; first at the hatch in the ceiling, then down to the hallway below. He was pumped: ready for anything. ‘Life or death: who gives a fuck?’ he thought.

A narrow opening in the middle of the brick wall was all that separated the two buildings. There were three large white box-shaped objects sitting in a row under the ridge of the roof. Danny made his way carefully over the ceiling joists towards the crude doorway. As he got closer he realised that what he thought were boxes were actually large larder freezers. This explained why the trapdoor to the attic was much wider than normal. It must have been enlarged to accommodate their bulk. It was a curious thing to do: who would want such large freezers in their attic? He edged his way over and lifted the lid of the one nearest to him. As it opened, the freezer light came on, illuminating the surrounding attic space with a dull‚ eerie glow.