The Fire (26 page)

Rick Fuller's Story:

I was pinned down about ten yards from the barn entrance.

Clarke, our man from the Ministry and traitor of this parish, was throwing down enough lead to re-roof Lauren's flat. What remained of the security team was starting to get their shit together. They were accurate and organised. I got the impression they didn't want to leave their well-paid posts just yet.

As nine-mil from Clarke's G36 bounced around me I was eternally grateful for the ornamental stone trough the O'Donnells had positioned in the yard. It made a fetching water feature and kept my head from being blown off.

Due to the deluge of fire, I was unable to return anything meaningful.

That was until Des had an idea.

Phosphorous grenades are horrible things. In battle they are used for smoke cover, well... that is what they should be used for. In the Vietnam War, the Yanks dropped tons of the stuff on the Cong. It caused almost as many burn victims as napalm.

Des tossed the evil little bomb up onto the balcony of the main house where Clarke had both cover and advantage. When the grenade explodes it looks like a firework going off. Shards of white hot phosphorous fly in all directions; they lodge themselves into any soft tissue and continue to burn at levels that would weld your car together. They don't stop until they are totally deprived of all oxygen; by which time, the shard has buried itself deep into your skin. White phosphorus is also insanely toxic. As it burns you, it shuts down all your major organs at the same time.

It is not a good way to go.

Clarke was screaming in agony.

I popped up from behind the trough and used the last of my G36's ammo to put him out of his misery.

I needed cover to get to the doors of the barn, and seconds later it arrived.

J.J. ran into the yard and started to give anyone who looked vaguely like the enemy the good news with his MP7.

His hands and forearms were cut to pieces and I figured he had climbed the razor wire fence to get to us.

Top man.

I used my window of opportunity to crawl the last ten yards or so to the heavy doors of the barn. Rolling to one side I drew my Glock 17, so called because of its magazine capacity.

Despite J.J.'s efforts, one of the security guys had me in line of sight. He was a big bruiser of a guy, all shaved head and neck tattoos. He sprinted toward me holding his G36 one-handed, firing as he went. The rounds were flying about wildly and I had to stop him before he got close enough to do any damage.

Lying on your side, firing one handed, at a running target, with a handgun is just about as fruitless as asking the twat nicely to 'please go away'.

I was down to my last four rounds by the time I'd dropped him.

Scrabbling across the slippery cobbles I grabbed the dead man's weapon and pulled the mag. It was empty. We had hundreds of rounds in the V Dub, but I would be cut down before I got within ten yards of it.

Fuck it.

I pushed my shoulder against the barn door and I was inside.

The moment I got my foot in the door, I saw him.

Dougie McGinnis was leaning behind a wooden pillar directly in front of me. All I saw was his big ugly smiling face and the barrel of a .38 snub nose.

A split second later I heard the gun go off.

I cried out as the bullet buried itself deep into my left thigh, just below my hip. I staggered, almost losing balance.

He fired again and again, missing me by inches.

Grabbing a pillar of my own to steady myself, I raised my own gun and fired. The first round slammed into the thick wood that protected the Irishman, but the second found its target and I heard him grunt in pain.

I was in agony as I slithered left to get a better shot at Dougie. He was fucked, I'd hit him in the chest, just below his collar bone, yet the bastard had managed to stand and get back in the aim. I was out in the open and he fired two more shots.

Both hit the ground in front of me.

He fired again, wild, not even close.

I punched the Glock forward, aiming at his massive chest, a double tap. I'd done it a thousand times.

Both rounds found nothing more than oak.

The Glock's mechanism stayed forward. I was out of ammo

Dougie's .38 gave a tell-tale click.

There was a strange silence. Sporadic automatic fire came from the yard, yet the barn sucked the sound of battle away from my ears and all I could hear were three people breathing.

Three people.

For the first time, I saw Lauren. She was some twenty feet away, her back resting against a pillar, head forward, hair hiding her face. She was naked and looked in shit state....but she was alive.

I did my best to find a hand hold in the wooden support, to pull my body upward, but my left leg was useless. Whatever damage the bullet had done it was serious; I couldn't feel anything below my hip.

Dougie staggered over. He was going a funny blue colour. My shot had punctured a lung and he was struggling like fuck to breathe. Nonetheless, he was mobile and I wasn't. I tried my comms and got a big fat zero. The unit had probably been damaged in the fighting.

"Fuller!" he bellowed, before coughing up his other lung. "You're out of fuckin' bullets, eh?"

I had to grit my teeth, the pain in my hip was horrendous. "So are you, Dougie...we're both out."

He did his best to focus on me. I saw the empty bottle of scotch on the table, next to a bag of white powder and reckoned that had it not been for his cocaine and alcohol consumption, the gunshot would have killed him instantly. Pink blood bubbles formed at the corner of his mouth.

He waved the empty .38 toward Lauren.

"We fucked her, you know?"

I wanted to tear out his heart.

Dougie gestured toward two dead men behind him. The one with most of his head missing was Seamus O'Donnell, the other, I didn't recognise, he was a young black guy with his trousers around his ankles.

"They fucked her too," slurred Dougie.

There was a mumble from over his shoulder.

"No they didn't," said Lauren, finding my gaze.

I couldn't help but smile.

"You look like shit," I said.

"Maybe," she coughed. "But I have not been fucked...by anybody."

"Shut up, bitch!" barked Dougie.

He continued to grumble to himself, as he wandered over to a large window. He began rooting about on the floor, his breathing laboured. He eventually straightened himself.

"You fuckin' beauty!" he declared, holding a shiny .38 shell between thumb and forefinger.

His hands shook as he slid the round into the chamber of his revolver. Sweat poured down his face.

He stood between Lauren and me, first pointing the gun at her, then me.

I had to do something.

"Now, ye wee Hun bastards," he shouted. "It's decision time! It's who's calling the fuckin' Golden Shot, eh? Who shall I fuckin' kill, eh?"

He shuffled closer to Lauren and took aim.

All I could do was pull myself across the floor toward him. If I could grab his leg, he was so weak, he'd fall.

I scrabbled at the cold stone, tearing out my nails, dragging my useless leg along the floor, a thick trail of blood behind me.

"Hey! Dougie! Come on! It's me you want."

Dougie locked eyes with me, smiled and said, "No, Fuller...what I want is fer you to see this."

He pulled the trigger.

My scream was drowned out by Des and J.J. tearing McGinnis to pieces in a hail of bullets.

J.J. ran to each corpse on the floor of the barn and put a round in each before declaring the room clear.

The battle for the farm was over.

Des stepped over me, dropped a pressure dressing into my arms and ran to Lauren. I stuffed the dressing in my wound and pushed myself over to where the Scot was working on her.

"J.J!" he shouted. "Get me my Bergen from the V Dub."

Dougie had shot Lauren in the stomach. I grabbed her wrist and felt for a pulse. On the third attempt I found one.

Des Cogan's Story:

She'd lost so much blood, then there'd been the cold, God knows what other internal injuries she'd suffered, even before the final gunshot. She had nothing to fight with, just like my wife that day.

I administered morphine and adrenalin and wrapped her in a thermal blanket. Her breathing was shallow, a trace of a pulse.

I looked at Rick holding her hand. She had minutes rather than hours.

I offered him my phone. "We need that chopper now, mate."

Rick cradled Lauren in his arms.

"You do it...call Cartwright," he said. "Make the call...non-negotiable."

Rick Fuller's Story:

It was the longest twenty-seven minutes of my life. Finally I heard the blades of the chopper.

The doors to the barn opened.

Snow was blown inside the building from the powerful rotors as the aircraft touched down in the courtyard.

I started to shiver as the cold air hit me.

I could hear the shouts of the medics and their trolley trundling across the flagged floor.

Lauren's eyes flickered open. She looked at me.

"Kiss me, Rick," she said.

And our lips met.

End.