Undercover (16 page)

"Shoot him, Cormac."

Mattie's voice was low, not much more than a whisper, but it cut through the hanging silence like a chainsaw. The kid wanted nothing but pain for this man who had kidnapped and humiliated him. And Cormac couldn't blame him. But he had to play this clever. Shooting Big Frank while he was armed was one thing, and totally justified in Cormac's mind, but to start pumping lead into him to extract information... It was another line in the sand. Cormac already had blood on his hands. Fat Paddy and aul' Paul, both dead. Sporty Shane injured. And he'd answer for each one of them at some point, with a hand on his heart that none of the three incidents could have been avoided. But there was no way to justify emptying a clip into a man tied to a chair; neither to his seniors nor himself. There'd always be payback in those small hours when the sins of his past visited his half-sleep dreams.

"Go on, Cormac. Shoot him."

Cormac reached for the gun. Hefted its serious weight. Big Frank broke off from his staring match with the wall to glance at the Glock. Mattie's heartfelt urgings for blood had brought with them a new atmosphere in the prefab hut. Cormac drew out the theatre of the moment. Snapped back the slide to chamber a round.

Then Mattie kicked off.

The kid darted from his post at the window and scooped one of the dirty mugs from the floor with his good hand. Before Cormac could react, Mattie smashed the mug into Big Frank's cheekbone. The mug shattered and rained bloody fragments onto the floor. Big Frank growled and bucked in his seat. Mattie dropped the mug handle and curled his fist. He walloped Big Frank's forehead with a hammer-blow. Cormac put his gun back on the table and went to Mattie. He wrapped his arms around the kid's waist before he could swing another punch. Hauled him backwards. Mattie's feet kicked out with the indignant strength of a beaten mule. He connected with Big Frank's chest and toppled him over. Cormac was driven backwards by the recoil force. He dropped Mattie in his struggle to maintain balance. The kid darted back towards his target.

"Mattie, stop!"

Mattie leapt into the air and landed both Converse-clad feet on the side of Big Frank's head. A sharp crack echoed. Mattie fell backwards. Cormac held his breath. The kid had broken the fucker's neck. Jesus Christ.

Then Big Frank groaned and rolled onto his back. It wasn't his neck that had snapped. The wooden chair he'd been tied to had given way in the ruckus.

Mattie pushed himself up off his backside and onto his feet. He was about to go for another double stomp. Cormac grabbed the kid again. He bucked like a live wire as Cormac hauled him backwards.

"Fuck's sake, Mattie. You're going to kill him."

"You think I don't want to?"

"Not if you want to find out where your mother is. Think straight, kid."

Mattie's taut frame softened a little. Cormac loosened his grip and lowered the bloodthirsty thirteen-year-old to his feet. Stood on full alert for a few seconds in case the kid attempted a second volley. Big Frank coughed and moaned.

"You all right, Frank?" Cormac asked.

He snuffled and spat. "Fuck yourself."

At least he was talking. Maybe Mattie had done some good. Cormac retrieved his gun from the table and edged towards the beaten lump. He was conscious that Big Frank had a greater range of movement now that the chair he'd been tied to was in bits. Knowing the bastard's form, an attack wasn't just likely, it was imminent.

"Sorry about that, Frank. Teenagers today, eh? They're bloody ruthless."

"I'll kill you both."

Big Frank spat again and from his new vantage point, Cormac could see that there was a lot of blood in his gob. Wee Mattie had done some job on him.

"Look, mate. I'm sure you're in a lot of discomfort now, so I understand you getting a bit cranky. I think you could cut the kid a bit of slack, though. You did take him hostage, like. And his da took a bullet over the whole mess."

Big Frank choked up a guttural sound that might have been a chuckle. "Game wee fucker, isn't he? Punch like that, you can tell he's half Irish."

Is this progress?

"Come on, Frank. Tell us who gave me up. It's gone beyond a choice now. You're in bad shape."

Big Frank closed his eyes and nodded. Cormac allowed his shoulders to sag. The finish line was in sight. Get rid of Big Frank, contact the mother, hole up somewhere and sleep.

Big Frank's body jerked like a sidewinder snake. Cormac skipped backwards a second too late. Big Frank rolled into his shins and rocked his balance. He felt the pull of gravity but rather than resist, he tried to use it to his advantage. Cormac bent one leg and dropped his knee into Big Frank's ribcage. The pressure of the blow pounded through flesh and muscle. A whistling whine blasted through clenched teeth. Ribs cracked. Cormac tucked his head in, led with his uninjured shoulder blade and tumbled off the big lump. He rocked forward onto one knee and twisted to point his gun at Big Frank.

It had been a last ditch effort. As much about satisfying pride than entertaining any sort of hope of escape. Wincing shallow breaths, Big Frank was spent.

"You're a stupid bastard, Frank."

"Nearly got you, Kelly."

In your fucking dreams, mate.
"Aye. Close one. Can we get on with this now?"

"What's in it for me?"

"For a start, I'll not give the kid five minutes alone with you. God knows what I'd come back to."

Mattie folded his arms and looked away from Cormac's conspiratorial wink.

"Give me something real, Kelly. This fuck up of a job has cost me any chance of earning in the future. And I'll probably end up dead. I need to look after my own."

"All I can offer you is a head start. Cooperate now and I'll not put forward any information about where I last saw you or what shape you're in. You'll have time to get patched up under a false name and go to wherever your family is."

"You'll not put forward information to who? Your colleagues at the station?"

Cormac tucked his gun into the shoulder holster. "Ambrose O'Neill. No doubt I'll see him before you do. And that's who you'll need protection from the most."

Big Frank used a section of the broken chair to help himself stand. He wobbled on his feet like a mutant toddler. "Fuck it, then. I'm tired. Let's get this over with."

###

L
ydia had a glass of water in one hand, a packet of aspirin in the other and a tonne of guilt tied to her heart. She took the stairs one by one, edging slowly to Rory's bedroom like a child dragging their feet on the way to the principal's office. It'd been fifteen minutes since she tased him and although his sporadic jolts and jerks seemed to have subsided, he still hadn't said a word to her. She hoped the water and painkillers would make a decent icebreaker, though she'd little idea if they'd make him feel any better. What did you give a man you'd just electrocuted? It was hardly a Hallmark moment.

She stepped into the room and Rory was on his feet. He sneered at her. Lydia held out her offerings. His hand whipped out and lashed the water out of her hand. It tumbled in the air and sprayed its contents like sparks from a Catherine wheel. The empty glass landed on the carpet with a thud. It lay on its side and the remaining contents sloshed out.

"Jesus, Rory."

She bent to retrieve the glass.

"Leave it."

Rory was puffed up, his stance riddled with trademark aggression that he usually reserved for the pitch. Lydia was acutely aware of his speed and strength. And killer instinct? He'd been blooded at Chelsea FC for Christ's sake. In a heartbeat he could go through her like a diamond-tipped drill bit.

"You knew they were coming."

"Rory, I—"

"That's the only reason you decided to go to the shop, right? To let them in. You were making a fucking mug out of me."

"You've no idea what's happening here, Rory."

"Why don't you explain it to me, then? Explain why my agent, a woman who makes a tidy sum from protecting my interests, knew that my house was about to be robbed. And while you're at it, explain why she thought it would be better to get me out of the way rather than warn me or call the cops."

"I can't."

"You fucking can and you fucking will, do you hear me?"

Lydia flinched as the tail end of Rory's sentence jumped to an ear-splitting volume. He moved towards her and she backed out of the room. Her stomach cramped and she bent slightly at the waist. She raised her hands to protect her head from a possible assault. A tear rolled off the end of her nose.

"Please, Rory..."

"This another act, Lydia? I'd no idea you'd such a talent for it. You must have missed your calling."

A few more retreating steps and she stood next to the bathroom. She sidestepped through the door and attempted to swing it shut. Rory darted forward and she was jarred backwards by his force. The bathroom door clattered into the wall and cracked a tile. Then he clamped his hands around her upper arms and drove her backwards. The backs of her legs connected with the toilet and she was forced to sit. She'd the presence of mind to be thankful of the closed toilet lid. Rory towered over her, his crotch much too close to her face.

"Talk."

"You don't know what you're asking me to do, Rory."

"Talk!"

She was cornered. Pinned down. Beaten. She opened her mouth and the whole story tumbled out. From arriving back to the holiday home to find her family had been kidnapped to the demands of the kidnappers and the real reason for their sudden jaunt back to London. She told him that the gang didn't just want some money. They wanted everything. His cars, his house, his financial information. They wanted to own him.

Rory placed a hand on her shoulder. She allowed herself an instant of hope. He understood her position. How could she not screw him over for the sake of her family? And sure it was only money. She could make more for him.

Then Rory tightened the grip on her shoulder. His face, already reddened slightly by the drinks he'd consumed throughout the day, turned crimson. He bared his teeth.

"You fucking bi—"

She whipped her head to the left and sank her teeth into his wrist. Rory yowled and let go. Lydia pushed past him, ran for the bathroom door. She felt his fingers scrabble for purchase on her suit jacket but he couldn't catch hold.

"Get back here, you bitch."

The world narrowed. Lydia concentrated on making it to the bottom of the stairs. She made it. One step, four steps, stumble, slip, run. The hall floor. She was at the front door. The night air kissed her cheeks. Encouraged her to keep running. She could leave. Escape.

No.

A hand closed over her face. Rory had her. He dragged her backwards, back into the hallway, and then she was on her back. Lydia bucked on the floor, dug her heels into the carpet for purchase. Pushed. Went nowhere. Rory pinned her down, one hand pressed down just above her breasts. His other hand wrapped itself around her throat.

Oh, no, oh, no, oh, no.

It was over. He was going to kill her. Over money. Something so stupid and meaningless and yet the most important thing for this man at that moment. Worth killing over. And this was how it would end for her.

Blood rushed in her ears and she could just about make out the panicked animal noises she made as she tried to draw in air. The edges of her vision darkened.

Rory, stop.

And then he did.

Lydia sucked in a lungful of sweet, sweet air. Her exhalation a howl. He'd come to his senses. Thank God. Rory had realised he'd been swept up in madness. Jesus. Lydia blinked away her tears and tried to focus on her client. Would this make them even? Could she trust him now that he'd toed such an insane line? Where could they go from this point? Surely this wasn't the kind of thing they could joke about in a few weeks.

Her vision sharpened and she realised there was a man standing behind Rory. He loomed over the kneeling football superstar. A little man with grey hair dressed in a naff tracksuit. He held a gun to the back of Rory's head.

"Mrs Gallagher?"

Lydia was struck by his accent, old school BBC. "Yes?"

"Mr McGoldrick sent me. And it looks like you owe him a thank you card for it. The name's Stephen Black, by the way. Very pleased to meet you both."

––––––––

I
score goals and I love women and drink. So, yeah, I guess I am like George Best. But I plan to take care of myself and make the most of this life. I'm too blessed to piss it all away.

Rory Cullen,
CULLEN: The Autobiography

––––––––

C
ormac drove onto the miniature roundabout at the City Cemetery gates on the Falls Road. The solid white circle painted on the tarmac reflected the orange haze from the streetlights dotted along the road. Since it was quite a few hours after rush hour, Cormac didn't have to contend with the kamikaze manoeuvres of black taxis piloted by ill-tempered drivers. He came off the roundabout onto the Whiterock Road and pushed Donna's motor just a little over the speed limit. Mattie sat in the passenger seat and fiddled with the radio dials. The boy couldn't find a station to settle on and the constant hopping set Cormac's nerves on edge. But he held back on giving the boy grief about it. They were minutes from their destination.

"Wow, the radio over here sucks. It's all talk and country music. Where's the good stuff?"

"Check the glove-box. Might be some CDs in there."

They ignored the occasional thump and yell from the boot of the car. Cormac had delayed his promise to Big Frank. He couldn't really let the psycho gorilla go to the hospital while Donna and John were there. Not unless he could provide some extra protection for them.

Cormac turned off the Whiterock Road into the Ballymurphy estate. He hit the speed bump at the entrance too hard and cursed under his breath as he braked. Mattie was bucked in his seat and dropped a Faithless CD he was trying to slip into the car radio. The shouting from the boot increased. He'd have to keep that idiot quiet.

"It's gone under the seat," Mattie said. "I can't reach it."