This is it, the last chapter, so please read and review....
Chapter Twelve
Michelle leaned back in her chair. Letting him talk.
"It wasn't supposed to be this way. Things were supposed to be neat, clean." Nicholas forced himself to look around the hall, still stinking of sweat, blood and death. "We were just trying to send a message. The only person that was supposed to get hurt was McGarrity."
"Why him?" She knew why. She just wanted to keep Nicholas' confession on track.
"He's developed a sympathy for the opposition. Campaigning for Palestinian rights, for members of the Army to be put on trial for breaching their human rights. Putting pressure on politicians to change their views." His lip curled in a sneer. "How the hell did he get elected?"
"How did you meet Loughlin? How does she fit in?"
"She showed me how to do it, trained me. I was supposed to learn from her, help teach the rest of us."
"Where did you meet her?"
"Here." He smiled, his features edged with bitterness and pride. "I won't sell out my countrymen, Ms Dessler." His eyes flicked around the hall again. "But this, all of this is her fault."
"How?"
Did she really want to know? Did she really want to hear how she'd played into the hands of a terrorist?
"She set a trap." His smile twisted, growing harder. "It was a beauty. She let you find a car, and set two more devices, further up Main Street." His voice softened with admiration. "She knew exactly what you would do." He twisted the knife a little further. "And you did exactly what she said you would."
Michelle took a moment to compose herself, trying to ignore his jibes. "But it was Loughlin's plan? She planned the attacks?"
"She did."
"Where can I find her?
He stared at her for a moment, waves of pain washing across his face as he flexed his injured knee. She met his gaze, allowing herself a smile at the expression on his face.
Nicholas looked away. "Hunting Lodge Hotel. Room 13."
"Thank you." She stood up and walked back across the hall towards Ben, smiling. Soon Loughlin would be in custody and maybe then, Nixon could grieve and rebuild.
Her smile faded when she saw an ashen faced Lucas walk into the hall and over to Ben Franklin.
She watched Ben fight to hold himself upright, hold himself together. Fight against his hope.
"Just try and relax sir." The deep male voice spoke soothingly in his ear, trying to reassure him. "You've been shot, just relax and let us do our job." He heard the man move and then speak again, the voice softer, further away. "Better give him something to calm him down."
"No, no please, please call..."
"Sir, you have to let us do our job." The voice faded out of focus again. "On my count...one...two...three."
He felt the bed beneath him rise, shaking slightly with the motion. Michael summoned what remained of his strength and grabbed at the voice's arm.
He felt the voice leaning over him. "What is it sir?"
"Call...Michelle...Dessler." Michael felt every word, torn from him, splattered and stained with blood. "...in my phone...tell her..."
"We'll do that."
Michael Hunte felt the bed beneath him start to move. He gave way to his agony and passed out.
Lucas stopped in front of him. Taking his hat off, twisting it nervously in front of him. "Sheriff...Ben..."
"What is it Lucas?"
He knew.
"We found them, Sheriff. I'm sorry." Lucas looked away, not wanting to intrude on Ben's grief.
Ben looked at the floor, breathing hard. Michelle saw his hope, his heart, his spirit, wither and die. She saw him wipe his hand across his eyes. He looked up, a vein throbbing in his forehead. His eyes focused on Nicholas, he started across the hall, his fists clenched.
Michelle stepped into his path. "Ben."
"Get out of my way, Michelle." He didn't even look at her, his breathing harsh and rapid. "Just get the fuck out of my way." He tried to push past her."
She stepped back, keeping her body between him and Nicholas. "Ben, don't, please. He's in custody, he's co-operating."
"I don't care, Michelle. That son of a bitch killed my family." He put his hands on her shoulders, started to move her physically out of the way, his fingers gripping her tightly enough to bruise.
"He told me where Loughlin is."
"Where? Where is she Michelle?"
"Hunting Lodge Hotel, Room 13."
Ben Franklin released her shoulders, and turned on his heel. He walked off, tightening his gun belt, calling for his deputies. He didn't smile.
Somehow that frightened her more than his grin had. She shivered, despite the heat in the hall.
Rubbing at her shoulders, Michelle followed after him.
The smell of burnt flesh, of vomit, of booze, filled the room.
Sinead slumped in the chair, facing the door, her shirt ripped open to expose the wound in her stomach. She took another drink of whisky, grimacing as it seared through her throat, then sighing in relief as the pain in her stomach eased.
She continued to talk, gesticulating with her gun.
"It's all his fault. That fucker Hunte. I should have shot him, years ago. Should have killed him..." She took another drink, streams of booze, trickling down her chin onto the ruined shirt.
She looked up suddenly, her eyes focusing.
"I should have killed him after he hurt you. He shot you like an animal, left you in the street." She fought against crying, trying to drown it with another drink.
Niall didn't answer her. Just staring at her. Judging her.
"That's not fair." She grimaced and poured more of the whisky across her stomach, wincing as the alcohol hit her wound. "You didn't see Mammy afterwards. She fell apart. She died with you. Everything became about you."
She pointed the gun at the door.
"This is your fault."
The hotel was quiet, any resident that looked out quickly, quietly waved back inside their rooms. They crept through the halls, weapons out.
They stopped outside Room 13, seeing the smear of blood on the previously pristine door, the mark of a hand print, clearly visible.
How much blood did this woman have on her hands?
Ben took a deep breath and stepped forward. Images of Paige and Rose stumbled through his head. He closed his eyes, trying to blank them out. Later. He could grieve later.
He knocked on the door, the sound echoing through the hallway.
Then silence.
Ben stepped to one side, nodding at the door. Vince holstered his weapon and backed to the opposite side of the corridor. He took a breath, tensed and ran at the door.
He hit it. Hard.
The door gave beneath him, splintering. He stumbled into the room. Trying to catch his balance before he fell on his face.
A single shot rang out through the room.
Vince was thrown back, thin streaks of blood washing across Ben and Michelle as they followed him into Room 13, onto their shirts, mixing with the dirt and sweat and blood already there.
Vince gasped as he lay on the carpet, his shirt already stained red with his blood, the stain growing with every gasping breath he took.
Sinead Loughlin laughed. As Vince screamed in pan, she levelled her gun at them. "Why cant you stay dead? I watched you die once, why cant you stay dead?"
Michelle aimed and fired at her. She heard Ben open fire as well, screaming for his wife and child.
The bullets caught Loughlin in the forehead and chest, the force of their impact knocking the chair over. The whisky bottle dropped with a crash, shattering, the contents seeping out onto the misused carpet.
Ben walked over to the body, looking down at her. He aimed carefully and emptied the rest of his clip into the still twitching corpse.
He holstered his weapon and walked out.
Michelle leaned against the wall, her own pistol held loosely in her hand. Listening to Vince's whimpers of pain, to the other deputy's breathless reports on the radio, to Reid, being sick in the corner.
She looked around the room and smiled bitterly.
Some vacation this had been.
Chapter Twelve
Michelle leaned back in her chair. Letting him talk.
"It wasn't supposed to be this way. Things were supposed to be neat, clean." Nicholas forced himself to look around the hall, still stinking of sweat, blood and death. "We were just trying to send a message. The only person that was supposed to get hurt was McGarrity."
"Why him?" She knew why. She just wanted to keep Nicholas' confession on track.
"He's developed a sympathy for the opposition. Campaigning for Palestinian rights, for members of the Army to be put on trial for breaching their human rights. Putting pressure on politicians to change their views." His lip curled in a sneer. "How the hell did he get elected?"
"How did you meet Loughlin? How does she fit in?"
"She showed me how to do it, trained me. I was supposed to learn from her, help teach the rest of us."
"Where did you meet her?"
"Here." He smiled, his features edged with bitterness and pride. "I won't sell out my countrymen, Ms Dessler." His eyes flicked around the hall again. "But this, all of this is her fault."
"How?"
Did she really want to know? Did she really want to hear how she'd played into the hands of a terrorist?
"She set a trap." His smile twisted, growing harder. "It was a beauty. She let you find a car, and set two more devices, further up Main Street." His voice softened with admiration. "She knew exactly what you would do." He twisted the knife a little further. "And you did exactly what she said you would."
Michelle took a moment to compose herself, trying to ignore his jibes. "But it was Loughlin's plan? She planned the attacks?"
"She did."
"Where can I find her?
He stared at her for a moment, waves of pain washing across his face as he flexed his injured knee. She met his gaze, allowing herself a smile at the expression on his face.
Nicholas looked away. "Hunting Lodge Hotel. Room 13."
"Thank you." She stood up and walked back across the hall towards Ben, smiling. Soon Loughlin would be in custody and maybe then, Nixon could grieve and rebuild.
Her smile faded when she saw an ashen faced Lucas walk into the hall and over to Ben Franklin.
She watched Ben fight to hold himself upright, hold himself together. Fight against his hope.
"Just try and relax sir." The deep male voice spoke soothingly in his ear, trying to reassure him. "You've been shot, just relax and let us do our job." He heard the man move and then speak again, the voice softer, further away. "Better give him something to calm him down."
"No, no please, please call..."
"Sir, you have to let us do our job." The voice faded out of focus again. "On my count...one...two...three."
He felt the bed beneath him rise, shaking slightly with the motion. Michael summoned what remained of his strength and grabbed at the voice's arm.
He felt the voice leaning over him. "What is it sir?"
"Call...Michelle...Dessler." Michael felt every word, torn from him, splattered and stained with blood. "...in my phone...tell her..."
"We'll do that."
Michael Hunte felt the bed beneath him start to move. He gave way to his agony and passed out.
Lucas stopped in front of him. Taking his hat off, twisting it nervously in front of him. "Sheriff...Ben..."
"What is it Lucas?"
He knew.
"We found them, Sheriff. I'm sorry." Lucas looked away, not wanting to intrude on Ben's grief.
Ben looked at the floor, breathing hard. Michelle saw his hope, his heart, his spirit, wither and die. She saw him wipe his hand across his eyes. He looked up, a vein throbbing in his forehead. His eyes focused on Nicholas, he started across the hall, his fists clenched.
Michelle stepped into his path. "Ben."
"Get out of my way, Michelle." He didn't even look at her, his breathing harsh and rapid. "Just get the fuck out of my way." He tried to push past her."
She stepped back, keeping her body between him and Nicholas. "Ben, don't, please. He's in custody, he's co-operating."
"I don't care, Michelle. That son of a bitch killed my family." He put his hands on her shoulders, started to move her physically out of the way, his fingers gripping her tightly enough to bruise.
"He told me where Loughlin is."
"Where? Where is she Michelle?"
"Hunting Lodge Hotel, Room 13."
Ben Franklin released her shoulders, and turned on his heel. He walked off, tightening his gun belt, calling for his deputies. He didn't smile.
Somehow that frightened her more than his grin had. She shivered, despite the heat in the hall.
Rubbing at her shoulders, Michelle followed after him.
The smell of burnt flesh, of vomit, of booze, filled the room.
Sinead slumped in the chair, facing the door, her shirt ripped open to expose the wound in her stomach. She took another drink of whisky, grimacing as it seared through her throat, then sighing in relief as the pain in her stomach eased.
She continued to talk, gesticulating with her gun.
"It's all his fault. That fucker Hunte. I should have shot him, years ago. Should have killed him..." She took another drink, streams of booze, trickling down her chin onto the ruined shirt.
She looked up suddenly, her eyes focusing.
"I should have killed him after he hurt you. He shot you like an animal, left you in the street." She fought against crying, trying to drown it with another drink.
Niall didn't answer her. Just staring at her. Judging her.
"That's not fair." She grimaced and poured more of the whisky across her stomach, wincing as the alcohol hit her wound. "You didn't see Mammy afterwards. She fell apart. She died with you. Everything became about you."
She pointed the gun at the door.
"This is your fault."
The hotel was quiet, any resident that looked out quickly, quietly waved back inside their rooms. They crept through the halls, weapons out.
They stopped outside Room 13, seeing the smear of blood on the previously pristine door, the mark of a hand print, clearly visible.
How much blood did this woman have on her hands?
Ben took a deep breath and stepped forward. Images of Paige and Rose stumbled through his head. He closed his eyes, trying to blank them out. Later. He could grieve later.
He knocked on the door, the sound echoing through the hallway.
Then silence.
Ben stepped to one side, nodding at the door. Vince holstered his weapon and backed to the opposite side of the corridor. He took a breath, tensed and ran at the door.
He hit it. Hard.
The door gave beneath him, splintering. He stumbled into the room. Trying to catch his balance before he fell on his face.
A single shot rang out through the room.
Vince was thrown back, thin streaks of blood washing across Ben and Michelle as they followed him into Room 13, onto their shirts, mixing with the dirt and sweat and blood already there.
Vince gasped as he lay on the carpet, his shirt already stained red with his blood, the stain growing with every gasping breath he took.
Sinead Loughlin laughed. As Vince screamed in pan, she levelled her gun at them. "Why cant you stay dead? I watched you die once, why cant you stay dead?"
Michelle aimed and fired at her. She heard Ben open fire as well, screaming for his wife and child.
The bullets caught Loughlin in the forehead and chest, the force of their impact knocking the chair over. The whisky bottle dropped with a crash, shattering, the contents seeping out onto the misused carpet.
Ben walked over to the body, looking down at her. He aimed carefully and emptied the rest of his clip into the still twitching corpse.
He holstered his weapon and walked out.
Michelle leaned against the wall, her own pistol held loosely in her hand. Listening to Vince's whimpers of pain, to the other deputy's breathless reports on the radio, to Reid, being sick in the corner.
She looked around the room and smiled bitterly.
Some vacation this had been.