To Win the Heart of a Rebel
Chapter One:
It was October the 19th, 1972.
It was exactly two weeks to the day that Solo had been killed and the headquarters was in a fury dealing not only with the might of the entire British Empire but a new faction that rose up called the Ulster Defense Association, or the UDA. This was a major setback for the IRA, as they had new enemies to face in towns where the soldiers now knew the terrain. It wasn't just foreign British soldiers come over to fight, these people actually knew where to fight and how to go about doing it. They were just as organized as their own army.
The plans for an organized Catholic funeral for Solo were still in progress. His body had been buried in a random field close to where he had been kept prisoner, so the procession would only be a ceremonial affair. Some were worried that this procession could be targeted by members of the UDA.
Duo Maxwell hadn't been seen since the day before his brother's execution. Quatre worried night and day about him, but could only go on with his missions to keep himself occupied. There had been a fury of consecutive bombings in Dublin in the last fourteen days and everyone speculated that it could be Duo, but no one dared say it out loud.
Quatre Winner found himself promoted from messenger to field soldier. His missions included setting bombs in specific areas and the targeting of certain military or political officials. The army had been reluctant to use him for real field work such as this because of his size, but they found that he could run faster and maneuver more swiftly than a regular British ground soldier. He was standing in an unoccupied room of the orphanage, pulling gloves over his hands and performing last minute checks on his gear. The minutest detail could be the death of you.
His blond hair was a striking contrast to his black garments so he pulled a black full faced cotton mask over his head. Picking up his rifle, he wouldn't load it until he was outside of the orphanage, Father Maxwell's standing order. He would not be using that weapon unless he was discovered anyway. His revolver was loaded and ready to go and Quatre had his target and mission parameters set.
He snuck out the back exit of the orphanage, only stopping to quickly load the small five round clip into his rifle.
Then he disappeared into the night.
The leaves were changing and it was slowly growing colder. It would be a busy autumn season for the IRA. Snow for the army meant that it was more difficult to complete assigned missions and cover your tracks. Many bombings were planned, weapons depots were waiting to be raided and even a public riot was scheduled in Dublin. That protest would likely be more peaceful then the one held for the fallen four, just six days ago in Belfast. Quatre had marched personally in that one, in honour of his childhood friend. Many civilians had been shot at by riot police with rubber bullets-and Quatre still sported a smart red mark on his chest from one.
Quatre shivered and wrapped his arms around himself. It was cold enough that every time he inhaled his lungs felt like ice even with the fast pace he kept. His body moved past trees, under brush and tried to keep his steps as silent as possible. It was highly unlikely that anyone would be in this section of the woods, but with the numbers of British pouring into the county you could never be too careful.
His steps crunched in the night, no matter how hard he tried to tread lightly. The fallen leaves were crackling beneath his feet. He preferred it still to the snow that was eventually to come.
He bypassed fields even in the cover of darkness, hoping that his careful actions paid off. The fields were in a state of mud and decay, the harvest finishing early this year.
The snap of a twig caught Quatre's attention.
He stopped mid-stride and listened to the sounds around him. All he could hear now was the blowing wind rustling what leaves that were on the trees. He crouched low, not wanting to chance an early confrontation. He silently checked his rifle, the cold of the wood and steel seeping through his gloves. He grimaced when the snap of the safety clicking off was louder than he'd anticipated. And then he waited.
He could hear an owl call.
And then a crunching sound, soft but unmistakable footsteps. Quatre stayed low in the cover of a branch, but in a crouch so he would be able to leap up fast for a challenge. As the footsteps neared Quatre's his grip on his weapon tightened, hopeful that he would not have to use it.
Then he heard a young voice call out in the quiet.
"IRA?"
Quatre licked his dry lips, knowing he had been spotted. What he didn't know was if it was by the British or the UDA. He didn't think the accent was foreign, but that it belonged to an Irishman. Unfortunately it could very well be a loyalist Irish member of the UDA.
To his dismay he could hear more people trudging through the brush, not as quiet as the first. They stopped when they reached their scout.
"Oye, you deaf? I asked if you were IRA."
He could hear the others start to talk amongst themselves while they waited.
"One gunman must be either IRA or UDA. God knows those Brits don't leave the town without an entire battalion plus air support."
Quatre's knees were starting to hurt.
"Alright. If you don't come out, we're gonna have to come over there and get you."
Quatre estimated that there were around eight men, and realized that he had a higher chance of survival if he surrendered now.
Quatre stood slowly, holding the rifle upright in his right hand and kept his fingers off the trigger guard. His left hand was open flat, signifying that he wasn't going to do attempt anything.
He stepped out of his useless hiding spot and crossed a path through the trees to the men. There were seven all dressed in green and black, holding semi-automatic weapons, muzzles pointed in his general direction.
"Put your rifle down and take off that mask."
Quatre laid his rifle on the ground and removed the cotton mask covering his face.
"Well! If it isn't the young Winner boy from the old Maxwell's church!"
Quatre felt the fear that had gripped him tight in the last few moments slowly fade away as he realized that these were fellow IRA soldiers.
They encircled him, patting him on the back and began the small talk that most Irishmen are famed for. They asked about the 'good sister and father of the church' and Quatre obliged them the response. He shook his head as the tense situation faded from memory and melded into comradeship.
"Did you like my owl call? Scares the British you know."
"It's great that the young are doing their part in this war. Everyone has to fight in these troubled times." Quatre agreed and sent up a silent prayer as he always did for Duo.
One of the younger soldiers finally asked him where he was off to alone in the middle of the night. Quatre couldn't say, even to them. This mission held a high security level.
An older gentleman slapped the young man on the shoulder and said, "Never you mind. I'm sure he has a place to be so we'll be on our way."
Quatre picked up his discarded rifle and replaced his ski mask, saying his goodbyes to the men.
His deadline was still going to be met, as long as he didn't cross paths with anyone again. He turned off of their path and melded into the darkness once again.
It was almost five o'clock in the morning when Quatre finally reached his destination. He was approximately fifteen miles from the Maxwell Orphanage and in a small village. There were still lights on in some houses and pubs, indicating that there was likely a strong paramilitary presence in the village. This area was renowned for its loyalty to the crown, and thus held many Ulster volunteers in the UDA. There was one member that needed taking out because of their political affiliations.
Quatre's back was pressed up against the brick of an old building, watching the action going on across the street. This pub was a major planning headquarters for the paramilitary, but only a few lights were on. Finally, the door opened and a figure left, walking away from both Quatre and the pub. He crossed the street silently, revolver ready in his hand. This was his target.
The person turned the corner and Quatre was right behind. When he was close enough he whistled and when the surprised person turned he fired one shot. Quatre lifted the face of his mask and quickly bent over the body to check vital signs but could find none. The mission was complete. He shivered as he looked at the lifeless figure in front of him.
The door next to him flung open and he stared upwards into the light. An older woman screamed at him and flung herself out of the doorway with a knife in her hands. This was probably the home his target was headed to.
Quatre pulled down the face of his mask and jumped out of the way as she sliced at him with the sharp kitchen knife.
He could hear running and yelling coming down the dark street towards them, no doubt the police on their way after hearing the gunshot.
As he sprinted down the street he could hear the old woman screaming, "murderer!" repeatedly as he left her clutching the dead body in her arms.
As he ran out of the village he felt a pain in his side. Packing the revolver into a pants pocket, Quatre removed the glove on his left hand and wiped at his side. His hand came up red and Quatre realized he must not have moved out of the woman's way fast enough. It wasn't too deep so he left it unbound and kept running through the trees.
Quatre didn't let the tears fall until he was outside the village and deep into the woods. They were soaked up by his cotton mask while Quatre realized that he just didn't want to kill anymore.
In the early morning hours at the orphanage, with all the children still asleep in their beds, Father Maxwell was awake and listening to the radio. The local news station was coming in over a crackling and buzzing old radio, but it would do. Father Maxwell's hands were resting on a Bible he always kept close as he prayed for Quatre and Duo's safe return.
The voice on the radio said, "A radical member of the Ulster Defense Association, Catherine Bloom, has been shot dead in the early morning hours. The organization claiming responsibility for the attack is the Irish Republican Army. Police in the area are staging a massive man-hunt in the area."
Father Maxwell clicked the radio off and busied himself making breakfast for the children.