A/N: A superlong chapter as an apology for the wait and a thank you for all the reviews and your continued support for this story. As their enemies circle ever closer, Michael and Fiona remain unaware of the danger surrounding them. Meanwhile, two highly skilled and experienced operatives are about to get a sharp reminder about that old adage: never judge a book by its cover.
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BE BRAVE LITTLE ANGEL
Chapter Twenty Eight
"I donnae believe ya have been completely truthful wit' me, Bobby Creegan."
At Gerry Coleraine's words, Michael straightened up and let the log he was about to add to the pile he was going to take into the house, dropping it onto the ground.
"I think thar's far more goin' on than ya have said an' I think thot young lass o' yar's is a lot more than yar wife."
The former spy felt his heart sink at the older man's words. He had sincerely hoped they would be long gone before the truth of who they had been sheltering dawned on the elderly trio.
The key to hand-to-hand combat is to be able to close the distance between you and your opponent without putting them on their guard.
He plastered his most sincere smile on his face and held out his hands as he took a step forward, but came to a stop when the retired farmer pointed the end of one of his crutches in his direction.
"Gerry, if ya'll let me explain..."
But it seemed that Mr. Coleraine was in no mood to be charmed by a toothy smile, so the former covert operative bit down on his lower lip and waited to hear how bad things really were.
"Jus' hold on a second, lad, an' hear me out...Me cousin Sara couldnae wait ta tell us Kim has whot looked like an old bullet wound over har ribs an' shrapnel scaring on, ah, on one o' har thighs... She's convinced yer a pair o' thieves – or worse." He paused, his blue eyes narrowing as he studied the younger man. "I told har she had ta be mistaken... Thot yer good people... I hope yer nae about ta prove har right an' thot ya gonna tell me why yer really har."
Michael met the older man's gaze and sighed heavily. "An' whot if I tell ya, it's complicated an' thot it would be better fer ya all if ya donnae know?" Any hope that the old guy would take the hint faded as Gerry's expression hardened and a touch of steely determination entered his tone.
"Complicated or nae, I told ya once befer I love me wife an' I'll do whotever I have ta, ta keep har safe. Nar I donnae believe ya plannin' ta steal tha family silver, such as it is, or thot ya mean us any harm. God knows ya've had plenty o' opportunity ta murder us in our sleep. But I will have tha truth outta ya befer we go back inside."
"Would it make a difference ta ya if I said we wa' plannin' on leavin' this afternoon?" Michael took a step back and frowned as the old man shook his head.
He didn't want to hurt Gerry and he didn't want to have to go back into the house and scare a couple of elderly ladies who had be nothing but kind to them; however, that didn't mean he wouldn't do it if he had to.
The dark part of his soul, which he kept locked away in the deep recesses of his mind, began whispering in his head, offering solutions to his problem each one more bloody than the one before and the thought that he was now considering some of those ideas shook him to the core.
No… He was a different man now and he would not allow that predator, which had come to life back in Bosnia and finally been quelled after what had happened in Vedeno, on the loose again...
Swallowing down all the feelings that fed the monster residing in his dark heart, Michael forced himself to relax and accept that his kind hearted host was giving him no choice without reverting to violence, which Fiona would no doubt have reminded him was totally unacceptable in this instance.
"Okay, I'll tell ya whot I can. Whot tis safe fer ya ta know... Kimmie's brudders, well… one o' har brudders is nae exactly just a republican supporter… ya see, he an' Kim war..."
"IRA…?" Gerry whispered, as if speaking of the boogey man.
"Har brudder more than har... Tha rest is all true," he lied, convincingly pouring every ounce of faux sincerity into his expression. "Kim wa bein' attacked when I met har an' I saved har an'… an' we began datin'. Even though we both knew we war courtin' trouble as well, we couldnae help it. She begged me ta keep our relationship quiet an' fer a while thot worked. She wa' all I ever wanted."
Michael paused and swallowed. The tale he was telling now contained more of the truth than he'd ever told anyone else. British soldier or American spy, he was certainly seen as their enemy and their relationship had been doomed from the start. But somehow all his training and experience had gone out the window when it came to a certain auburn haired vixen that had captured his heart.
"I left tha army an' we got more serious – and then har family found out. So we ran, an'… an' as we wa' already livin' as man an' wife, we found a priest willin' ta marry us. It warn't long after thot Esme found us. We hadda close call wit' her brudders and set off campin' in tha woods until things calmed down a wee bit. Then thot damned ridge collapsed under me… an' well, ya know the rest."
The former operative could only watch as Gerry digested this information. His story had been apparently been convincing, as he could read the genuine fear in the older man's features and regretted that he had ever agreed to them staying more than one night in their sanctuary.
"An' whot nar? Whot happens if har family comes here lookin' fer ya?"
"They wonnae…." He stepped forward until he was right in front of his host, laying a light hand to his shoulder. "We planned on leavin' tonight. We dinnae want ta bring ya trouble. We war gonna ask Esme ta give us a lift inta Clonmel. I'll make sure they never suspect we wa' here, I promise."
"Ya'll leave tonight, but it wonnae be Esme givin' ya a lift... Ya will take me Volvo. I'll give ya tha documents an' ya run far an' fast, get outta tha county."
"Gerry, we cannae take -"
"Ya can an' ya will, lad. I wonnae take no fer an answer. Thot old car is nae good fer me nar. I know fer a fact tis gonna be months befer I'm fit enough ta drive it again an' this way if har family does come a callin' then I can admit ta sellin' ya tha car and thot would be tha end o' it."
Michael had wanted to refuse the gift, but his head made him accept the offer. So the ex-spy nodded his agreement and then went back to pick up the log he had dropped, placing it in the basket he had already over half filled. "Thank ye, Gerry, ya donnae know whot this means ta us."
()()()()
The principles behind a snatch-and-grab are straightforward. Separate the target from security, then keep that security occupied while the target is acquired. Simple enough… But like anything, it's all in the execution...
And there was nothing the disgraced British spy, Mason Gilroy, loved more than a well-timed execution. But alas, this time it wasn't the life of his present target he intended on taking.
Pursing his lips, Gilroy ran the fingers of one hand through his short blond hair, still feeling some of the wounds he'd gotten fighting with Michael Westen… No, she was more a piece of bait to be used to bring his actual target straight to his door.
There was also another problem.
Any fool knows that setting up a hostile extraction requires you having the right pieces in place. You need a lookout up high, a driver in the get-away car and someone to create a distraction. Then all that's left is to wait for the target to show up.
But he was working very much alone, thanks to that incompetent civil servant, Richard Chambers.
The blond sneered as he thought about the bureaucrat sitting in his office back in Stormont. So, with no highly skilled team as back-up, Britain's former favorite mercenary was forced to provide his own distraction whilst also performing the task of lookout and as for the getaway car…
Whether he was kidnapping a ruthless dictator in a foreign country or snatching an elderly woman off the street, the sophisticated killer preferred not to leave a mess behind. He had found over the years that using his target's own car as a get-away vehicle kept the neighbors from asking about the missing owner plus, as MI6 could be thoroughly unreasonable about out of pocket expenses, it saved having to collect a receipt and fill in a mountain of forms every time he needed to buy fuel.
Glancing down at his watch, the burned spy reached into the pocket of his jacket and pressed down on the remote detonator switch, which triggered a car alarm further along the street from where Mrs. Maeve Glenanne's driver was lounging behind the wheel of a large armored SUV.
With all eyes on the car with its lights flashing and siren blaring out, the master assassin moved swiftly from his hiding place. Stepping out of the shadows, he placed a small pipe between his lips and blew sharply, sending a tiny dart coated in a particularly toxic strain of Curare straight into the exposed neck of his target.
Slipping the blow pipe back in to the pocket of his coat, Gilroy used his other hand to switch off the car alarm as he watched his victim stiffen, the cigarette in his target's hand dropping out of the open car window and onto the road as the deadly poison stopped the man's heart.
Unfortunately, using the target's own transportation wasn't going to be possible in this case, as he had no way of shifting the seventeen stone behemoth out of the car without attracting attention. Still, stealing away with the Queen of the Clan undetected should make the rest of the terrorist scum sit up and pay attention.
A quick scan of the high street told the trained killer that his assassination had gone unnoticed and now all he had to do was wait for his primary target to finish her cup of tea... He was positively dying to hear all about her conversation with Tom Card.
After leaving London, he had driven north straight up the M1 to the city of Leeds. From there he had used one of his numerous fake driving licences to catch a Ryanair flight from the nearby Bradford/Leeds airport to Belfast. Then it was from Belfast to Dublin and then over to the little village on the edge of suburbia where Mrs Maeve Glenanne was living out her retirement.
At that point, he'd only had some vague tactical goals and a rough approach, chiefly to repair his damaged reputation by killing Michael Westen, after first having made the American pay dearly for all the trouble he had caused of course and after that he would turn his attention to all the others involved in his downfall, the Glenannes, Chambers, and Card for a start.
So, he had used his skills to build a hide so he could watch in safety all the comings and goings at the rather attractive eighteenth century manor house while waiting for the opportune moment to make a move.
But twenty four hours of watching Ms. Glenanne's family home while lying in a hole covered by dirt and branches later, the thought of blowing up the manor house and all its occupants had begun to seem like an excellent idea… except the more logical part of his brain had reasoned that he would have required the services of a whole squad of Paratroopers to back his play…
Besides, to truly satisfy his dreams of revenge, he wanted Fiona Glenanne to be there, to have to make a choice between handing over her boyfriend to his certain death or having to witness the fiery death of her entire family. The little wench had thoroughly earned his ire.
And then out of blue he had seen his chance when a large, and from the way it was sitting on its suspension, well armored Mitsubishi Shogun SUV had driven out of the wrought iron gates with its single passenger sitting in the back.
Gilroy had instantly abandoned his shelter and made his way to where he had left his own vehicle to give chase. He'd followed her all the way to Naas, using every trick in the book to avoid being detected by her driver and his efforts had been rewarded when he had seen who she was meeting.
"Liam, thank God, have ya found tham? Tell me ya have nae found tham yet."
Hearing the words so close to his position, the hired gun straightened up and peered out of the alleyway, scolding himself silently when he discovered his target must have walked straight in front of him as she now stood less than five feet away from his position.
"I've jus' learned - it doesnae matter, I'll explain it ta a later, but ya need tae bring tham both back ta me, unhurt... I have ta talk ta tham both, ya hear me, son?"
Now that was intriguing, what game was that oaf Tom Card playing?
"Fiona's pregnant! She's run off because she's carrying McBride's babby. Ya cannae kill him. Ya bring tham back home, in chains if ya have ta, but ya donnae kill ham."
He nearly ruined everything as he quickly covered his mouth with one hand to stifle the sound.
Well, well, this was just too delicious… What was dear sweet pregnant Fiona going to do when she had to choose between the life of her mother or the father of her child?
"Aye, she is, an' I'll tell ya all about it later. Fer now, just take it as gospel. I have ta go nar, son. Bring har back an' quickly befer it becomes common knowledge."
Taking back control but still sporting a thoroughly delighted grin, Gilroy began to move closer, his right hand carefully drawing his handgun from the holster under his arm as he prepared to strike.
"Thot's all I ask, son. Nar, get back ta it."
Time to get to work...
In two steps he was right up behind her, towering over the tiny, birdlike woman, the barrel of his gun pressing into her side.
"Mrs. Glenanne, you look tired. Let me assist you to your car… Now don't try anything stupid and all this will be over soon." He took hold of her arm and began to guide her along the street towards their ride. "Let's get this over with, shall we?"
"I hope whoever is payin' ya fer this has paid ya in advance, lad." She turned her head, tilting her chin just enough to look him in the eye, her expression one of pity and confidence instead of panic.
"Oh, I'm doing this purely for my own satisfaction." He felt the thin wiry bicep beneath his hand bunch and he tightened his grip as they walked past the large SUV with what appeared to all the world to be its sleeping occupant. "Don't worry. I can assure you your man there suffered very little. But if you survive our little adventure today, Mrs. Glenanne, my advice would be to tell your son to train his men better."
"Ya know me sons then?"
"I had the pleasure of meeting with two of your boys not so long ago. I know your daughter a little better, but that is mostly thanks to Mr. Westen's very detailed reports on his activities," he smirked and then, just to rattle the composure of the far too calm woman at his side, he added, "Oh, I say, I heard congratulations are in order."
Gilroy laughed a little at his joke and then jerked her to a stop next to his own vehicle.
"An' whot d'ya have planned fer me nar?" Maeve demanded as her captor forced her back against the side of a small gold colored Ford Corsa. "D'ya intend stuffin' me inta tha boot in broad daylight?"
"Certainly not..." The former spy opened the rear passenger door and pushed her down and then in a flash threw her large ugly handbag into the front and snapped a set of hand cuffs around her thin narrow wrists. "I think as long as you remain civilized, I'll allow you the courtesy of riding in the back." He pulled the seat belt across her body, slipping the strap over one of her arms and under the other to render her helpless or at least slow down any attempt she should try to make to escape.
"Now it is in your best interest to keep quiet, unless you want to cause a massive incident in this charming town. Police, news crews and me after I surrender, announcing to the world that Fiona Glenanne is expecting a baby, the child of an American secret agent who she willingly assisted in bringing an end to the threat of the Real IRA."
For the first time since he had laid his hands on the Irishwoman, Gilroy saw what he had wanted, the fear in her eyes, as she swallowed and lowered her gaze to her lap. "Ya willnae hear a word fram me, mister. Jus' promise me ya willnae hurt me girl."
"That will depend very much on your choices, Mrs. Glenanne." He slammed the door closed and then moved around to slip behind the wheel of his stolen car. "And those of your daughter of course."
Considering, he had spent the last twenty four hours lying in a ditch covered by brambles and broken branches, the day was turning out to be absolutely super.
()()()()
Liam Glenanne sat on the back seat of his Mercedes staring out at the passing countryside, willing his driver, Joey Lovatt, to wring another mile or two an hour of speed out of the large luxury saloon car, as the young man behind the wheel broke very nearly every rule of the road in an effort to get his boss to a meeting with the last of the McCullough brothers.
Only minutes earlier his good mood had been shattered by his mother's phone call... Fiona was pregnant…! and from the text message he had received just before that call, the hooligan Thomas O'Neill along with his henchmen were close to finding where his little sister was hiding out.
They had been driving towards Clonmel when the mobile phone he kept strictly for emergency calls from his direct family and his girlfriend Jeannie had begun to ring.
"Keep driving," he'd ordered the youth behind the wheel and brought the phone up to his ear.
He'd heard the panic in his mother's voice and felt his own anxiety levels rising as she had demanded to know if he had found the fugitives.
"Fiona's pregnant! She's run off because she's carrying McBride's babby. Ya cannae kill him. Ya bring tham back home, in chains if ya have ta, but ya donnae kill ham."
His mind had gone numb at his mother's words. "She's… she's pregnant? How d'ya-"
"Aye, she is, an' I'll tell ya all about it later. Fer now, just take it as gospel. I have ta go nar, son. Bring har back an' quickly befer it becomes common knowledge."
This newest piece of intel explained everything, why his sister had lost her mind and turned against the family and why a foreign spy was willing to go rogue. McBride's own side either didn't know, which would mean the American was doing all this protect her, or they did know and had ordered him to abandon the mother of his child and the man had refused.
"Thot's all I ask, son. Nar, get back ta it." She had hung up before he could ask how she had discovered this piece of shocking news. In the end it didn't matter. He would deal with that later.
Putting the phone back in his pocket, Liam had stared out of the side window, his mind running through all the danger's his youngest sibling faced and the wider consequences for the the whole family. If word of this got out... He rested his head against the glass. Am gonna feckin' castrate ham...Am gonna tie ham down, cut off his balls an' post 'em ta his friggin' CIA masters...
"Er… boss, wa're har." Joey Lovatt brought the large Mercedes to a stop outside the doors of Cindy's Café.
"Whot…?" Liam sat up straighter and pushed back his thoughts of revenge.
"Ya want me ta go in fer ya, boss?" the youngster asked.
"No, I want ya ta sit har, keep tha engine runnin' an' yar eyes open." He turned his pale orbs on the girl sat at his side. Ever since shooting Kevin McCullough the once high spirited gypsy had closed down. She was no longer crying, for which he thanked god, but in some ways the deathly silence and the haunted look in her dark eyes was worse. "Both o' ya, stay put." The last thing he needed right now was for the girl to come face to face with the last of her attackers in a public place.
Entering the near empty diner, Liam studied the clientele, searching for anyone who even vaguely matched the description Robin had been able to give him of the three men who had assaulted her and murdered her father.
Apart from a couple of men sat at separate tables tucking into plates piled high with bacon, sausages, baked beans and blood pudding, the only other customers appeared to be two old ladies sitting with their shopping bags by their feet as they chatted and supped tea.
Realizing they had obviously arrived too late, he made his way over to the counter and studied the menu scrawled on the large blackboard on the back wall. Runnin' around like a chicken wit' its head cut off was nae goin' ta help find his sister nor wa' it gonna help him get his hands round tha throat of Mr. Martin McCullough... He had to keep his mind on focused on one task at a time. McCullough came ta tha diner lookin' fer a lead. Nar, twas just a case o' findin' out who he came har ta meet.
"Can I help ya, mister?" the blonde waitress asked.
"G'day ta ya, miss." He smiled, filling his voice with a warmth he was far from feeling. "I'll have three teas all wit' milk an' sugar an' three o' yar bacon and sausage sandwiches, all ta go."
Liam watched as she passed the order through a hatch into the kitchen and then when she turned around, he leaned on the counter with a fifty pound note in his hand.
"While Am waitin', ya couldnae tell me if thar wa' a young fella in har in tha last half hour. Light brown hair, blue eyes, about five nine... He'd be in his mid-twenties."
The young woman's eyes fixed on the note held firmly in his grip. "Thot could be a description o' half tha men thot come in har."
"Aye, but nae in tha last half hour or so, surely." He waggled the note, watching as her features contorted, as avarice fought with what he suspected was loyalty to a friend. "Tis all fer ya, if ya can answer me questions."
"Is thar any chance yar friend's name is Martin, sur?"
"Aye, darlin' girl, thot's tha one…" His smile widened as he released the cash, letting it lay flat on the counter as a reward for greed winning the battle. "I wa' supposed ta meet ham har, but it looks like I missed ham. Any idea whare he's gone off ta?"
"He came in an' then left straight away."
"Did ya see who he talked ta?"
"He—"
Years of specializing in interrogation had taught Liam Glenanne to recognize when somebody was thinking about lying to him. "No need ta be shy wit' me, sweetheart." He lowered his tone and his friendly smile slipped away. "If ya want this money, ya best spill it all."
"He… he followed one o' tham community nurses outta har."
"Did ya see whot way they went?"
Fiona… could sommit have happened ta her…? Or wa' McBride more hurt than he'd thought…? Why else would they have risked contactin' a nurse?
He did his best to hide his feelings behind a mask of friendly charm, but he could tell by the way the woman was refusing to make eye contact he was beginning to spook her. Liam tried to relax, even though every fiber of his being wanted to drag the young woman over the counter and make her talk.
"They, er, they… went north. Straight over tha main road, after thot -" She shrugged her shoulders and then turned away to pick up the three cups of tea in Styrofoam containers and a square cardboard box holding the sandwiches. "Hare's yar order, it comes ta nine pounds fifty."
Liam pursed his lips. He was positive she wasn't telling him everything, but unless they waited until her shift finished, there was no way he could force her divulge everything she knew about the older of the McCullough brothers. If his little sister wa' hurt... If he discovered thot tha blonde had withheld sommit which coulda helped...
"Thank ye." The older man handed her a ten pound note to go with the fifty he had promised her for the little bit of information she had given him. Stacking the drinks one on top of the other and picking up the box in the other hand, he half turned away from the counter and then turned back.
"Thot fifty buys yar silence, girl, remember thot... Ya donnae want any piece o' whot's goin' on... D'ya understand me?"
He watched her pale and then nod her head in agreement as her hand snatched up the fifty and ten pound notes.
"Good girl, nar ya take care. Ya donnae want me payin' ya a visit again." The IRA's premiere interrogator paused just long enough to make a point and then headed for the door.
They war so close… He had no idea how large an area a community nurse covered in one day, but it couldn't be more than fifteen or twenty miles. McCullough had been almost in his grasp, but now the young hooligan could be anywhere. Most likely in some abandoned building beating the information he needed out of some poor innocent health care worker.
Glancing outside, he was pleased to see Joey was already out of the car and reaching for the door to hold it open for him. At least tha lad wa' beginning ta show some initiative.
"D'ya want me take thot stuff fer ya, boss?"
"Depends… did ya come over har ta watch me back or be me gofer?" He watched with some amusement as young Mr. Lovatt tried to work out the correct response.
"I'll get tha car door fer ya."
Liam allowed himself to smile as the youth placed his right hand in his jacket pocket, no doubt now gripping the handle of the handgun he'd been given, squared his shoulders and walked in front of him back to the car...
If Joey survived tha next coupla days, he'd have ta have a word wit' Davy about promoting tha boy. O' course thot would be after he'd hadda little chat wit' tha lad hisself about tha benefits o' keeping his mouth shut about anything he'd heard regarding Fiona and the consequences if he made tha mistake o' failin' ta keep the Glenanne family secrets.
Once in the Mercedes, Liam handed out the lunchtime snack and drinks.
"Eat up, girl. Ya've barely hadda thing since yesterday... An' donnae give me thot crap about nae bein' hungry either." He unwrapped his own sandwich and began to tuck into the fried bacon and sausage served between two thick slices of white bread.
As he ate, his mind was busy working through scenarios to make up the time they had lost. Somewhere close by, Martin McCullough wa' questioning thot nurse or mabbe he'd already found whar Fiona and McBride war hiding and wa' on his way thar...
His hand pulled Kevin McCullough's cell phone out his pocket. One phone call an' if he could pull it off, they'd have all tha information they needed. His thumb drifted over the key which would bring up the contact list. One phone call or better yet a text message would do the trick.
Covert operatives whether working for a legitimate government or a paramilitary organization try to avoid assuming other people's identities whenever possible. There's just too many pitfalls when you're dealing with someone your new identity has corresponded with especially if that person is a close relative.
He was still trying to decide exactly how much security training the McCullough brothers had been given during their attempts to join the RIRA when the phone began to ring.
"Ar' ya gonna answer thot, boss?" Joey twisted around in his seat.
Liam hesitated for another second, the urge to risk all was great, but his instincts were stronger. Last time he had answered the phone, they had been lucky. Rejecting the call, he quickly tapped out a text message and pressed send: Where R U? Can't talk, not safe. Text back.
He watched the phone, willing McCullough to send back an answer and when it came, he felt a rush of pure exhilaration. Finally, he'd gotten the break he'd been waiting for…
Found them. Go East U R looking 4 Coleraine farm. Watch & wait 4 me & T. Do nothing.
"Joey lad, stop an' turn tha car around…"
He'd found her... And now had a perfect opportunity to not only lay hands on his sister and the piece of filth she had taken up with but also to take care of tha blood thirsty hooligan, Thomas O'Neill once and for all.
()()()()
Breathing heavily, Martin McCullough stared down at the barely visible, battered body of the semi-conscious woman lying trussed up and gagged in the four foot deep ditch, her quivering limbs partially submerged in freezing murky water, hidden amongst the overgrown reeds and stinging nettles. Swallowing thickly, the young man reached up with one hand and pinched the bridge of his nose. Why couldnae she just have answered his frigging questions?
His gaze locked onto her terrified tear filled blue eyes.
"See whot ya done?" he yelled at his victim. "See whot ya made me do? All ya hadda feckin' do wa' give me one feckin' name, how hard wa' thot?... Nar, see how ya like whot's gonna happen."
He turned away, disgusted with himself. Tommy would tear ham a new one fer nae puttin' a bullet between har eyes an' silencing har fer good. He tore off the balaclava he had used to hide his features and bundled it up, stuffing it into his jacket pocket as he stomped his way back over the field to the spot where two cars blocked the narrow country lane.
Reaching the side the community nurse's vehicle, he paused and looked back. Mabbe he should go back an' put one between tha bitch's eyes... He shook his head. No, she could take har chances. If she lived or died, it would nae be on him. She had nae seen his face an' besides it would all be over befer she could tell anyone whot he'd wanted fram har.
Climbing into the nurse's car, Martin slammed the door shut and turned the key in the ignition. Reversing back, he maneuvered the Mini Cooper around the front of his own larger heavier vehicle he had used to bring the nurse's car to a stop and drove off. He needed to find somewhere close-by to dump the vehicle where it wouldn't be found for a while.
As he drove, he fumbled with his cell phone due to the leather gloves he was wearing. In the end, he had to pull one off using his teeth so he could key in his home number. It wa' time to pass the good word onto O'Neill.
"Hey, ma, put Tommy on tha phone, will ya?"
He'd driven as fast as he could across Clonmel to Cindy's café, fear of losing the only decent he had had since Pat Moffat had called him to say some old gypsy was flashing a lot of cash in a Killarney pub making him take risks in the early afternoon traffic.
Even so, he had only just made it in time. He'd no sooner walked into the café than Lindsey the waitress had pointed out his target, who had just left and was pulling out into traffic in her green Mini Cooper. He'd thrown several notes over to the girl, maybe thirty or forty quid…until he had time to check his wallet, he couldn't be sure before he was dashing out to his own vehicle...
Thank god fer har havin' a nice distinctive white roof on har little car.
"Martin, ya have some news fer me?" O'Neill's voice came through the cell phone's loud speaker.
"Aye, I think I have 'em. Thar's a woman in har mid-late twenties, skinny and wit' reddish brown hair... She's gotta a fella wit' har, tall, wit' black hair. They're callin' thamselves Creegan..."
"Thot is mighty fine work, Marty, mighty fine. Nar, d'ya happen ta know whar we can find tha happy couple?"
"A farm, twenty mile's east o' Clonmel, owned by a fella called Coleraine. Am gonna head over thot way once I've cleaned up after me self an' picked up Kevin an' Pat."
"Yer gonna tell yar brudder ta get his own transport an' ta get himself over ta thot farm, I need ya ta come an' meet me. I'll be on tha R680 on thot bike o' yars I spotted in yar da's garage. Look out fer me. We need ta get over thar befer we lose tham."
It had been on the tip of his tongue to pass on the rumor that the Glenanne girl was pregnant when he suddenly thought better of it and swallowed down the words.
"I'll do thot, Tommy, see yar soon." He waited for the other man to hang up and then tossed his phone down onto the car seat.
He'd only bought tha YZF Thundercat six months ago an' only gotten to ride it maybe a dozen times through the winter. It wa' bad enough thot Tommy O'Neill wa' gonna thrash tha bollocks off it an' then abandon it at the side o' tha road. He dinnae need tha psycho doin' any more damage cuz he wa' taa busy thinkin' about an old girlfriend.
Pulling off the country lane at the first open gate, he drove the little car into a field and parked it in a dip where hopefully it wouldn't easily be seen from the road. Then he began the walk back to where he had left his own vehicle, all the while praying that no nosy farmer had come across the ancient Land Rover.
Community Nurse Moran had been on her way to her first afternoon appointment and had already been running a half an hour late. With a bit of luck, it would be another hour before her patients began to inquire why their nurse was late and then another hour before her supervisor contacted the Gardai. Then depending on how busy they were, it could be several more hours before a proper search was under way.
Martin began to jog along the side of the lane. He needed to get going and pick O'Neill fast, the sooner they finished, the better as far as he was concerned... Far better tha po-lice wa' bein' kept busy twenty miles away huntin' fer a missin' nurse when tha shite went down at Coleraine's farm.
Back at the spot where he had forced the nurse off the road, Martin quickly climbed into his own vehicle and reversed back until he found a spot where he could turn around the large cumbersome SUV to make the journey towards his home and as he drove he put a call through to his little brother.
()()()()
Thomas O'Neill stood just outside the McCullough's kitchen door, staring down dispassionately at the man lying on the cold wet ground with blood bubbling out of his mouth as the trespasser fought to breathe through a set of lungs shredded by a double round of shotgun pellets.
"I'd gone out early after a coupla rabbits fer tha pot an' I came back ta find this fella skulkin' about wit' his face pressed agi'n tha window." Martin and Kevin's father stood back, still clutching his long barrelled shotgun in his hands as he explained to their guest what had happened. "When I called out ta him, I saw he hadda gun an' -"
"Don'cha worry about it, Dermot. Ya done tha right thing." O'Neill knelt down beside the dying man, prying the Glock 17 from his weakening grip and slipping the weapon into the waistband of his own trousers. "I just wish ya had hit ham in tha legs. Then we coulda questioned ham an' found out who he's workin' fer." Thot wa' the big question...
He had been pacing about his friend's parent's farmhouse for the last few hours. After a hearty meal, hot bath and a few hours sleep, he had been feeling refreshed and ready for action. So when the house phone had rung and Mrs McCullough had held out the handset to him, his heart had soared.
"Martin, ya have some news fer me?"
"Aye, I think I have 'em. Thar's a woman in har mid-late twenties, skinny and wit' reddish brown hair... She's gotta a fella wit' har, tall, wit' black hair... They're callin' thamselves Creegan..."
He'd swallowed thickly. Even as he spoke to his friend, his mind was filling his head with images of what he was going to do to, first to the boyfriend and then to Fiona before he went after the man who had broken his teeth and fractured his jaw with a hammer all those years ago.
"Thot is mighty fine work, Marty, mighty fine. Nar d'ya happen ta know whar we can find tha happy couple?" He'd held his breath, waiting for the answer.
"A farm twenty mile's east o' Clonmel owned by a fella called Coleraine. Am gonna head over thot way once I've cleaned up after me self an' picked up Kevin an' Pat."
But Thomas O'Neill had not been about to let the quarry he'd crossed the Irish Sea to lay his hands upon slip from his grasp while his childhood friends mucked about. Kevin an' Pat could sort out thar own transportation problems. He needed to get eyes on that farm immediately and there was a lovely new motorbike out in the garage that would speed him on this way.
As soon as he'd instructed Martin to meet him on the R680 and had ended the call, he'd turned to Martin's mother, intending on asking her where Marty kept his motorcycle helmet and gloves when there had been a loud double bang from the other side of the kitchen wall.
"Whot tha feck?" He had ducked down, waiting for more gunfight and then when none came he had cautiously got to his feet, fearful his enemies had already found him somehow. "Stay thar," he had ordered the woman cowering under the table and slowly made his way to the window.
After taking a deep breath, he'd peered outside to find the same man who was now trembling before him, holding the still smoking shotgun over the writhing form of the mortally wounded interloper.
"Whot are we gonna wit' him, son?" Dermot McCullough asked worriedly. "We cannae bring tha Gard - I canne go ta jail -,"
"No, no, ya did a good thing har, Dermot." O'Neill was back on his feet in an instant. "Nobody needs ta know a thing about this, this little accident har. Never ya mind, ya just go inside an' have a nice cuppa tea an' calm yar nerves, man. I'll deal wit' this." He patted the older man on the back and guided him towards the kitchen door. "Jus' one thing... Whar's tha cover ta yar cess pit?"
Mr. McCullough paled and then with a shaking hand pointed to a spot at the end of the garden.
"Thank ye, nar go inside an' fergit all about it, heh?"
With the old couple out of the way, the one-time terrorist grabbed hold of the nearly deceased spy and dragged the body over the damp wet grass towards the farthest corner of Bridget McCullough's garden. Once there, he knelt down and searched his victim for anything which would tell him who the now finally expired nosy parker worked for.
No letters, no wallet, only a roll of five an' ten pound notes, adding up to a little under a hundred pounds, which O'Neill put in his own pocket, and a cut-rate watch which could have been purchased anywhere. "Yer nae making this easy fer me, fella," he groused, but soon grinned.
"Ah, thar we go." As he turned the corpse over, he discovered a cheap pay-as-you-go mobile phone in the back pocket of the mystery man's jeans.
The day that the cell phone call log was invented should be celebrated as a national holiday for spies. Even a cautious cell phone user who uses dial-back systems or switches phones often leaves behind a lot of information you can use.
His smile soon faded when he realized the three calls that had been made to the phone were all marked as withheld numbers and the contact list was nothing more than single initials which corresponded to a number.
"Well, yer nae a reporter or working tha Gard, cuz ya woulda had some ID on ya... Yer nae well enough dressed or armed ta be MI6 an' if ya wa' har ta steal old Bridget's undies, ya wouldnae have been listening at tha window." That only left one very uncomfortable thought in the Real IRA man's mind, that bringing to mind the night he'd found himself tied to a chair in an abandoned garage.
"Ya'll get outta Ireland, lad, if ya know whot's good fer ya..." The soft growl of Liam Glenanne speaking into his ear would have chilled him to the bone except for the part where he had been barely conscious. "Yar friend Michael Doyle is gonna be lookin' fer ya, once his back on his feet. He just fell down a set o' stairs. I t'ink he broke both his legs in tha fall and he jus' lost all his stock ta a nasty fire."
A sick feeling rose up in the young Irishman's throat and one hand rubbed gently along his jaw, as just for a second he heard the dull thud and the crack of the small metal hammer being driven into his mouth... Was the PIRA's premier interrogator already aware he was back in Ireland?
"Feck, feck it, I donnae care... If he knew I wa' har, he'd be har hamself instead o' sendin' jus' one eejit watchin' tha place," he told the remains of what he assumed was a Glenanne spy. "Lucky fer ya, me lad, thot ya wonnae have ta explain at tha fecker how ya lost me. He'd have shot ya hamself."
Getting back to his feet, he lifted the neck of the jumper he was wearing to cover his mouth and nose and reached down to grasp the handle of a circular metal plate in the ground. Lifting the cover to the family cess pit, he dragged the body the rest of the way over and tipped it into the dark foul smelling hole.
Then with one final look at the man's cell phone, O'Neil tossed it into the depths with its owner. He had no way of tracing whose numbers were on the contact list and he had no intention of calling one of those numbers with the hope of recognizing the voice of the person on the other end.
No, he would just have ta be even more cautious than he had been before.
()()()()
"Cathy must think wa're headin' back inta tha wilds. Have ya seen how much food she's given us?" Fiona chuckled as she lifted up a plastic carrier bag filled with Tupperware boxes full of a variety of sandwiches, chicken drumsticks, sausage rolls, salad and two fruit cakes, each one cut into many slices to make for easier packaging. "I donnae see how we could possibly eat it all befer it spoils."
"I tried tellin' har it wa' too much, but she wouldnae hear o' it. Said she couldnae bear tha thought o' us starvin' an' then she reminded me ya supposed ta be eatin' fer two. So, mabbe thar's nae enough after all. Ya've cleaned out thar frig more than once, ya know."
Fiona gave her lover a well-deserved swat on his behind for his snarky comment before smiling to take the sting out. "They've been good ta us. We need ta figure out some way ta git Gerry's car back ta him, you know."
"Aye, taa good sometimes, I think. Cathy also gave me these." He held up a bag of his own, this one containing every extra box she and her sister Esme had of their pain medication, half of which he was sure were already out of date by months if not years. "Esme has promise ta make me another poultice fer me ribs befer we go taa." He made a sour face at the thought of smelling that all the way to wherever they were going next, despite the fact he'd had to admit it had aided his injuries.
"They're just tryin' ta help, Bobby. Instead o' turnin' yar nose up at thar kindness, ya should be thankin' tham."
"Am very grateful ta tham," he countered. "We would nae be anywhar near as well off as we ar' wit'out tham." He grinned back and, after placing the carrier bag full of out of date meds into the boot of the Volvo, Michael pulled his beloved into his arms.
He was so relieved that they would be moving on before something else could go wrong and possibly hurt the trio who had most certainly rescued them from an uncertain fate. As much as he didn't want to take the car, it would give them a definite advantage that they had lost when they'd had to abandon their previous vehicle and this one wouldn't be stolen and potentially on the radar of the Gard.
"Mi-Bobby!" she squeaked at his sudden assault, her words lost as his lips pressed against hers. "Whot's got inta ya, ya daft man?" she gasped when he finally let her up for air.
"Nothin'," he answered and then pulled her in close again, "Nothin' at all… I'm jus' glad thot wa're finally movin' on. Once wa're outta Ireland-"
"We can begin ta live," she said on a sigh, wrapping her arms about his neck and reaching up to lightly nip his bottom lip before kissing it better.
"Aye, luv…" He smiled down at her, the fingers of one hand gently combing through her short auburn hair while he gazed into her blue-green eyes. "We'll be one step closer ta living free."
He could have stayed like for hours, the warmth of her body against his, the steady beat of her heart bringing peace to his soul. Lowering his chin, he sought out her lips again, remembering what he had confessed earlier to Mr. Coleraine. Maybe one day he would admit his feelings as freely as Bobby Creegan did, but that day was not today and as much as he would have like to remain in her embrace, they needed to finish their preparations.
Soon, they would be on their way... They would spend the evening monitoring the private airfield nearby that Gerry had told them about some thirty odd kilometers away. Then, once they had learnt the security guards pattern, he would go over or through the fence and locate a suitable plane. All being well, they would be somewhere on the west coast of France by morning.
He kissed his beloved one last time before letting her go. Maybe somebody would even recognize Gerry's prized Volvo and return it to him. He could only hope…
"Speaking o' living free, let's figure out whar we're gonna go to be livin' free." Slipping out of his arms as he released her, Fiona walked over to where Gerry's tools and various supplies were stacked at the other end of the barn, running a practiced eye over the chemicals available as she thought about building something suitable to be used as a distraction or to dissuade airfield security from interfering with their escape while Michael concealed their weapons within the vintage automobile.
"I've already told ya about France an' I remember ya sayin' about Spain, an' Germany… We've agreed all o' tha Middle East wa' outta tha question an' I think we can include Turkey an' Greece in thot list. Russia is nae good fer ya." She sighed heavily as she named off most of the places she'd been with Seamus while perusing the supplies available to her to make deadly things that went boom. "Let's face it, basically anywhar unhappy people need weapons is gonna be outta bounds."
Part of her wanted to tell Michael it was pointless, that she had been to almost every corner of the globe on the arm of an international death merchant with a very high profile, but the redhead decided that now was not the time to be discussing her former lover. She was still a little shaken up about having to think about Derek McIntyre for the first time in years. Having a discussion about Armand Andreani could wait until they were safely in France, if it even came to that at all.
"Ya can add Bosnia, Albania, an' hell, ya might as well make it all o' tha Balkan States taa."
"You've been to Bosnia?" he asked so quietly that she almost missed the comment.
"Aye, tha las' time wa' in early '95." She'd travelled with a small contingent of men deep into Serbian-held territory and what she had witnessed that day had opened her eyes to just how indiscriminate her lover was about where his money came from and her complicity in that matter.
Sure, her family had run guns, but always for the cause or people connected to one. There in the Drina Valley, she had been forced to confront what she'd been wilfully ignorant of during her years at his side. These weren't freedom fighters… this was pure evil, the systematic genocide of innocent, defenseless people. It had sent her running back home at the first opportunity she had gotten.
"I never went back... an' I have no wish ta go back nar either. Why d'ya ask?"
"I was there too…" She watched, amazed at his whispered admission as he paled. "For almost a year… not the most pleasant assignment I ever had."
A year! Just the thought of being stuck in that brutal civil war for so long had the petite Irishwoman rushing to her lover's side. "A year…? Whar war ya?"
For a moment, she thought he wasn't going to answer her, he looked – haunted. Whatever it was he had been doing, she could tell it had to have been bad… really bad...
"Foca…"
The name of the small Bosnian town was torn from his lips, as the wall his years of training had built up to protect his country's secrets cracked. With her revelation of being raped, she had shared with him a piece of herself that she had obviously never told another soul. And while his head railed against his decision to give the woman he loved a small piece of himself, his heart won out.
"Ya wa' thar? I heard it wa' bad. When…?" The palm of her hand ghosted over his whiskery cheek.
The touch of her soft hand broke the spell and his head took back control. Forcing his lips to smile, he took hold of her hand. He didn't want to think about Foca and he definitely did not want to bring back the memories of his time in the city of Višegrad.
"A few years earlier... It was a crazy time, one I'd rather not talk about... So, why donnae we get ta work on tham chemicals I saw ya eyeing up, lass? We could use tha detonators off those booby traps ya laid last night and while we work, we can try ta come up wit' a short list of places we think might be safe, tis bound ta be a very short list…"
His smile was forced, and his deep blue eyes were pleading with her to drop that particular topic of conversation and just for a second she thought about pushing for more information. But it was only for a second. This had to be the most open he had been with her so far. It was only a small step, but at least it was one in the right direction.
"Thot sounds like a plan," she agreed and led him over to the bags of nitrogen fertilizer neatly stacked up in the corner. "How abou' ya find me some containers while I go an' collect up those detonators?"
Like every other occasion when they worked on explosives together, time had no meaning as he measured out the chemicals, which she carefully mixed and placed into each of the five sturdy plastic containers he had found.
"Bobby, Kim... whar ar' ya?"
It was only when Cathy and Esme slipped through the barn door and came towards them that the couple realized that several hours must have passed.
"Thar ya ar'," Esme huffed, her voice sounding loud in the quiet of the large barn. "Kimmy, Gerry sent us out ta see ya... Thar is a man at tha door claimin' ta be yar brudder."
"Me brudder…?" Fiona reeled and would have fallen if Michael hadn't got an arm about her waist to steady her. "Which one…? Did he give a name? Whot did he look like?"
"We dinnae see ham," Cathy admitted quietly, obviously more upset by this turn of events than her sister. "Gerry sent us out tha back an' told us ta come round ta warn ya."
"Ya stay har, Kimmy," Michael ordered, his voice and his expression making it clear that he would tolerate nothing less as he steadied the redhead onto her own two feet. "I'll go round abou' an' see who's come a callin' an' Esme and Cathy har ar' gonna keep ya company while ya keep an eye on things fram har. Is thot understood, ladies?"
The burned spy didn't wait to see if they would obey his commands. Slipping his handgun from its hiding place in the Volvo, he went out the rear exit to the old structure and didn't look back.
()()()()()()
And while his star pupil was circling through the woods surrounding the farm house to discover who had come to Gerry Coleraine's door, the man's former training officer was cursing his decision to take the scenic route back to Dublin. If he had stuck to the E20, the main road east, he would have been back in his apartment sipping on a glass of Irish whisky over an hour ago.
But there had been construction just outside Johnstown, which had held him up on the journey to Nass that he had no desire to revisit on his way back. Irish roads and their repair crews certainly made their American counterparts look like pikers when it came to snarling up traffic and he had lived in DC for godsakes! Besides, it was bad trade craft to take the same route twice in one day.
Having travelled north for a short distance, Tom Card had then turned east and followed a narrow road which was sign posted to Dublin, but seemed to be zigzagging its way around half the farms in Tipperary without bringing him any closer to his destination. Damn Irish backroads…
To make matters worse, the air conditioner in the rental car seemed to not be working, no matter how high he turned up the controls. He'd have to have words with Mrs. Joyce about that when he got back to the office. Card chuckled then, imagining her likely rejoinder to his complaint. Julieta Joyce was very good at what she did, even if one of those things was to remind him she'd been in the service while he was still wet behind the ears wearing short pants.
Taking one hand off the steering wheel, the CIA officer wiped his sweating brow and then ran a hand over his hair again. He was starting to feel nauseous… It was probably the cake he'd eaten… His new young wife was forever giving him grief about sweets. They didn't sit well with him anymore, but a good shot of fine liquor had not been on the menu at the tea house he'd just come from.
His mind drifted for a second and he found himself on the right side of the road, which in Ireland was definitely the wrong side for the direction he was headed… Who the hell thought of running the traffic backwards? That was what was wrong with this country… Everything was ass backwards…
A smile creeped across his face as he envisioned the look on Richard Chambers' face when that half assed bureaucrat would find himself outdone by his American counterpart. He had found a way to get through to that bunch of home grown guerrillas while that prissy Brit was dancing around them.
But the feeling of self-satisfied self-righteousness was short lived as his body began to ache as well, a tight feeling spreading across his chest and down his arms, causing him to drift across the lane to the blaring horn of the oncoming driver. Glancing in the rear view mirror at the car that passed, Card was distressed to find that he was looking rather pale and the whites of his eyes were showing.
This was too much of a coincidence, had he underestimated Maeve Glenanne?
His stomach cramped and, at the same time, he had a moment of perfect clarity. Not Maeve Glenanne… the other one. The same pale blue-grey eyes, the cheekbones, shape of the mouth... Those same features he had seen before, in an old MI5 mug shot of Liam Glenanne…
Oh, no, no, he was not going out like this…He was one of the best officers Langley had ever produced and he was not going down at the hands of a couple of octogenarian retired terrorists...
He drew his cell phone out of the inside pocket of his jacket, his hand shaking so badly he nearly dropped the phone onto the floor board. Taking his eyes off the road just for a second, he recovered the device and went to pressed one on the speed dial. He would call Mrs. Joyce, get a team out -
This time, the blaring of the horn caught his attention just a little too late…
What the hell was that truck doing on the wrong side of the road anyway…?