A/N: We would both like to say a big thank you to all of you who are still reading our story of what might have happened if Michael had chosen to stay with his beloved at the end of his Irish assignment. We love reading all your comments and feedback and deeply appreciate the reviews. We promise not to keep you waiting so long for the next chapter.
On a separate note we wish Dazzlinjaja1111 all the best on her birthday today.
BE BRAVE LITTLE ANGEL.
Chapter Twenty Nine
While Michael and Fiona had been busy in the Coleraine's barn preparing for what they had hoped would be their night time flight out of Ireland to the relative safety of the north-west coast of France, their pursuers had been encircling their hideaway from multiple directions….
()()()()
The journey from the McCullough farm towards Clonmel had been one great thrill ride for Thomas O'Neill. Grinning like a maniac, the Irishman had wrung every inch of speed out of his henchman's YZF Thundercat motorcycle. Leaning over the shiny bright red petrol tank he'd cranked open the throttle all the way back and clung on tightly as the needle on the speedometer had flickered at just over one hundred and forty miles an hour.
Only touching the brakes when absolutely necessary, the sociopathic hooligan made it almost three quarters of the way to his destination when he spotted Martin McCullough's old Land Rover driving at a more sedate pace towards him. Slowing down, he brought the motorcycle to a stop at the side of the road. Pulling off the borrowed gloves and crash helmet, the dark haired man lashed the items to the bike with a long length of chain, securing it with a padlock while he waited for his friend to find a place to turn his car around and come back for him.
"Good ta see ya, Martin."
O'Neill slapped his friend on the shoulder as he settled into the passenger seat, the excitement of finally getting some action making him almost giddy.
"Donnae worry about yar shiny new toy out thar. Yar da has asked yar neighbor's boy ta come out an' pick it up on his trailer. He should be along in a half hour or so. Nar, let's get goin' cuz tha sooner we get this done tha better. Did ya get ahold o' Kev? D'ya remind ham ta wait fer us? I donnae want ham ta be startin' tha fun wit' out us."
"I tol' ham, he'll wait fer us."
Martin's clipped answer caused O'Neill to lose his good humor as his highly tuned sense of paranoia switched on to the younger man's lack of enthusiasm for the coming action. The McCullough boys had failed their recruitment into the RIRA for vastly different reasons. Whereas Kevin had been considered a security risk and too undisciplined, the leadership hadn't been convinced of Martin's fervor for the cause. Wa' his friend Marty havin' second thoughts? Or wa' he hidin' sommit?
"Will ya do us a favor, Marty, an' give Kevin a call, see whot he's up ta?" He watched closely as his friend picked up his mobile phone off of the dashboard. "Put it on loud speaker. If he's found tha farm, Am gonna have some questions fer him."
Both men waited as the ring tone continued for over a minute and then went to voice mail. "Tis Kevin, leave a message an' mabbe I'll get back ta ya."
"He's been havin' some trouble wit' his phone." Martin declared as he ended the call. "We've been texting fer most o' tha day."
At this bit of news, O'Neill's suspicious mind went into overdrive. "Textin' ya say? When exactly did ya last speak wit yar brudder?"
"I donnae- around one I guess… I called ham ta- He didnae answer me." The younger man momentarily took his eyes off the road as he realized what his friend was hinting. "I wa' ina hurry an' tha next time I called ham, he answered ina text tellin' me he couldnae talk... D'ya think sommit has happened ta Kevin?"
The other man seemed lost in thought for a moment before he answered.
"Jus' befer I set off ta meet ya, yar old man tapped some fella earwigging outside tha kitchen door. He shot ham dead befer I could interrogate ham... I'm thinking he mighta been one o' Liam Glenanne's soldiers an' nar ya tellin' me ya have nae spoken ta ya brudder since lunchtime? Feck!"
O'Neill half turned away and punched the door panel as he saw his longed for reunion with Fiona Glenanne and her big brother slipping away. "Feck! No fecking way tha bitch is getting away!"
"Tommy, calm down will ya? Yer scaring me. D'ya think Glenanne has me brudder?"
"I think yar brudder is dead, Marty," O'Neill snapped, totally ignoring the concern in his friend's voice for his sibling. "Am thinkin' thot thot bastid Glenanne has got ta him already an' ya have set ham on his way ta find his sister befer I do." There was murder in the man's cold black eyes.
"Let me try an' call ham again, mabbe he'll answer this time. Cell reception can be a bugger once yer outta tha town." Without meaning to, Martin was slowing the heavy vehicle, his vision becoming misty at the thought of his little brother in the hands of the infamous PIRA torturer.
"Gimme yar phone, I'll try ham an' thot other fella, whot's his name? Moffatt? Ya got his number on har? Ya put yar foot down, Martin, an' concentrate on gettin' us ta thot farm as quick as ya can."
"Wa're still goin thar?"
"Aye, o' course we ar'! D'ya think Am gonna give up this chance? Ar' ya daft, man? I came across tha feckin' sea ta get me revenge..." He laughed out loud and then in a blink of an eye, the unstable Irishman's volatile temperament changed yet again as his tone became deadly serious.
"Don'cha see, Martin? This is bigger than us. If we take down Liam Glenanne, we'll strike a real blow fer our side. It'll be a whole new world fer us. It'll be a rally cry fer tha Real IRA. Thar'll be a lotta powerful men lookin' ta give me whotever I want... Even a seat at tha table, nar is thot nae worth a little risk?"
The terrorist's countenance darkened as Patrick Moffat's phone went to voicemail as well.
"Fiona, she's pregnant, Tommy..." Martin blurted out the news, his head reeling from his friend's outburst and his blackening mood. "I meant ta tell ya earlier, but, but... Tha nurse told me."
"Pregnant, ya say." O'Neill paused, digesting this latest bit of intel and then burst out laughing again. "Well, I'll have ta remember ta congratulate tha bitch befer I take a hammer ta har teeth. Come on, Marty, cheer up. Ya never know, mabbe yar brudder is still alive and tha pair o' tham ar' off shaggin' a coupla old slappers instead o' doing whot ya told tham ta."
They drove on in near silence, the only sound coming from the ring tone of Martin's phone followed by the voice mail message until finally the younger man could take it no more.
"Leave it, Tommy. If Kevin wa' gonna answer, he woulda done it by now." Wiping one shaky hand over his eyes to brush away the tears that threatened to fall, the older of the McCullough brothers couldn't help but wonder if all this was worth the reward his friend Tommy was promising him.
A few miles further along, O'Neill touched the younger man lightly on the arm, signalling him to slow down as they passed by a narrow turning with a worn out wooden sign nailed to the stone wall declaring the lane led to Coleraine Farm.
"Keep goin' a little further an' then we'll go in on foot. If we keep ta tha walls an' hedges, we should be alright."
"Whotever ya say, Tommy," Martin agreed.
"It always is, Marty. Hey, cheer up, will ya? This is gonna be our big day."
Leaving their transport at the side of the road, both men loaded up with Martin's meager supply of weapons and slipped over the stone wall and along the sides of the fields. It was only when they got closer to the farmhouse that the two men spotted a couple standing beside a long shiny dark-colored Mercedes just off the other side of the farm lane, half hidden by the tall weeds growing along the wide verge.
"Well, nar we know. I take it thot is nae yar brudder's ride?"
When he didn't get an immediate answer, O'Neill turned his attention away from the car to his friend who was staring in horror at the young couple. "Yer lookin' like ya've seen a ghost, Marty. Is thar sommit ya want ta tell me?"
"No…" the younger man whispered and straightened up, his cheeks flushing red. "Tis nothin' but tha girl looks familiar, thot's all."
O'Neill knew there was more to it than that. But right at that moment he had more important things on his mind. The girl and the youth were most likely Glenanne's look outs, which meant he saw the chance of gaining some leverage in what was likely going to be an interesting couple of hours.
When you have tha chance ta get information about an enemy position, ya have a choice. Ye can watch fram a distance slow an' safe. Or ya can go inside an' take a little look around - quick, but potentially fatal.
"Ya go an' tek care o' tha courtin' couple while I go an' talk ta tha man o' tha house." He gestured with a tilt of his head to where an elderly man on crutches was hobbling along the garden path.
"Whot d'ya want me ta do wit' tham?" Martin asked, his eyes still fixed on the dark haired girl who appeared to be deep in conversation with the young lad.
"Whot d'ya think, man...? Jeez, get wit' tha program Marty." O'Neill shook his head and then jogged off along the narrow lane that would lead him to the farmhouse.
Sneaking past trained operatives waitin' in ambush is usually next ta impossible. They can stay alert through tha long boring hours o' waiting, ready for action at any second. Whot ya need is a sacrificial lamb, some poor soul who can keep all those trained operatives lookin' one way while ya tiptoe past 'em.
Thar wa' no way Liam Glenanne came wit' just a coupla kids fer back up. Wit' a little bit o' luck, Marty would keep 'em all busy long enough fer ham ta get ta tha old fella who, along wit' whoever wa' inside tha house, should make a fine bunch o' hostages for tha upcoming negotiations.
As the would-be leader of the next generation of terrorists slipped through the woods towards his goal, the weight of all those months in hiding lifted off his back and Thomas O'Neill smiled in anticipation of achieving all his dreams in one day.
()()()()
When yer a PIRA shot caller, thar is a chain o' command ta report ta, protocols ta be observed. No one questions thar orders, everyone ya work with believes wholeheartedly in tha cause yer all working towards, but when yer only back-up consists o' a green kid and an angry gypsy lookin' fer revenge, ya just have ta trust yar team is goin' ta stick ta tha plan.
"A car just went past, a big ol' Landy. Robin thinks she recognized tha driver... They've stopped further along tha road. D'ya want me ta go take a closer look, boss?"
"Nar, stay whar ya are," Liam Glenanne ordered, his harsh tone designed to put a stop to any ideas the youth had to take on a blood thirsty killer like Thomas O'Neill. "If it's O'Neill, ya donnae want any part o' ham, lad. Are ya listenin' ta me, Joey? Just let me know if he brings in any more men."
Putting his phone back into his coat pocket, Liam returned to his surveillance of the dilapidated farmhouse. So far from his position lying prone on the ground just below the brow of a hill, all he had seen so far was two elderly women who had spent ten minutes collecting washing off the line before strolling back inside carrying a white plastic clothes basket between them.
If Fiona and Michael were really hiding out at the farm, he hadn't spotted any sign of them in the last hour he had been watching. His eyes drifted to the outbuildings and the big barn marking the perimeter of the farmyard. Lotsa places ta hide over thar...Whot he would nae give ta getta set o' eyes inside those buildings…
The eldest had hoped to have the time to locate his sister and one way or another convince her and her good-for-nothing boyfriend to leave with him, but it wasn't to be. Now with confirmation of Thomas O'Neill's arrival on the scene, he knew he had to act sooner rather than later. Biting down on his top lip, he wondered if he had made a fatal error in not bringing in more of his men to help.
In any search an' capture operation, ya have ta balance speed against plannin'. Once ya have located yar target, ya have a hard choice ta make. Take taa much time plannin' an' yar target gets away. Take taa little time plannin' an' ya get yarself killed.
No, if he had flooded the area with Glenanne soldiers, the ruling council of the PIRA would have wanted to know what he was up to. The whole idea was to remain discrete and keep everything under the radar. He was perfectly capable of taking down Thomas O'Neill and his one remaining friend. Thanks to Fiona's string of bad choices, Liam had spent far more time in the field lately than he had in years and he was determined to end this now. Besides nar it wa' taa late ta do otherwise.
The front door opening brought his chain of thought to an abrupt halt. A white haired old man balancing on crutches hobbled along the path that lead to the gate and the entrance to the adjoining farmyard. He watched as the elderly fella paused and awkwardly raised a hand in greeting.
And that was the moment Liam Glenanne realized he had been out maneuvered by the bold actions of the young tearaway he'd driven out of Ireland three years ago.
()()()()
Meanwhile, thirty miles north-west of the market town of Naas, someone else was discovering that they had sadly underestimated their opponent much to their sorrow...
Excruciating pain was ripping through Mason Gilroy's torso, the shock numbing his mind and rendering his limbs useless. Through an agony induced haze, the British assassin could only watch helplessly as his hands slipped from the steering wheel of his stolen car, the Ford Corsa careering out of control through a barb wire fence, bouncing and sliding its way across a rolling grass covered field until it finally slamming to a halt amongst a small stand of trees.
Breathing heavily, the blond pushed himself upright in his seat, one hand lazily making it's way to his forehead, wiping across it and coming away smeared with blood while his mind tried to make sense of what had just happened.
With a groan, he looked down and gazed at the thick red liquid covering his shirt front. There's a cold math to blood loss: the more you lose, the weaker you get. He gulped and pressed a hand over the wound which was still pumping out his life blood. He'd been shot...Someone had shot him... How?
His eyes went to the absolutely vile leather handbag containing an old British service revolver and several now disarmed explosives, still resting on the passenger seat. No! She was an old woman... He'd searched-
Gilroy swallowed thickly. He had tossed her bag into the front and secured the elderly terrorist in the back, but he had been in a hurry. The burned spy had planned the snatch and grab on the fly, the opportunity to take control of such a high valued piece on the chess board had been too good miss.
But he had obviously missed something.
Hearing the sound of heavy breathing coming from behind him, the rapidly weakening mercenary attempted to turn around, but had to settle for using the rear view mirror to watch as his prisoner slowly pushed herself up from where she had been thrown across the seat.
Her hair was in disarray, the neat bun destroyed by their violent departure from the road. Blood trickled from the side of her mouth and a large bruise was forming over her left cheekbone. But what held his attention more than the look of hostility blazing in her blue-green eyes, so different from her demeanor earlier during their acquaintance, was the rather exquisite silver inlaid barrel of the Colt Mustang XSP which was in the grip of her unfettered slender right hand.
When abducted at gun-point, most trained targets and those civilians with a modicum of common sense try to make a connection with the kidnapper, they try to humanize themselves in the hope of making it harder for their captor to pull the trigger... Maeve Glenanne had done none of that.
He had driven for over an hour, first towards the west before turning north with one eye on the road and the other using the rear view mirror to keep watch on his prisoner. For that whole time, Fiona's aged mother had sat completely still, her blue-green eyes calmly staring back at him.
Frankly, the master assassin had found her cold, stoic exterior rather disconcerting.
"Bravo, Mrs Glenanne," he gasped, unwilling as he was to concede anything to the enemy of his country but also the mother of one his foes; however, good manners won out. "How?"
"I wa' pickin' locks since befer ya wa' born, lad, an' those old handcuffs o' yars I coulda picked tham wit a piece o' yarn. As fer tha gun, it wa' a birthday present fram thot daughter o' mine... Tha one ya wa' plannin' on killing. 'parrently tis a popular choice if ya need ta conceal whot yer carryin'."
She pressed the still warm muzzle of the tiny, compact gun against the back of his head.
"Yer all tha same. Ya keep makin' tha same mistake. Ya keep underestimating tha degree o' our determination ta be free o' tha interference o' a government thot's nae o' our own choosin'."
He half turned at the unexpected rant and then closed his eyes as he caught sight of her expression, filled with the righteous hatred of a true believer wrapped in a cause.
They were crazy, every single last one of them willing to die for an ideal and kill over something as simple as an insult to a family member. How did you fight people like that? They were fresh out of the bog, barely literate scum…
"Me sons disagreed about who yer workin' fer." He could feel her breath against his ear and almost taste the venom in her tone. "Liam thinks yer British intelligence, in league wit' tha Yanks. Sean thinks yer nuttin' but a mercenary brought in by tha CIA ta kill or capture thar rogue spy... Me, I couldnae care less. Ya killed me driver, Mister whoever-ya-ar'... He hadda family, a wife ya have turned inta a widow an' kiddies who will grow up wit'out a da... Ya shot me son an' thot tis sommit I cannae fergive and then lastly ya threatened me girl. Did ya really think I'd allow thot ta pass?
It was the last words he heard as Maeve tightened her finger on the trigger.
They say if you live long enough, you'll see everything. He was a trained assassin, with over twenty discrete kills to his name, a decorated soldier who had served his country for over fifteen years and he had been brought low by an insane grandmother with a toy gun.
A loud retort filled the small vehicle and the front of Mason Gilroy's skull burst open, splattering his brain over the windshield and bonnet of the stolen car.
Breathing deeply, Maeve took a moment as she contemplated the figure slumped over the steering wheel. It had been over three decades since she had last taken a life so up close and personal and the first time she had ever carried out an execution in cold blood.
Two men dead in a little over an hour... Or at least she assumed the American had already succumbed to her sister in law's poison. Two men connected to the intelligence services of the UK and the US governments, both dead in what might be considered suspicious circumstances….
With a slight smile, Mrs. Glenanne imagined her eldest boy's reaction to the news. Her second son, already so serious, had become down right grim at times since taking over the clan. Maeve tried not to make it any harder on him, but sometimes Liam needed ta remember who had given birth ta him.
She had been the one running the family while her beloved Patrick had been gone on missions or in jail all those years I dinnae need a mother hen o' a son watching over me shoulder, though I'm certain me boy's gonna be mad as a wet hen when he finds out whot me an' Claire have been up ta.
Reaching over to the front passenger seat, the tiny one-time terrorist pulled her handbag into the back and brought out the pill box, filled with Semtex and a wired with a timer. Tis been a long time since I've hadda blow up a car; let's hope I can remember which wire ta put whare.
Pushing on the door, at first she was concerned when it refused to budge, but a quick look out of the window and she could see the problem. The Corsa had buried its bonnet up against the trunk of an oak tree and the whole of the driver's side of the vehicle had buckled slightly, warping the frame.
Grimacing, the elderly woman leaned over and was grateful when the passenger door swung open with ease. Climbing out of the badly crumpled vehicle, Maeve scanned the horizon to see if there had been any witnesses to the crash.
Once she was satisfied that she was alone and the scene wasn't about to be invaded by well-meaning civilians or a fleet of emergency vehicles, the supposedly retired guerrilla fighter hitched up her thick woolen skirt revealing a pink neoprene thigh holster, another gift from her only living girl.
"I love tha gun, Fiona. Tis a fine present. But whot on earth am I ta do wit' this?" She had held up the holster between one finger and her thumb. "Tis a scandalous thing fer a woman o' my age ta have. Ya best keep it fer yarself. I'll stick ta me handbag or me coat pocket."
It had been last Christmas, after the children had been sent to their beds and the adults had settled down with their drinks in the large living room, her girl and the traitor in their midst had handed her a brightly wrapped box.
"Mammy, I cannae tell how many times bein' able ta sneak a weapon inta -"
"I donnae want ta know whare or why ya war sneakin' guns... But I'll put it in me drawer an' pray thot it gets ta stay thar... Nar, I gotcha this, tis fer both o' ya." She had given them a matching set of four photo frames, something to help brighten the dingy little flat they insisted on calling home and also a signal that the family was accepting McBride's place amongst them...
He had fooled them all...
Her lips tightened at the memory of that last Christmas. Slipping the gun back into the holster, Maeve straightened up and rearranged her heavy black skirt.
An' now her girl wa' pregnant, carryin' tha child o' thot bastid spy an' on tha run from British and American forces, and when thar secret became public knowledge... An involuntary shiver shook her frame. No, thot didnae bear thinkin' about. Liam would bring tham back befer then…
With a heartfelt sigh, Maeve dropped to her knees and then lay down on her back to maneuver herself under the twisted little compact.
There are two basic ways to blow up a car. Use the gasoline in the tank or provide your own explosive. Some people prefer the gas tank… tends to look more like an accident, but is less reliable. Others prefer plastic explosive on the battery, wired to the ignition.
It took her two minutes to wire her small device to the petrol tank and set the timer for ten minutes.
Wriggling her way out into the open, she climbed to her feet, wincing as her already bruised muscles complained at the activity. Brushing the worst of the dirt and grass off her clothes, Maeve began to stride purposefully towards the road. Ten minutes should enough time for her to get along the road. She had noticed a bus stop not long before she had pulled the trigger on the Brit bastard. It would give her shelter while she waited to be picked up. She just hoped Claire was already home.
()()()()
When a pro plans an ambush, they capitalize on the element of surprise. They attack aggressively so their opponent has to react from a place of weakness...
When Thomas O'Neill made his move, he was hoping and praying that Liam Glenanne wasn't going to be waiting for him inside the farmhouse with a set of ropes and a blow torch...
"Good day ta ya, sur."
Gerry stared warily at the smiling stranger who had just come through the garden gate without having the good manners to be invited and was now boldly striding up the path towards him.
"I've been walkin' fer a while. Am fair parched, so I am, sur. A wee glass o' water an' a little information would be a real life-saver. How about we go inside? Get outta tha cold. Har, let me give ya a hand. Tis been a fine day, has it nae? I bet ya've seen plenty o' people out walkin' today, eh?"
The man's sunny smile wasn't fooling the former soldier for one minute. Already being on edge after discovering the charming young couple they had been sheltering were on the run from one of the many factions of the IRA, Gerry had taken one look at this new interloper and even with his failing vision had spotted the outline of a pistol hidden under the man's woolen sweater; however, being stuck on crutches and no longer being in possession of the lightning fast reflexes of his youth, the elderly farmer knew he was unable to put up any sort of defense.
"I dinnae-" He got no further, as before he had a chance to resist, the unwelcome intruder had draped an arm over his shoulders and was gently but firmly guiding him back to the house.
"I know I said a drink o' water, but what would be grand is a nice cuppa tea an' I tell ya me feet are fair killin' me, so they are. It'd be a treat ta take tha weight off fer a bit... I want ta thank ya fer bein' so hospitable, sur."
As much as he wanted to resist the much younger and fitter trespasser, Gerry was not a fool. He had seen through the friendly smile, which didn't quite reach the man's cool dark eyes, and though he hadn't draw the weapon concealed under his jumper yet, the senior citizen had no wish to incite him into doing it. If this uninvited visitor was one of Kim's brothers, maybe it would be possible to work on a reconciliation, especially now there was a child on the way.
"My, ya have a right cozy place har. Is it just ya on yar own or d'ya perhaps have a wee bit o' company stayin' har wit' ya?"
As soon as they were through the front door and he was released from the other's grasp, Gerry turned to face his unwanted guest. "Tis just me an' tha wife, Mister–?"
The toothy smile faded, as the other man looked about the dimly lit living room obviously searching for something which by his disappointed expression he had failed to find.
"Am lookin' fer a friend an' a little bird tol' me I might be findin' har here."
Gerry swallowed thickly as his suspicions seemed to be proved right. Even though there was no familial resemblance between the overly assertive stranger and the young woman in the barn, that didn't mean they weren't related somehow.
"A friend ya say?"
"Aye, a young woman, she'd have been wit' a dark haired fella." He paused, his eyes straying to the window and then back. "Ta be honest wit' ya, sur, she's very special ta me an' tis very important I find har. So, if ya know anythin' at all, I'd be most grateful."
"Twas a couple thot came callin' a day or so ago," Gerry said, hobbling slowly towards the long wooden sideboard which was positioned against the wall that lead to the kitchen. Opening one of the drawers as if searching for something, he continued. "They wa' lookin' fer some transport, asked if I could give 'em a lift inta Clonmel. But wit' me leg, I had ta say no... So instead I sold 'em an old car I had sitting out in me barn."
Even if this stranger was most likely Kim's brother or at least a concerned relative, the former soldier couldn't dismiss the cold dangerous vibe which was coming off the younger man that was setting alarm bells ringing. There was also the fact he had hadn't yet given his name, another sure sign something was amiss.
Closing the drawer, he straightened up and added, "I tell ya whot, why don'cha have a seat an' I'll get yar thot cuppa tea? Me wife is in tha kitchen. She'll probably have a piece o' cake fer ya taa."
Turning his head towards the closed door and with a silent prayer that his wife understood what he was doing, he raised his voice. "Cathy, Cathy me love, put tha kettle on, we have a caller. A young fella desperate ta catch up wit' thot couple I sold tha car ta."
He held his breath as his unwelcome guest frowned and then stepped forward fast, striding past him and flinging open the kitchen door, only to come to a stop when he saw the room was empty.
"She must be out catchin' up tha hens." Gerry let out a sigh of relief. "I tell yar whot, while we wait fer har ta come back, I'll make us a pot o' tea and if ye donnae mind ya can give me a name ta call ya, laddie. I cannae keep calling ya Mister. T'would nae be polite, now would it?"
The dark haired invader scowled back at him with murder in his eyes and Mr. Coleraine could easily believe this man was deeply involved in one of the Republican groups. But then the death stare was gone and he smiled again, barring his teeth in what the older man guessed was supposed to be a reassuring smile.
"Sorry, Am just so concerned about me friend. Am worried she's gonna be getting' harself inta trouble," he paused before adding, "Me name's Glenanne, Liam Glenanne an' tha young lady, well, she's me only sister."
"Pleased ta meet ya, Liam. Take a seat an' I'll get tha kettle on."
"No, old man, I donnae think I will." Gerry felt his blood run cold, as he watched helplessly while the man calling himself Liam Glenanne drew the gun from his waistband. "I think we'll take a little stroll out tha back an' see if we can find yar wife."
()()()()
Elsewhere, while Thomas O'Neill was confidently closing in on her deceased brother's only living daughter, the widow, Claire Saoirse Glenanne-Sullivan-Fitzpatrick-O'Donnell, sat behind the wheel of her large cumbersome Skoda Favorit estate car, listening to Classic FM on the radio, singing along whenever a song came on of which she knew the words. She was driving north-west in the direction of the small village of Lullymore in search of a bus stop where her missing sister in law was waiting inside a concrete and steel shelter somewhere close by the still smoking remains of a recently blown up car that was scattered across a farmer's field.
She had been sitting in the living room of her cottage on the outskirts of Naas, watching her favorite afternoon soap opera while enjoying a slice of warm bread pudding and sipping on a cup of tea, when she had received a frantic call from Maureen, the owner and manager of the Clary's Tearoom.
"Auntie Claire! Thank Jesus I got ya. Am sorry fer troublin' ya, but I wa' poppin' down ta tha post office when I saw thot big SUV Auntie Maeve arrived in wa' still parked up, tha man behind tha wheel fast asleep, or so I thought. I – I went ta have a closer look an' thot's when I saw he wa' dead... Auntie Claire, Auntie Maeve is missin' an' har man is dead...Whot ar' we gonna do?"
She had sucked in a deep breath, while calmly placing the bone china cup down on its matching saucer, and dusted away the crumbs which had fallen from the piece of succulent dessert before she had answered.
"Go back ta work, Maureen," she had advised, in a voice far more calm than she felt. "Ya can trust me on this. I'll have it all sorted out in two shakes o' a lamb's tail."
"Whot are ya gonna do? Should I call -"
"Yer ta call no one, child. I told ya leave it ta me. Nar, get back ta yar customers an' try nae ta think about. It'll all be fine, I promise ya, as long as ya do whot yer told and keep quiet."
She recalled how she had hung up on her distraught relative and how she had gotten to her feet to stare out of her living room window, lost in thought. Who would be so daft in tha head ta kidnap Maeve Glenanne? Not tha American, if he warn't dead yet, he soon would be... Mabbe he had brought some friends along wit' him? Or mabbe it was an old enemy, thar wa' plenty o' tham about.
Rather than waste her time on trying to solve a riddle she was unable to answer, the ever practical Claire turned her thoughts to the more immediate problem. A quick phone call to Peadar Fitzpatrick, a nephew through marriage with a tow truck and a soft spot for his Auntie Claire and her little misadventures, solved one dilemma. That left her with just the conundrum of how she was going to discover what had happened to Maeve and how she was going to break the news to her brother's children that their mother had been kidnapped if she couldn't find a way to get her back.
With no clear plan of action, she had gathered up her car keys and headed for the front door, determined that one way or another she wouldn't be the one to break her favorite nephews and niece's hearts.
There were no CCTV cameras in the town which could have helped in her search, but what there was, was a fair amount of nosey shopkeepers and gossips that might have seen her dearly beloved sister in law being taken. All she had to do was help them remember…
Luckily for the market town of Naas, which had been close to being torn apart by one very angry and determined elderly lady, who thanks to her nephew Seamus had several assault rifles and a case of ammunition hidden in the boot of her car, just as she was pulling off her driveway her phone had begun to ring.
"Claire, I need ya ta come get me. I've hadda wee bit o' trouble."
"Whar tha hell are ya woman? Goin' off galivantin' leavin' me ta explain ta yar babbies thot ya have disappeared," she had scolded her sister in law.
"Am sitting at a bus stop jus' outside Lullymore. I need ya ta get har as quick as ya can befer some nosey culchie policeman comes along investigatin' tha car an' dead body I've just blown up."
Claire hadn't needed any more explanation. She had turned her car around and once she had been out of the town, the former coordinator of her various dearly departed husband's terrorist cells had begun to put her foot down, speeding along the country lanes she knew like the back of her hand.
Lullymore was only a half hour away when sticking to all the traffic laws, so for a woman who kept her driving skills honed by occasionally sneaking illegal weaponry through Ireland for one of her favorite nephews, Claire intending to knock at least ten minutes off that time.
The latest song finished on the radio and was replaced by the irritating jingle which always preceded the latest local news and weather.
"We have some breaking traffic news if yer out an' about in western region o' Dublin. Thar has been a major incident in tha Lucan area. Witnesses are reporting only one car was involved. However, local Gardai have been joined by Special Branch officers an' a half kilometer exclusion zone has been set up around tha scene. So if yer in tha Lucan area heading towards Dublin, ya had best allow extra time fer yar journey. This is Classic FM an' I will be back after these messages."
Smiling broadly, Claire pressed down harder on the accelerator. Counter-terrorist officers didn't usually attend simple road accidents, nor did whole areas get shut down unless somebody important was involved. It sounded like Mr. Perry, or whoever he was, had taken his last car ride. Now all that was left was for her to pick up her sister in law and deliver her safely back to her home.
"Oh, Jayzuz…" She suddenly burst out chuckling. "I'd love ta be a fly on tha wall when Liam finds out about all this."
()()()()
Fiona stood at the back of the gold colored Volvo, cradling her Hecate II sniper rifle against her chest with one hand while rummaging through the bag containing their supply of weapons searching for the ammunition belt holding the remaining 50 caliber cartridges they had taken from their home in Dublin.
This was the moment she had been dreading; her brothers had caught up to them. Her hands shook as she thought about what might happen in the next few minutes or hours. She had no wish to hurt her family any more than she already had done, but she couldn't lose Michael and would not let them harm him because of their misguided stubborn pride.
They had been lost in their own little world where time had no meaning, standing so close together their hips touched and arms brushed against each other, working almost as one while Michael had measured out the nitrogen fertilizer and the other chemicals she needed to mix up her own special brand of explosive.
And then that intimate moment had come to an abrupt end when the barn door had creaked open and Cathy had called out in a low voice. "Bobby, Kim... whar ar' ya?"
"Thar ya ar'," Esme's voice had sounded loud in the quiet of the large barn, her next words bringing an end to their hope of slipping out of Ireland undisturbed. "Kimmy, Gerry sent us out ta see ya... Thar is a man at tha door claimin' ta be yar brudder."
"Me brudder…? Which one…? Did he give a name? Whot did he look like?" She would have fallen if Michael hadn't have supported her. Which one? Who had she been trying to fool, she knew if one was out there, the others would be close by waiting for an opportunity to repay Michael McBride for his deceit.
The rest of what had been said had washed over her, as she had fought to quell the rising tide of nausea which was threatening to overwhelm her. Then she had been abruptly brought back to reality as she had nearly fallen when her lover had turned her to face him, his blue eyes staring down at her, his expression deadly serious.
"Ya stay har, Kimmy... 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?" Then before she had had a chance to make him promise to take care or any of the other things that were now on the tip of her tongue, the ex-spy had gone, disappearing out of barn with his gun in his hand.
"Kim, ya look as pale as a ghost. Ya should sit yarself down."
"Am fine, Cathy." Forcing her lips to form a reassuring smile, she half turned to face the older woman. "Ya should both be tha ones takin' a seat. This could take a while."
"Aach, young people, always makin' a drama outta nothin'…" Esme snorted dismissively, as she turned back the way she had just came, causing the younger woman to make a dash for the barn doors to stop the half blind, half deaf elderly lady stepping outside.
"He's yar brudder, Kimmie. Nar I know yer thinkin' tha worst, but honestly whot can he do? Yer a married woman wit' a babby on tha way. Am sure if ya sit down an' talk ta ham thot ya can solve it."
What could he do? Fiona felt faint again just thinking about what Liam could and most likely would do to the man she loved when he discovered how far things had gone between them. Carefully placing her rifle down on the ground, she secured the tall heavy wooden doors shut with the near useless pieces of plaited baling twine.
"Ya donnae understand, Esme. Me brudders –" How could explain that her family would never forgive this betrayal? "We just have ta –" She froze as two loud cracks sounded followed second later by another. Gunfire! Fiona swallowed down her fear for her lover and concentrated on the sound, letting the logical part of her brain take charge.
Three shots, the sound hadn't been loud enough for them to have come from close by. She peered out through the gap between the two heavy doors and breathed a sigh of relief as she realized Michael couldn't have moved so fast that he was involved in whatever had just happened.
A movement at the back of the house caught her eye and all the relief she had been feeling fled as all of a sudden everything got so much worse than the thought of having to face her family.
"FIONA GLENANNE! D'YA KNOW HOW LONG I HAVE BEEN WAITIN' FER THIS MOMENT?"
Gerry stood just outside the kitchen door, his face bruised and bloody and, even though only the top of his head showed, the redhead knew exactly who was standing behind the elderly farmer.
"COME ON OUT, GIRL, AN' FACE YAR FATE."
No, no, no. This wa' nae possible. How? With her gun in her hands, she turned back to the ladies who were now looking at her with fear in their eyes.
"It will be fine," she told them. "Don'cha worry, Bobby an' I will take care o' everythin'."
"We should go out thar…" Cathy took half a step forward before coming to a stop as the younger woman continued to bar the exit. "We can help; thar has tae be a mistake. He called ya Fiona? Is thot yar name? Have ya been lyin' ta us all this whole time, Kimmy?"
The petite paramilitary stiffened as all her fears dropped away, to be replaced by the exhilaration of being called to war. She had been involved in sieges before and knew exactly what she had to do.
"Thot's sweet an' very brave thot ya want ta help, but if ya step outside these doors all yer gonna do is get yarself shot." The lithe guerrilla swung the rifle over her shoulder and moved determinedly towards the two ladies, using her open arms to herd them over to where a large green tractor stood and away from any chance of catching a glimpse Cathy's husband, beaten and bloody, being held hostage by a monster. "Am sure gettin' shot sounds noble ta those who have never had tha pleasure, but I can assure ya, tis nae sommit ya should volunteer fer unless tis absolutely necessary."
"He… thot man… he called ya Fiona. Please, Kim, tell us whot is goin' on," Mrs. Coleraine begged.
"I DONNAE HAVE ALL DAY, FIONA, AN' NEITHER DOES GERRY HAR! COME ON OUT, SWEETHEART!"
"Thot man is nae me brudder... He's, he's someone I knew back in Derry. He knew me by another name back then… I'll explain it all tae ya later, I promise. But fer now, if ya really want ta do sommit ta help, get yarselves down behind tha tractor an' hide. Because I donnae think Gerry will appreciate finding out ya put yarselves in harms way."
There was no more time to wait. Turning her back on the two women, Fiona dashed over to the wooden ladder which lead up to the second floor and quickly climbed up into the loft. Finding a gap in between the wooden slats that made up the wall, the expert sniper lay flat on the dust floor and began to set up her rifle.
()()()()
Crouching low and keeping to the shadows, Michael Westen slipped from the cover of one ramshackle building to the next as he circled away from the farmhouse, scouting for the safest route away from the Coleraine farm and the love of his life's vengeance-seeking family.
It wasn't that he didn't care what happened to the elderly trio who had shown them nothing but kindness and hospitality for the last few days. It was more that he knew, as bad as Liam Glenanne was painted by the intelligence agencies, that the PIRA's most notorious interrogator would not deliberately harm an innocent old man. He also knew that now they had been discovered, the longer they stayed, the bigger the risk became that something would go wrong and people would get hurt.
Having found no one lurking in the farmyard, the dark haired spy paused to shelter next to the five foot high stone wall which marked the perimeter of the compound. A few yards away was the gateway and the dirt track which lead across a stretch of open pasture and then into a small wood before coming out on to a country lane.
Where were Glenanne's men? He knew for a fact Liam had access to at least fifteen extremely loyal followers personally. Added to that would be the men in Seamus' boat crews and Sean's own close knit group of friends that he had once been a part of who would put friendship before the cause, if it was to save the only Glenanne girl from making the biggest mistake of her life.
He ran one hand over his whiskered covered cheeks and chin as he finally came to a decision.
Sucking in a deep breath, Michael swiftly rose up and in one smooth moved cleared the wall, rolling onto the soft ground on the other side. With still no sign of Glenanne sentries, he got to his feet and began to run for the trees. A few seconds later, the sound of raised voices brought the ex-spy skidding to a stop, holding his breath as he strained to hear the conversation.
"I swear I saw somebody. Joey, let go o' me!"
"An' I told ya, our orders ar' ta stay har... Whot tha...? Feck it, get back har!"
Fading back into the trees and sinking down to squat out of sight, Michael tried to make sense of what was happening. The woman's voice had sounded familiar… Liam's tracker? The other was that of a young man, a youth who was losing control of the situation. Neither one was what he had expected to find guarding the perimeter. Where were the rest of Glenanne's team, if not standing guard on all the escapes routes?
A shot rang out, followed by the screech of a female in pain, which was almost drowned out by a second round and the sound of a scuffle before a third volley and then a deathly silence.
What the hell was going on? The former spy was torn between checking out the scene somewhere ahead of him and turning around, grabbing Fiona and making a run for it before the people hunting them finished shooting holes on each other.
"FIONA GLENANNE! D'YA KNOW HOW LONG I HAVE BEEN WAITIN' FER THIS MOMENT?"
The voice carrying on the breeze drove away all indecision. He had to get back to the barn as fast as possible.
"COME ON OUT, GIRL, AN' FACE YAR FATE."
He had no idea who this stranger was and in truth he didn't care. The predator inside him, the man who had once been Larry's Kid, was back and calling for the blood of whoever was threatening the life of his woman and his child.
Lost to the primal urge to protect his family, Michael raced back the way he had come. In fact, the former ace operative was so intent on his goal that he failed to spot a lone figure hunched low, carrying an AR-15 assault rifle making a run across the field in front of the farmhouse heading towards the front door.
()()()()
Most people think snipers like to shoot from ledges. The fact is the best sniper position is inside a room through an open window. It hides the shooter, masks the report of a supersonic round and makes the muzzle flash impossible to see.
Lying prone on a dirty, dust covered floor, wasn't exactly Fiona's favorite place to set up a sniper perch, but in truth she had taken shots from far worse positions than the Coleraine's badly maintained barn.
"AM GIVIN' YA A COUNT O' FIVE TA GET YAR ARSE OUT HAR... ONE!"
She pressed her cheek against the smooth wooden rifle stock and slipped her finger inside the trigger guard as she tried to line up a kill shot.
Tha bastard wa' standing up close behind his hostage. Tha only target she had wa' tha very top o' O'Neill's head and if he moved even slightly, it would be enough ta cause her ta miss or worse, ta take out Gerry instead. Tha last time she had seen Tommy O'Neill, he'd hadda thick head o' black hair and a defiant look in his eyes. She blinked and tried to push away the memory. She needed to focus if she was going to save him.
"TWO!"
It was all her fault that the murderous son of a bitch was threatening the sweet old man who had been nothing but kind to them. She should have nae accepted tha bastid's offer ta help har in har quest fer revenge. Nevertheless, she had been full of pent up anger looking for a release.
She should have never gone off with him to buy the guns she needed to kill the men responsible for Claire's death, but she had and then had gone on to do far more. She winced in distaste as she was sharply reminded of what she had been doing with Tommy O'Neill when her big brother had discovered them in that Belfast alleyway.
And now… now because of what she had done in the past, she was going to have to do the unthinkable. Fiona blinked away the moisture that was obscuring her vision and took a deep breath before letting it out slowly as she calmed her nerves.
Shooting through a friendly to hit a target is a tricky thing to pull off. There are only a few places on the human body that can take a gunshot without severing a major artery or destroying a vital organ. Getting shot on the inside of the shoulder won't kill you quickly, but almost any gunshot will kill you if you give it enough time.
"THREE!"
Squatting down with his back pressed up against the side of the chicken shed, Michael gripped the handle of his SIG tightly and tried to come up with a way where they would all get to walk away in one piece; all except the lunatic holding Gerry Coleraine hostage, that is.
Glancing up at the barn, he didn't have to be able to see his beloved to know where she would be and what she was doing. How many times had they taken trips out into the countryside to practice with their firearms? He could imagine her now, lying flat on the floor, the stock of her rifle pressed against her cheek, the glow of excitement in her eyes as she sighted down the scope.
A movement in the corner of his eye dragged his attention away from the barn and over to a spot behind where Gerry stood in the grip of some psychopath from Fiona's past and when he saw who was slowly sneaking up behind the two men, any hope of escaping clean came to an abrupt end.
"FOUR."
In any desperate situation, the temptation is always to act immediately. It's understandable but unwise. No matter how bad things are, the first step is always the same: assess the threat and figure out how bad things really are. But sometimes all you are left with is trusting your partner is ready to back your play.
Slipping his gun into the waistband of his jeans, Michael Westen let out a long breath, settling and centering himself before rising up to take possibly the craziest gamble of his career, praying that it didn't end up with him getting shot on sight one or more times before Fiona could make her move.