Renegades

by Hutson, Shaun;

  ‘Get it off my plane now,’ he gasped without waiting for the millionaire to answer. ‘Quickly,’ he shouted.

  Callahan called for the truck. The two men hurried back up the slope and jumped into the cab. The driver guided the lorry down the slope and along the shallow valley until it was beside the Cessna.

  Cairns, his face white, his eyes wide and stating, clambered down from the plane and unlocked the hold.

  ‘Get it out of there,’ Martin called breathlessly.

  Callahan’s men did as they were told, easing the box containing the window onto the back of the flat truck.

  Cairns was already climbing back into the plane.

  ‘Just give me the money and let us get out of here,’ Martin said.

  As Callahan passed him the briefcase full of notes the pilot’s hand brushed against his own and the millionaire felt how numbingly cold the man’s flesh was.

  ‘Check it,’ Callahan said.

  Martin shook his head and slammed the door shut. Immediately the Cessna’s engines roared into life. Callahan scurried for the bank as the aircraft turned swiftly and began building up speed, as if the crew couldn’t wait to be away from this place. The aircraft rose into the air and, in a matter of seconds, had disappeared into the blackness, swallowed by the night.

  Callahan touched the back of his own hand where it had brushed against Martin’s flesh and shuddered as he recalled the icy feel of the other man’s skin. He looked across at the flat truck and the large box now firmly secured to it.

  He had the window at last.

  As he walked to the waiting Mercedes he too felt a chill envelope him.

  Seventy-Six

  Doyle banged the door hard and kept banging until it was opened.

  The good-looking maid he remembered as Trisha stood before him, frowning.

  ‘We’re here to see Mrs Callahan,’ said Doyle, pushing past the Irish girl.

  ‘You were told to stay away from here,’ she protested as Georgie stepped over the threshold. ‘I’ll call the Garda.’

  Doyle smiled thinly.

  ‘I don’t think your boss would appreciate it,’ he said cryptically. ‘Where’s Mrs Callahan?’

  ‘She’s upstairs,’ said Trisha, regarding them both angrily.

  Doyle took the steps two at a time in his haste to reach Callahan’s wife. He pushed open doors as he emerged on the landing, finally discovering Laura in the master bedroom. She was lying on the bed dressed in just a bathrobe watching the television at the foot of the bed.

  ‘What the hell are you doing here?’ she said as Doyle entered, followed by Georgie.

  ‘I tried to stop them, Mrs Callahan,’ Trisha interjected, her way into the room barred by Georgie.

  ‘It’s all right, Trisha,’ Laura said, eyeing the counter-terrorists warily. ‘I’ll be fine.’

  The maid paused, then closed the door. Doyle heard her footsteps as she padded down the stairs.

  ‘You have no right coming back into this house,’ said Laura.

  ‘We have every right,’ Doyle said. ‘Your husband wasn’t very co-operative. I hoped you might be a little more reasonable.’

  ‘What do you think I can tell you that David couldn’t?’ she wanted to know.

  ‘Couldn’t or wouldn’t?’ Georgie said.

  Laura got to her feet, pulling the bathrobe more tightly around her.

  ‘I don’t know why you’re asking me about my husband’s business,’ she said. ‘I don’t know what he gets up to I’m not interested.’ She poured herself a drink from the cabinet.

  ‘Selling guns to the IRA is a serious offence,’ Doyle said. ‘Being an accessory should get you at least ten years.’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  ‘I’m talking about the shit that’s been happening in Northern Ireland for the last few weeks,’ he said. ‘I’m talking about the murder of politicians at Stormont, the assassination of a clergyman, the bombing of Windsor Park football ground. Your husband was involved in all of those incidents.’

  ‘That’s rubbish,’ Laura said.

  ‘Is it? Then how come the fucking IRA were driving a car owned by your husband when those incidents happened?’

  ‘He told you, the car was stolen.’

  ‘Bullshit. They were driving one of his cars, using weapons he sold them.’

  There was a heavy silence.

  ‘How much did he pay Maguire to go on this fucking killing spree?’ the counter-terrorist persisted.

  Laura sipped her drink.

  ‘How much?’ he roared, taking a step towards her.

  ‘I don’t know anything about it,’ said Laura, a flicker of fear in her voice.

  ‘Who’s he working with?’ Doyle rasped. ‘Come on, this is too big even for someone as rich as your old man. Who’s backing him? And why?’

  ‘Where is he now?’ Georgie interjected.

  Laura said, ‘He’s meeting a plane.’

  ‘Who’s on it?’ the counter-terrorist wanted to know.

  ‘Nothing of interest to you. A stained-glass window.’

  Georgie looked puzzled.

  ‘Fuck the stained-glass window,’ snapped Doyle. ‘Where are the weapons? When is he next trading with Maguire?’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ Laura shouted.

  ‘I’m going to search this house,’ Doyle told her, ‘search it until I find what I want. And I don’t care if I have to tear it apart in the process.’

  He turned and dug both hands under the mattress of the bed. With a grunt he overturned it.

  Laura shouted something he didn’t hear. She took a step towards him but Georgie stepped in front of her, pulling the Sterling .357 from its holster.

  Doyle overturned the TV which promptly expired in a sputter of sparks and a plume of smoke.

  He grabbed the drinks cabinet and hauled it over, crystal glasses and bottles of drink crashing to the carpet, liquor spilling over and soaking into the deep pile.

  ‘Stop it,’ shouted Laura.

  ‘Where are the guns?’ Doyle responded, gripping the curtains and tugging hard. They were torn free, falling to the floor with a thud.

  ‘When is he supposed to contact Maguire again?’ He swept his arm along the dressing table. Expensive perfume and ornaments were sent hurtling to the floor, delicate bottles shattering.

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ Laura told him, watching helplessly as he continued to destroy the bedroom.

  Finally he tore open the door and stormed out onto the landing. There was a large vase on a dresser close by. Doyle swept it to the ground, watching as it shattered.

  ‘If I were you I’d tell him what he wants to know,’ said Georgie quietly. ‘Otherwise he’ll get mad.’

  Doyle headed down the stairs. As he reached the bottom he roared up to Georgie to join him.

  ‘You take the West wing, I’ll take the East,’ he said. ‘Turn everything over if you have to.’

  ‘And what if you’re wrong?’ she offered.

  ‘Just do it,’ he said and they headed off in opposite directions.

  Laura appeared at the top of the stairs.

  ‘Stop it, you bastards,’ she bellowed. ‘My husband will kill you when he gets back.’

  ‘Let him fucking try,’ Doyle roared back.

  ‘Car,’ said Georgie, hearing a sound from outside. She nodded in the direction of the front door.

  They both listened, heard footsteps. Running. Approaching the door fast.

  What the hell was going on?

  Three shots.

  Doyle pressed himself back against the wall as bullets tore holes through the door, blasting the handle of the front door away. Then he heard voices outside and, as he watched, the door was kicked open.

  Standing in the entrance, a Skorpion machine-pistol gripped in his fist, was James Maguire.

  Seventy-Seven

  It was as if time had stood still.

  A frame of film mom
entarily frozen.

  Maguire standing in the doorway, the sub-gun gripped in his hand, only his eyes moving as he took in Doyle and Georgie’s presence.

  The two counter-terrorists staring at the IRA man, Doyle with his back pressed to the wall, Georgie already ducked low.

  Then the film was running again.

  Maguire opened fire, raking the hall, bullets blasting lumps of plaster from the immaculately-decorated walls. Two shots struck a vase close to Doyle, shattering it. Ricochets screamed off the bricks as the Irishman fired another short burst.

  Doyle threw himself to one side, pulling the CZ from its holster. He hit the ground and rolled twice, ending up on his belly. He fired three shots, the automatic bucking in his hand. They all missed but one tore away part of the door frame close to Maguire’s head.

  Georgie also fired, her two shots ploughing into the door itself, blasting great lumps of wood and paint away. She scrambled towards a nearby door as Maguire raked the hall with fire once more.

  Doyle heard a crash from the rear of the building.

  Paul Maconnell and Michael Black were blasting their way through the huge picture-windows of the Callahans’ sitting room. They blundered about in the darkness until Maconnell saw the strip of light beneath the door which led to the hall beyond. They advanced towards it.

  Doyle threw himself through an open door to his right, slamming it behind him. He kept low, his breath coming in short gasps. He heard more fire from the hallway and then shouts.

  There was a scream.

  Georgie?

  He wrenched open the door and looked up to see Maguire and Black hurtling up the stairs towards the landing.

  Towards Laura Callahan.

  She bolted for her bedroom but Maguire caught her by the hair and jerked her back, slapping her hard across the face.

  Doyle sprinted across the hall, firing upwards as he ran. Bullets blasted part of the banister away. Maconnell appeared to his left and fired. Doyle threw himself to the floor as one 9mm shell blasted a chunk out of the ground close to him. He rolled over and fired one-handed, pumping the trigger until the slide rocketed backwards.

  He dropped the empty CZ and pulled the Charter Arms .44 from his belt, now crouched behind a leather chair which stood in the hallway.

  Where the fuck was Georgie?

  Maguire leaned over the banister and let off a burst of fire from the Skorpion. Doyle shouted in pain and annoyance as a bullet clipped the top of his left ear. Another passed through a fold in his jacket without touching skin. He could smell the odour of cordite and burnt material. To his left was Maconnell, above him Maguire and Black.

  That left two more.

  He heard shots from outside, heard the crash of breaking glass.

  Georgie had slipped out of the house through a window in the room to which she’d retreated. Now, standing on the gravel drive outside the building, she steadied herself and fired three times from the .357. The pistol bucked in her grip as the weapon spat out its lethal load. The first bullet blasted away the offside headlamp of the car, the second missed and the third hit the radiator, staving in most of the grille as if it had been struck with a sledgehammer.

  From inside the Orion Billy Dolan leant, out of the driver’s side and fired off a burst from an Ingram M-10. The sub-gun spattered off two dozen shots, its muzzle-flash illuminating the area in front of the house. Spent cartridge cases spewed from the weapon in a brass arc, clattering down on the gravel. He dropped the gun onto the passenger seat and reversed, the rear wheels spinning on the rough ground’. Pieces of stone were sent flying into the air by the ferocity of his manoeuvre. The car shot backwards and Georgie ran after it, firing off her last two shots.

  She ducked behind one of the stone pillars in front of the main door, flipped the cylinder from the Sterling and ejected the shell cases. Then, moving with practised precision, she pulled one of the quick-loaders from her pocket, jammed the slugs into the chambers and snapped the weapon closed again.

  Dolan put his headlights on full, snatched up the Ingram and drove straight at her, swerving past at the last moment, raking the front of the house with fire.

  Georgie squeezed herself against the pillar for cover, wincing as bullets drilled into the concrete around her. One blasted away a piece of stone only inches from her face, the dust flecks filling her eyes momentarily.

  ‘Who the fuck is that?’ roared Damien Flynn from inside the car.

  Dolan didn’t answer but swung the car around and drove towards the pillar again, firing as he went.

  ‘Come on, you fucker,’ he bellowed.

  Georgie waited until the car had passed, then sprang out and fired at the back of the Orion. Her second shot exploded one of the rear lights.

  Inside the house, Maguire knew that the only way out was through the front door and past the fucking maniac in the hall, whoever he was.

  ‘Get her to the car,’ he told Black, nodding at Laura Callahan who was firmly held by the IRA man. He had one hand over her mouth; the other held her arms. ‘When I tell you to move, you move, right?’

  Black nodded, thinking how far down he had to go, how long a staircase he had to descend. He suddenly seemed miles from his goal. The door yawned open invitingly but he could still hear gunfire from outside.

  Maguire slammed another magazine into the Skorpion and looked at his companion.

  ‘Set?’ he muttered.

  Black nodded.

  ‘Come on,’ roared Maguire and opened fire.

  Doyle ducked down as a concentrated burst of fire blasted the chair behind which he was crouching to atoms. He threw himself towards the nearby door, looking round to see that Maguire, Black and their captive were making for the front door. Maconnell was following, also firing.

  Doyle steadied himself and fired off one round from the .44.

  It struck Black in the left shin, pulverizing the bone, ripping through his calf muscle, crippling him immediately. He screamed in pain and fell, letting loose his grip on Laura, but Maguire grabbed her and hurried her through the front door.

  Maconnell dragged his companion through after them, leaving a thick trail of blood from the man’s shattered leg.

  Dolan saw them come out and sent the Orion speeding up alongside. Flynn flung open the doors and they clambered in, Black only scrambling inside with some difficulty, yelping in pain as he banged his injured leg on the door frame. Georgie took her chance and fired off another couple of shots, one of which punched in the nearside rear window, showering those in the back with glass.

  Dolan spun the wheel and the Orion spat more stones into the air.

  ‘Go, go,’ bellowed Maguire and the car hurtled off down the driveway.

  Doyle dashed from the house and saw the single tail-light disappearing into the night. He was half-way to the Datsun already.

  Not this time.

  I’ve got you this time, you bastards.

  He wrenched open the driver’s side door and slid behind the wheel. Georgie hurled herself into the passenger’s seat and was flung backwards as Doyle stepped on the accelerator. The car was catapulted forward, wheels spinning for a second before gaining purchase, then it was off, the needle on the speedometer touching sixty as Doyle pressed down harder on the accelerator.

  ‘In the glove compartment,’ he said and she fumbled for what he wanted.

  The MP5K was only inches larger than the .357 she herself carried, but it was capable of firing over 650 rounds of 9mm ammunition a minute. Doyle cradled it across his lap, both hands locked on the wheel as he followed the fleeing Orion.

  The lead vehicle hit a bump in the drive and all four wheels left the ground before it slammed back to earth, skidding violently as Dolan regained control of the wheel.

  The gateway to the estate was approaching. In his haste to escape the pursuing Datsun, Dolan drove too close to the stone wall. There was a high-pitched squeal as sparks spattered from the side of the vehicle, the paint stripped off as surely as if someone had tur
ned a blowtorch on it. Then the car turned sharply to the right onto the main road. For precious seconds it seemed as if the vehicle must turn over but Dolan kept it under control and it roared on.

  In the back Laura Callahan’s scream was cut short as Maguire struck her in the face with the butt of the Skorpion. She fell across Maconnell, her lip split, blood weeping from the cut.

  Doyle followed, his face set in harsh lines as he struggled to control the Datsun. He took the turn too sharply, one of the wing mirrors being torn from the car as he collided with the wall, but he ignored the minor inconvenience and drove on.

  Beside him, Georgie was pushing more shells into the Sterling.

  Neither of them noticed the car which pulled out of the trees to their left and began following them.

  Seventy-Eight

  The road that led away from Callahan’s estate was so narrow in places it barely allowed two cars to pass one another.

  Doyle didn’t seem to care. He floored the accelerator of the Datsun in an attempt to get up alongside the fleeing Orion.

  He could see the tail light tantalisingly less than twenty yards from him. As they reached a straight stretch of road he picked up the MP5K and, steadying himself, gripped it firmly in one hand and fired off a burst. The muzzle-flash lit the night, momentarily blinding him, but he kept his foot pressed down, the needle on the speedo never dropping below seventy.

  Bullets spattered the road and some drilled into the rear of the Orion.

  ‘Laura Callahan’s in there, Doyle,’ Georgie reminded him.

  ‘Fuck her,’ he said. ‘I want Maguire.’

  He fired again, shouting his pleasure as the sub-gun flamed.

  The back window of the Orion was peppered, the glass spider-webbing then crashing inwards onto the occupants.

  Shots came from the rear of the fleeing vehicle, one of them cracking the windscreen of the Datsun.

  Georgie fired from her own side, trying to hit a tyre, but in the dark and moving at such speed it was almost impossible. She heard one shot sing off the rear of the Orion.

  As she eased herself back into the car she caught sight of the third car’s headlamps in the wing mirror. She turned in her seat to see the Mazda close.