Renegades

by Hutson, Shaun;

  She heard footsteps crossing the room towards her. Heavy footfalls which echoed on the bare boards. With her eyes covered she was able to pick out sounds much more clearly, just as she had done earlier with the train when it had passed by, its low rumble shaking the room. Now the footsteps came closer and she was aware of someone close to her. She could smell cigarette-tainted breath on her.

  The tape which covered her eyes was torn away with one tug. The pain was startling. Portions of her eyebrows and some of her eyelashes were ripped away with the sticky covering. Again she wanted to scream, but again the gag prevented her.

  A face leered into her own, hard-featured, cold-eyed.

  The man’s face was impassive.

  ‘Take a look,’ he said, holding the back of her head and ensuring she could see every detail of his features. ‘If your husband doesn’t pay what we asked for, I’ll be the one who’ll kill you,’ Maguire said tonelessly. ‘You probably didn’t know much about his business, did you? Probably didn’t know he sold us a batch of duff guns, did you?’

  She tried to shake her head.

  ‘Well, because of his stupidity, you could probably die,’ the Irishman continued. ‘I just hope he has more compassion than he has common sense.’ He released her hair and stood up, motioning for Dolan to come over across and join him. As the younger man sauntered over, that ever-present grin on his lips, Laura looked around the room. It was about twelve feet long, perhaps ten feet across. There was a sink at one end and a small two-burner stove. A kettle stood on it now, steaming. She saw another man pouring the contents of the kettle into a tea pot. She could still not make out what the place was. There was a door to her left, firmly closed. She wondered if there were more men inside. She heard another rumbling sound. It approached quickly and passed.

  A train. Just like before.

  ‘Watch her,’ said Maguire and wandered down to the far end of the room.

  Dolan smiled down at her, his eyes fixed on the gap in her house-coat. He could see most of her left breast. His smile broadened. He leant forward, pulling the house-coat open a little more until both her breasts were visible. Then he cupped one in his right hand, feeling the warmth of the plump orb.

  ‘Get your fucking hands off her.’

  Maguire’s voice lanced across the small room.

  Dolan released his grip and stepped back, his grin fading rapidly.

  ‘What do you think this is? A game?’

  ‘Sorry, Jim,’ the younger man murmured. ‘But what the hell? She’ll be dead soon.’ The smile started to return

  ‘So will you if you don’t keep away from her,’ Maguire said. ‘Now just watch her.’

  Dolan nodded.

  When he looked at Laura again, she was crying.

  He knew it was nearly over now.

  The hunt had taken them from Belfast deep into the Republic but they had never once lost the trail of their quarry and now they were closing in.

  They had heard that there were two British agents on Maguire’s tail too. To hell with them. They would die too if they got in the way. This was a personal thing and it always had been. Outsiders had no place in it, just as they had no place in the country.

  The car moved swiftly through the darkened country lanes, its four occupants sitting silently, three of them checking weapons. Pistols, rifles and sub-machine guns. They had used stealth to track down their opponents but now the time for cunning was over. Force was the next step. Pure, unbridled, unstoppable force. Force which would see the destruction of Maguire and his men and anyone else who got in the way.

  The hunt was nearly over. The killing was about to begin.

  Simon Peters and the other three men in the Provisional IRA unit rode in silence. There was no feeling of excitement or anticipation, merely the knowledge that they had a job to do.

  And they intended completing it, no matter who got in the way.

  Eighty-Eight

  The room had been specially prepared for the window.

  To the rear of the house it was about thirty feet long, and half that in width. Cath wondered if, at some time, it might have been a sitting room. Every stick of furniture had been removed, the carpets taken up and the floor covered with tarpaulin. There were marks on the walls, slight discoloration where pictures and paintings had once hung.

  The window itself was in the centre of the room, propped up on three large and sturdy trestles about three feet high. There was a small work bench beside it. Callahan had certainly been thorough, thought Cath, as she walked into the room, the millionaire still holding onto her arm but with less force now.

  In the glow of the overhead lights the window seemed to be lit by some inner radiance, its colours more vivid than she had ever seen them. Together they walked across to it, Callahan smiling down at the artefact as if he were greeting a long lost friend.

  ‘It’s magnificent,’ he said quietly, a note of awe in his voice.

  Cath’s eyes flickered over details here and there. The heads of the children. The figures held in the taloned hands of Baron. And Baron himself. Those glass eyes seemed to bore into her, the deep red hue still reminding her of boiling blood.

  ‘I want to know about it,’ said Callahan. ‘Everything.’ He walked slowly around it, glancing up at Cath. ‘Everything you know. I want you to tell me. What do the words mean?’

  ‘Is it really important?’ she snapped. ‘I told you the secret of the window. I warned you of its danger.’

  ‘You were willing to risk that danger, otherwise you wouldn’t have kept working on it,’ he told her. ‘And don’t tell me you’re not as intrigued as I am to see the materialisation of this ... demon or whatever the hell it is.’ He stood by the head of Baron, the red light from the eyes shining upwards, lighting his face with a hellish crimson glow. ‘You’re as obsessed with finding the truth as I am.’

  ‘Not if it involves someone dying, I’m not,’ she countered.

  ‘Mark Channing died; that didn’t stop you working, did it? That didn’t sting your morals to the point where you abandoned the project.’

  She heard the scorn in his voice and knew she had no defence.

  ‘But I told you, Callahan, if this creature, this force does materialise, then there’s no way of knowing what form it will take. Or, more to the point, how powerful it will be. It could destroy you, you and anyone else it comes across.’

  ‘I’m willing to take that chance,’ he said flatly, looking down at the multi-hued panels.

  ‘What’s this?’

  Doyle’s voice cut across the room and Callahan looked up to see him standing in the doorway, Georgie close by him.

  Callahan smiled and performed the introductions with the calm formality of a cocktail parry host.

  ‘We heard the call from Maguire,’ said Doyle. ‘When are you going to pay?’

  ‘I’m not,’ Callahan said.

  ‘He’ll kill her. You should know him well enough by now to realize he’s not fucking about. If you don’t come up with that money your wife is dead meat.’

  Callahan merely shrugged.

  What the fuck is wrong with you?’ Doyle said. ‘They’re going to kill her, don’t you understand that?’

  ‘You must save her,’ Cath interjected.

  ‘Shut up,’ snapped Callahan.

  ‘Why is it so important to you?’ Doyle wanted to know.

  ‘It’s not just me,’ she told him. ‘If Mrs Callahan is killed then her death will release the guardian of this window.’

  Doyle smiled thinly.

  ‘Guardian?’ he said. ‘What is this shit?’

  ‘Something you’d never understand, Doyle,’ Callahan told him. ‘Something beyond your grasp, beyond your intellect.’

  ‘Fuck you. Just tell me what this window has to do with what’s going on here.’

  ‘You’re used to dealing with weapons, Doyle,’ Callahan said. ‘We both are. Look on this window as the ultimate weapon. It contains a power, a force unlike anything created by man.�
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  ‘You’ve been watching too many bad horror films, Callahan. You’re talking like a fucking mad doctor. I’m not interested in all this voodoo bullshit or whatever the fuck it is.’

  ‘Then leave,’ said Callahan. ‘Go now.’

  ‘You must find Mrs Callahan,’ Cath said. ‘Save her. If she dies ...’ She allowed the sentence to trail off.

  ‘I’m getting sick of these games,’ Doyle said. ‘And I’m sick of you, Callahan. Start making sense.’

  ‘What kind of force?’ Georgie asked.

  ‘Don’t you start,’ Doyle said irritably. ‘I’ve got enough with fucking Boris Karloff here.’ He nodded in Callahan’s direction. ‘You want her back, we’ll get her back, but I can’t guarantee she’ll be alive.’

  ‘She has to be,’ Cath said.

  ‘The sounds in the background when the phone calls were made,’ said Georgie. ‘It sounded like trains. Are there any stations near here?’

  ‘There’s a signal box,’ said Doyle. ‘About twelve miles East, close to the village. The IRA used to keep arms or money there. I tracked a couple of their men to it about five years ago.’

  Georgie spun round, heading for the door.

  ‘Stop there,’ shouted Callahan.

  He had pulled the .38 from his belt and now had it aimed at Georgie.

  ‘Go,’ Doyle urged her.

  ‘I’ll kill you all,’ Callahan said, raising the pistol so that it was level with her head.

  ‘The place is surrounded with Garda,’ Doyle reminded him. ‘One shot and they’d be in here quicker than flies round a fresh turd. You’re fucked, Callahan. Give it up.’

  ‘Take off your guns, both of you,’ the millionaire said. ‘Do it.’ He watched as first Georgie then Doyle pulled off their holsters and laid them on the floor, the weapons still inside. Now move. Slowly. You too.’ He motioned for Cath to follow them.

  He forced them out into another narrow corridor and along towards a room further up, close to the hallway. One by one they filed in, then Callahan locked the door behind them.

  The room was a study, the walls lined with books. There were just two windows, both small, both high up on the walls.

  ‘You must get out,’ Cath said. ‘You must save her.’

  ‘I’m going to kill that bastard when I get out of here,’ Doyle said, punching the wood of the door.

  ‘Didn’t you hear what I said?’ Cath shouted angrily.

  ‘Look, we’ve got a job to do,’ Doyle told her. ‘You take care of your demons,’ he emphasised the word with scorn. ‘I’ll take care of Callahan and the fucking IRA.’

  ‘You don’t understand, do you?’ she said wearily.

  Somewhere in the house a phone rang.

  Callahan picked it up.

  ‘Time’s up,’ James Maguire said. ‘Here’s how we want the money.’

  ‘Fuck you, Maguire,’ said Callahan.

  ‘You really are a stupid man, aren’t you? You think I won’t kill her?’

  ‘So kill her,’ Callahan told him and slammed down the phone.

  He smiled thinly, looking at the telephone as if waiting for it to ring again. Finally he swept it from the table, allowing it to smash on the floor.

  He headed for the cellar.

  Eighty-Nine

  James Maguire slammed the phone down and stalked across the room to where Laura Callahan lay, still bound and gagged. He dropped to one knee, easing the Browning from its holster and pressing it against her face.

  ‘Do you know what he said?’ Maguire said, watched by his companions. He tore away the cord that held Laura’s gag in place, allowing her to spit it out. She coughed.

  ‘Do you know what your fucking old man said?’ the IRA man snarled at her. ‘He said he won’t pay the ransom. He told me to kill you.’

  She shook her head, tears of fear and bewilderment now filling her eyes.

  ‘Why won’t he pay?’ Dolan demanded.

  ‘How the fuck do I know?’ rasped Maguire.

  ‘Let me speak to him,’ Laura implored, trying to twist her head away from the barrel of the pistol pressed tight against her neck.

  ‘I’m sick of talking and I’m sick of your fucking husband,’ Maguire said. ‘First he fucks us up with that batch of guns and now this.’

  ‘Kill him, not her,’ Dolan said half-heartedly.

  Maguire glared at him.

  ‘I’m going to kill him, Billy, you can bet your life on that. But I said I’d kill her too if he didn’t pay up, and that’s just what I’m going to do.’

  ‘Killing her won’t solve anything. Let’s get to Callahan now, make that bastard pay.’

  Maguire smiled.

  ‘Just because you’ve touched her doesn’t mean you can have her, Billy,’ he sneered.

  ‘Let me speak to my husband,’ Laura interjected. ‘I can persuade him to pay you.’

  ‘I don’t want his fucking money now. ‘I just want his life,’ Maguire said quietly.

  ‘If you’re going to do it then get on with it, for God’s sake,’ shouted Damien Flynn. ‘Shoot her.’

  ‘No,’ Billy Dolan interrupted. ‘Leave her. It’s Callahan we want.’

  ‘You’re going soft, ‘Billy,’ said Maguire, standing up. He took a pace backwards, thumbing back the hammer on the automatic.

  Laura tried to scream but her throat and mouth were dry.

  She could only shake her head as Maguire levelled the pistol. His finger tightened around the trigger.

  ‘There’s someone outside.’

  The shout came from beyond the closed door, from Paul Maconnell.

  For interminable seconds Maguire stood still, the Browning aimed at Laura’s head, then he eased the hammer forward and re-holstered the gun, heading for the other door. As he reached it he turned to Dolan.

  ‘You keep away from her,’ he said. Then he passed through into what had once been the signalman’s box. The levers which had once controlled the tracks were still there, now covered in a layer of dust and cobwebs. The huge glass front of the building offered a clear view over the flat countryside beyond. To the right there was a clump of trees. To the left the ground was flat and overgrown.

  ‘I saw someone there,’ said Maconnell, indicating the trees.

  ‘Garda?’ Maguire wanted to know.

  Maconnell shook his head.

  ‘No uniforms,’ he said.

  To the right another figure moved through the tall grass, appearing momentarily before disappearing once again like a spectre.

  Maguire frowned.

  Who the hell were they?

  In the sub-cellar of the house David Callahan moved swiftly around the stacks of boxes, pulling out the weapons he required.

  A Spas Automatic shotgun and some shells which he stuffed into his pocket.

  An Ingram M-10 sub-machine gun. He selected half a dozen magazines to go with the weapon, each holding thirty-two rounds.

  Callahan smiled to himself. He made his way back upstairs, straining under the weight of the weapons. He carried them to the top of the stairs and ensured that each one was loaded. From the landing he could cover all possible entrances to the hall. There was only one way to reach him and that was up the stairs.

  He pushed cartridges into the magazines, thumbed bullets into the .38 and jammed it in his belt.

  He was ready at last for the time he had known for so long was coming.

  They were all in position.

  The signal box was covered. There was no way out.

  Simon Peters gripped the Uzi sub-machine gun tightly in his hand and glanced at his watch. Two hours before dawn. When this was over he would watch the sun rise.

  Peters gave the order for his men to attack.

  Ninety

  Doyle took a firm grip on the bookcase and pulled, stepping aside as it crashed to the floor, spilling its contents everywhere. With help from Georgie and Cath he pushed it upright once more, so that it was close to one of the small windows in the study.

  G
eorgie began to climb, using the shelves as rungs, until she finally reached the top and the window. Steadying herself, she kicked out at it, smashing the glass.

  ‘Can you get through?’ Doyle asked.

  She knocked away some jagged shards which surrounded the frame, trying to work out if the gap was large enough for her to crawl through. She decided that it was.

  ‘Take this,’ said Doyle, pulling the .38 from the holster on his ankle. He handed it up to Georgie. ‘They’re hollow tips in there. They’ll stop most things that get in your way.’ He even managed a thin smile.

  ‘What about you?’ she asked. ‘Callahan’s armed.’

  ‘I’ll worry about Callahan. Just get a move on. Get to his wife,’ he told her.

  ‘My car is parked at the front of the house,’ Cath told her. Georgie opened her fist, looking down at the keys to the BMW.

  ‘If any of those bloody Garda try to stop you, shoot them,’ Doyle said flatly.

  He and Cath watched as Georgie gripped the side of the window-frame, wriggling through. The night air greeted her, cold on her face. There was a drop of about six feet to the ground. Looking round, she could see no signs of movement and reasoned that the room must be at the side of the house. Her problems would come when she got round to the front, but for now her only concern was to get out.

  She hauled herself the last few inches, realizing that she was going to fall headfirst onto the ground. She was grateful that the house was flanked by lawns. Georgie gritted her teeth and dropped.

  Even though the grass provided a relatively safe surface to land on, the impact still knocked the wind from her and she rolled over, groaning under her breath, feeling a sharp pain in one shoulder. She hauled herself upright and, pressing her back to the wall, made for the front of the house. Much to her dismay, it was brightly lit.

  Two Garda cars were parked about one hundred yards from the building. She could see their occupants quite clearly.

  Catherine Roberts’ car was closer. Perhaps twenty yards.