Jack Del Rio: Complete Trilogy: Reservations, Betrayals, Endgames

by Richard Paolinelli

  * * * * *

  “Is it confirmed, Larry,” Archer asked over the phone.

  “They were the last four members of the cell that we were looking for, David,” Hunter-Bailey replied. “We wanted them alive. Del Rio’s the only one who would leave bodies in his wake and make sure we could identify them when he was done. The description we have doesn’t sound like him at all, but you know how unreliable eyewitnesses can be. He would know how to take advantage of that.”

  “Yeah, he would,” Archer admitted. “Any leads on him yet?”

  “None. He just appears and disappears as he pleases like magic.”

  “What are you going to do about the three you have in custody?”

  “We’ve moved them out of the country to Portlaoise Prison in Ireland,” Hunter-Bailey said. “It’s the highest security prison outside of England and we doubt Del Rio will think to look for them there. And you are only one of six people who know this so please keep it to yourself.”

  “Understood. Is there anything we can do to help?”

  “Nothing I can think off but I do appreciate the offer.”

  “What are the rules of engagement regarding Del Rio?”

  “Right now, capture. But I very much doubt having him running about shooting up the country is going to be tolerated much longer. If we don’t contain him soon I’m afraid the shoot to kill order will be issued.”

  “You know he’s liable to start shooting back, Larry,” Archer said quietly.

  “I know it. And this lad’s record has me scared to death of the body count if this turns into a no-holds barred shooting war.”

  THIRTEEN

  The Brazen Stag was one of Dublin’s busiest pubs. It was also a popular gathering spot for members of the New IRA to meet in public without drawing attention to themselves. On this night six members had gathered for a pint before heading off for a meeting that had been rather hurriedly called in a nearby abandoned warehouse.

  Once properly refreshed, the six headed off into the night for the rendezvous. By the time the meeting was formally called to order, an even dozen members had gathered inside. But before they could get to the reason for the meeting a thirteenth man arrived, walking right up to the group, his arms folded across his chest.

  None of the first twelve recognized the man.

  “This is a private meetin’ lad,” Grady Malloy growled. “An’ you ain’t invited.”

  “That’s not very friendly,” the man replied, his accent marking him as an American to the others.

  “Aye, Yank,” Malloy snarled belligerently. “So be a good li’l boy and be off with ye.”

  “I’ll leave,” the Yank said agreeably, unfolding his arms to reveal the gun he held in each hand. “Just as soon as you tell me how to find the rest of your New IRA friends so I can kill them too.”

  * * * * *

  Dozens of cars from the Garda Síochána – the Guardians of the Peace that served as the country’s police force - and two vans from the coroner circled the warehouse. Media vans were stationed outside the perimeter and quite a crowd had gathered about by the time Hunter-Bailey and his team arrived on the scene.

  “Talk to me, Superintendent,” Hunter-Bailey barked as he walked up to the officer in charge of the scene.

  “Twelve dead, all gunshot wounds,” the officer reported. “Some of them were armed, none of them appeared to get off a single shot. Whoever did this knows what he’s about.”

  That he most certainly does, Hunter-Bailey thought to himself bitterly.

  “Do we have any IDs on the victims?”

  “All twelve are either known or highly suspect to have been members of the New IRA,” the office replied. “We’ve had run ins with all of them in the past. They’re all mostly low-levels soldiers, no one of any importance. This isn’t one of your lads off on a private hunt, is it?”

  “No, not one of ours, Superintendent,” Hunter-Bailey said, letting the half-truth serve for now. “But it seems someone has it in for this lot, doesn’t it?”

  “Well, I’d just as soon not see the New IRA cause as much trouble as the old one managed,” the officer remarked. “As long as our lad confines himself to them I wouldn’t mind seeing him get some more work in.”

  “Let’s see if you feel the same way if he manages to take out a few innocent bystanders along the way, eh Superintendent?” Hunter-Bailey said dismissively as he turned away and went inside to have a look at the scene for himself.

  Eleven bodies lay closely strewn across the floor, all had been shot and it was readily apparent they hadn’t had time to put up a fight. Only two of them had drawn a weapon.

  “Five of them were armed,” the CSI processing the scene reported. “Those two were the only ones who had time to pull them. Far as I can tell neither got off a shot.”

  “Whose are those?” Hunter-Bailey asked, indicating a wooden crate of table height with two Sig Sauer P226s lying on top with an empty clip next to each pistol.

  “Those belonged to whoever walked in here and accounted for this lot.”

  “He just left them?”

  “It gets better,” the tech replied glumly. “We ran the serial numbers. They were issued to the Garda’s ERU here in Dublin.”

  “What?” Hunter-Bailey thundered.

  “It appears the armory was breached,” the Superintendent reported, walking up from behind. “They’re still making a check of the entire arsenal, but it appears those two Sigs are not all that was taken.”

  “Bloody hell. How did someone just walk in a room filled with law enforcement officers, stock up and walk out uncontested.”

  “Seems like our boy had an authentic MI-6 identification, which was verified, and orders to search the armory and remove anything within that matched the criteria of an MI-6 top secret investigation.”

  Hunter-Bailey could only shake his head Del Rio’s time with MI-6 was certainly serving him well.

  “He saved his best work for last,” the Superintendent continued, waving for Hunter-Bailey to follow. “The man’s name is…was, Grady Malloy, he was suspected to be a top lieutenant of The New IRA here in Dublin. Seems like Grady knew something your man very much wanted to know.”

  Toward the rear of the building, within a cubby hole constructed of wooden crates, sat the unfortunate Mr. Malloy, tightly bound to a sturdy chair. He’d been worked over by someone who knew his business, judging by the condition of his face and his hands.

  “Whether he gave up anything or not,” Hunter-Bailey remarked as he examined the corpse and took note of the single bullet hole in the back of Malloy’s head. “He was granted a quicker end by our friend than he granted al-Mufti in London.”

  Hunter-Bailey spun on his heel and quickly exited the warehouse, looking for a quiet area to place an urgent call.

  “This is Hunter-Bailey,” he spoke into his cell phone when the call was answered. “I need to speak with the Home Secretary, urgently.”

  * * * * *

  “Mr. President,” the British Ambassador greeted as he entered the Oval Office. “Thank you for seeing me on such short notice.”

  “Not a problem, Mr. Ambassador,” Arthur replied, gesturing the man to sit. “I only wish the circumstances were not as they are.”

  “Indeed, and the Crown shares your sentiment. The Queen owes Sir John a great debt. Yet, something must be done. He cannot be allowed to shoot his way across the United Kingdom with impunity, no matter the reason.”

  “Of course,” Arthur agreed. “What does your government suggest?”

  “A joint effort to bring him to heel, including a joint order declaring him a terrorist with further orders to arrest him if possible or shoot him down if not.”

  “You’re asking me to agree to order the death of an American citizen – one this very office also owes a great debt to - without benefit of charge or trial first?”

  “Yes, we are. Your predecessors have done this in the past.”

  “I am aware of that, Mr. Ambassador,” Arthu
r said crossly. “I will order our intelligence agencies as well as the FBI to place Jack Del Rio as a high priority target, with orders to make every effort to locate and arrest him. Shooting to kill to be an option of very last resort.”

  “That will suffice, Mr. President, thank you.”

  “Mr. Ambassador,” Arthur replied sadly. “You’ll forgive me if I fail to say you’re welcome.”

  FOURTEEN

  “Christina,” Hunter-Bailey said as he got out of the car. “I’m getting quite fed up being three steps behind this bloody Yank.”

  His second nodded her head in wordless agreement as she also exited the car and followed her boss inside the bicycle shop in Swords, a few miles north of Dublin. Members of the Garda had established a perimeter around the shop. Inside they found the aftermath of another uninvited visit by Sir John. This time, four known members of the New IRA had fallen to Del Rio’s quest for revenge.

  “Well, now we know what he got out of Malloy,” she remarked quietly.

  “The next location,” Hunter-Bailey agreed. “The next step up the chain of command.”

  The way this attack had played out was easily readable. The remains of a discharged flash bang grenade canister lay on the floor, stunning the four people who now lay dead on the floor. Incapacitated, they were swiftly dispatched.

  “It doesn’t look like he bothered ask any of them anything this time around,” Christina observed. “Was he just running up the score this time?”

  “No,” Hunter-Bailey said, his attention drawn to a desk behind the shop’s small counter. “He was after information of another type. There used to be a computer or laptop here.”

  He held up the cables that had connected whatever had been sitting in the bare area of the desk to a printer and a hardline to the internet.

  “Malloy must have told him the information he was looking for was here. He confirmed all four were New IRA, finished them off and left with his prize.”

  “Are you sure he bothered to check?”

  “I don’t doubt it at all,” Hunter-Bailey replied. “He isn’t that far gone yet that he’ll take out innocent bystanders. But if we don’t put an end to this soon, he might take one out by mistake or just bad luck. Once that happens and there’s nothing holding him back…

  “No, it’s time we get three steps ahead of him for a change and stop playing catch up,” Hunter-Bailey continued.

  “How do we do that?” she asked. “We can’t put a car outside the house of every suspected member of the New IRA.”

  “No we can’t do that,” Hunter-Bailey admitted. “But we can limit how many more of them he can get his hands on before he finally has to come to us.”

  “Why would he do that?”

  “Because we are going to round up as many of them as we can and put them in Portlaoise Prison with that lot of ISIS buggars we sent over from London. Sooner or later, Sir John will want to collect them and when he does we’ll be ready and waiting for him.”

  “We don’t have the authority to do that, especially here in Ireland.”

  “No, we don’t,” Hunter-Bailey admitted, reaching for his phone. “But the Home Secretary can help arrange it with Irish Military Intelligence. Why don’t you go outside and see if their officer has arrived on scene yet and fill him in so he can get started on his end of this.”

  * * * * *

  The approval to begin sweeping up the known members came surprisingly quick, almost as if those above the officers in the field had already considered the possibility and were simply waiting for the request to come in.

  Just two hours after making the call to the Home Secretary the first of the New IRAs were are their way to Portlaoise. By the time the sun had set, over forty had been processed into the prison. Which left an estimated sixty unaccounted for and that number bothered Hunter-Bailey greatly.

  “I’d rather have more of them behind bars,” he remarked to his second, after receiving an update from the prison. “Make Sir John come to us sooner with fewer targets eliminated.”

  “Seems like word got out and spooked the rest of them,” she replied. “If they’ve gone into hiding that may make it harder for him to track them down. Are you sure he will find out where we’ve tucked our prizes away?”

  “Sooner or later, yes. What’s worrying me is we haven’t heard of any new attacks by Sir John yet. He’s always made sure we’ve found his targets after he’s finished the job. I’m not certain I very much care for all of this quiet.”

  FIFTEEN

  “We can’t stay here much longer,” Dougherty said. “The bloody Brits are involved in this sweep and they’re out to get us all. Send out a message to whoever you can reach and have them pass it along to whoever they can. Send anyone not caught up in the sweep yet for the hideout in Ballyroan.”

  “The ruins of Cashel Church, Killian?”

  “Aye, Gemma,” Dougherty confirmed. “We can hole up on top of that hill with no one the wiser. Gather our forces and decide what action to take next.”

  “I don’t like it, Killian,” Gemma said as she started sending out the signal. “Over twenty of us cut down and likely some other we hav’na heard about and now these sweeps. And no reason for any of it.”

  “There’s a reason for it alright,” Doughtery replied, never considering the obvious explanation that the man he wanted revenge on had come for him. “We just haven’t found out what it is yet. But when we do, then we’ll now who collect payment on for it. Hurry up, girl, we need to get moving before we get snatched up too.”

  “That’s the last of it,” Gemma said, pouring a pitcher of water over the computer she’d used to send out the e-mails, shorting it out in a shower of sparks and billows of smoke. “Ballyroan’s awfully close to Portlaoise for my likin’, Kill.”

  “Aye, and likely the last place those bastard Brits will think to come looking for us, I’m thinking.”

  “I hope you’re right or we’ll be in for it for sure.”

  “Aye. Come on, it’ll take us a good four hours to get there taking the back roads and I want to be there before sundown.”

  * * * * *

  “It has been forty-eight hours since the last arrest and still nothing?”

  “That is correct, Home Secretary,” Hunter-Bailey replied. “We’ve got fifty-two New IRA members in custody at Portlaoise. The IMI estimates roughly that same number remains unaccounted for and is probably being hunted by Del Rio.”

  “It seems Sir John is having some difficulty finding them now that they’ve been scattered.”

  “That is certainly one interpretation.”

  “You disagree?”

  “Not exactly, Home Secretary,” Hunter-Bailey answered. “Del Rio has been smart and methodical about this entire affair. I am starting to believe that he hasn’t struck again because he is simply waiting for something first.”

  “And what might that be?”

  “Only he knows that for certain. All we can do is wait and try to guess until he finally does make a move.”

  “I suppose you know there are some whispers about that the reason Sir John has not yet been run to ground is because there are those hoping that he succeeds in wiping them all out before he’s caught?”

  “Home Secretary, I…” Hunter-Bailey protested hotly, but he was quickly cut off.

  “Calm down, young man,” the Home Secretary said sternly, but kindly. “No one doubts you are doing everything possible to run him down. But there are many who wouldn’t mind seeing it take you some time to do it. It is a difficult situation all things considered. Still, we cannot have someone shooting up the countryside, no matter how many skunks it would rid us off. Carry on and keep me informed as soon as you have anything to update.”

  “Yes, Home Secretary,” Hunter-Bailey said smartly, still a little riled, as he hung up the phone. He poured himself a stiff glass of Jameson and swallowed it in one gulp, letting the fire burn out his anger. He took a deep breath and slowly let it out.

  “Feel better
now?” his second asked, standing just outside the door of the office Hunter-Bailey had commandeered at IMI headquarters in Dublin.

  “Slightly,” he affirmed. “But this waiting is starting to get to me. What the hell is Del Rio waiting for? He’s clearly set on wiping out both groups involved in his daughter’s death. From what our interviews of the Portlaoise detainees have yielded, the data he obtained in the Swords attack is all that he needs to find out what he needs.

  “So what does he have to gain by waiting?” he continued. “It makes no sense to me at all.”

  “No it doesn’t,” she agreed. “Look, you haven’t eaten all day and I’m not lugging you off the floor if you suddenly collapse from malnutrition. Let’s go get some dinner and at least do something constructive while we wait ourselves to oblivion.”

  “I suppose that would be better than pacing about in here,” Hunter-Bailey allowed, grabbing his overcoat as he headed for the door. “Is it too much to ask that there is a decent place to eat around here?”

  “Miracles occasionally happen,” she replied. “By the way, they finally finished the inventory of the armory Sir John raided. Mostly he took pistols and clips. But he also helped himself to enough C4 to bring down a good-sized building.”

  “What the bloody hell would he want with that?” Hunter-Bailey exclaimed, coming to an abrupt halt. “And what the bloody hell were they doing with that much C4 in the first place?”

  “Apparently it had been confiscated in a raid and someone thought that the armory would be the most secure place in which to store it.”

  “Wonderful. Now we have one more variable to take into account with a man who is proving to be damn near unpredictable.”

  They resumed their trek to the exit and dinner but had taken barely half a dozen steps before Hunter-Bailey stopped abruptly again.

  “What? What’s wrong?” his second asked.