by Tony Kent
The road to the McGale cabin was narrow. Tree-lined. It wound around the hill, so closely that in some places its edge was a sheer drop. Surrounded to the sides and above by the wild foliage, shafts of light occasionally broke through the overhanging canopy. In those spots the sun would temporarily blind any driver, a shift from darkness to daylight.
It was a risky enough route to chasten the most confident driver, with Paddy O’Neil no exception. His normally aggressive driving was tamed. Which had its upsides. Michael, at least, was comfortable in the backseat of O’Neil’s car for the first time.
The twists and turns seemed to be causing Liam some nausea. His face was unusually white as he turned his body from the seat beside O’Neil and looked back, first at Michael and then the men who flanked him. Michael followed his brother’s gaze and observed the determined looks that were etched upon their companions’ faces. They had come to play their part, well aware of what lay ahead. It was clear that neither of them was here to lose.
‘We’re coming up on the clearing now. Is everyone ready for this?’
Liam’s question was a simple one. And Michael’s simple answer, if he was being truthful, was ‘no’. He knew that they could be driving to their deaths.
‘We’re all ready,’ Michael lied. ‘Let’s just get it done, Liam.’
The view through the windscreen began to change as Michael spoke, revealing a clearing. The vehicle came to a halt, and all five men saw the same sight at the same time. Three white off-road vehicles, surrounded by a group of eleven armed men.
‘I don’t see Haversume.’ O’Neil was the first to speak. ‘Do you?’
‘No,’ Michael replied. ‘But it doesn’t mean he’s not here. He’s probably in the cabin with Sarah and Daniel’s family. Let’s go.’
All four doors of the Land Rover were opened on Michael’s word. Its five occupants stepped out and moved into the clearing, their guns on open display. Five more men immediately joined them. They had followed from Belfast in a separate car, just moments behind.
Michael strode purposefully ahead of Liam’s men, towards the group that awaited him. There was no sign of Haversume among them. Instead, in the centre, was a whippet-thin, middle-aged man. The thin man had a certain cockiness. The confidence of someone placed in charge. Michael glared at him.
‘Where’s Haversume? He’s supposed to be here.’
‘He’s here.’
Terry Barrett’s cockney accent stood out. Somehow alien in the Irish hills.
‘But you don’t talk to ’im ’til I know the recording’s real. You could be spoofing for all I know.’
‘Tony knows the deal. He shows his face or the recording goes to the press. He comes out here or we walk away.’
‘Deal?’ Barrett’s response was pure arrogance. ‘You ain’t in a position to talk about a deal, mate. We got your missus and your mate’s family and we’ll kill the lot of ’em if you don’t behave yourself. Now stop being a stupid bastard and show me the tape.’
Michael looked the thin man from head to toe as he spoke. Years of courtroom experience had given him an innate understanding of body language and bluffing.
Michael could smell the uncertainty.
‘You’ll be killing no one, mate.’ He placed a condescending emphasis on the last word. ‘I’ve got what Tony needs, which leaves you with a choice. Either you go and get that piece of shit and bring him out, or this place becomes a war zone. And, believe me, if we go down the second route you’re target number one for every gun behind me. So it’s your choice, mate.’
‘You’re threatening me?’
Barrett was as confrontational as he could manage. But Michael could see the fear in his eyes.
‘You really think you’re in a position to threaten me? I’ve got more men and more guns. Your little lot don’t stand a chance.’
‘Maybe we don’t. But what does it matter? We’re dead the second it starts, you and I. Only difference is I’m doing this for my family. I’ll die for them if I have to. I hope you’re being paid enough to say the same.’
Michael spoke with belief behind every word. And it seemed to have the desired effect. Barrett stood his ground for as long as he dared – a five-second show of bravado – before turning his back and walking towards the cabin.
Michael watched him go and, as he did, he considered what must happen next. Once Haversume was in the clearing Michael would have no choice but to hand over the recording in exchange for the hostages. But once that was done the intervention of Turner – if he was alive – would instantly follow.
Michael turned his head, looking for some reassurance from Liam. But Liam was not looking back. For just a moment he had glanced to the hills, fruitlessly searching for a reassuring glimpse of Dempsey. It was just an instant, but long enough for Michael to know what his brother was thinking. And to agree.
Dempsey had better be as good as he seems.
Joshua watched the encounter through his telescopic sight, read lips where he could see them. It gave him a limited understanding of the conversation. Interesting, but incomplete. That was inevitable when all he could see of Michael Devlin was the back of his head.
Restricted though his vision was, Joshua couldn’t miss the change in Haversume’s lead man. From his initial confidence – arrogance, even – the thin man had visibly wilted. His exposed jugular vein, clear in Joshua’s scope, had thumped with fear as Devlin spoke. Joshua had even suppressed a laugh, amused at how easily the man’s bullish command had been crushed.
It was a brief moment of humour. It would not last.
With his right eye peering through his lens, Joshua’s left eye remained open to scan the overall scene. It was a trusted technique that allowed him to remain aware of happenings outside the tunnel vision of his rifle sight. Things such as the small but vital detail that made his heart suddenly race.
Joshua had paid only fleeting attention to the men with Michael Devlin. Had only half-noted Liam’s occasional head movement. He instead concentrated on what he now saw through his lens. Haversume, walking into the clearing with a gun in hand, behind the stumbling cover of both Sarah Truman and Harry Lawrence.
Haversume was taking no chances with his own safety, Joshua could see that. Not content with hiding behind his captives, his eyes kept darting towards the hills; searching for some impossible confirmation that his protector was watching.
It was the eye movement that triggered Joshua’s mental alarm. The gaze that swept back and forth. Initially angered by the man’s obvious fear, Joshua’s heart rate jumped as his subconscious connected the dots. As he realised that Liam Casey – metres behind the action – was doing exactly the same thing as Haversume.
Joshua pulled his right eye away from the scope and looked directly into the clearing. Liam Casey was standing just metres from Michael and from Haversume. Their encounter should have held his undivided attention, but did not.
Liam – like Haversume had – glanced towards the hills.
Joshua returned to the scope. Moved it a twitch to the left. His enhanced vision settled on Liam’s head. The close-up view confirmed his instinct. Liam was looking for something. For someone. It was subtle, but to someone of Joshua’s experience it was now unmistakable.
And it meant one thing. Liam Casey knew that Joshua was there.
The panic and paranoia that came with the realisation overcame him. How could Casey know? Was it Haversume? Was the whole thing a set-up? And, if it was, who else was up here? Questions flooded his mind. Too many. In response he did what he had never done before.
He moved before taking his shot.
Joshua threw off the leaves and shrubs, grabbed his pistol and climbed to his feet. Then he turned to run. And came face to face with a man he had not seen in seven years.
EIGHTY-ONE
It had taken twenty minutes. Dempsey had crawled through three hundred yards of mud, caked to the hillside by Wicklow’s almost perpetual rainfall. He had moved slowly. Silently. Giving
no hint of his presence.
The plan had played out to perfection.
Right up until Turner rose to his feet.
Caught off guard, Dempsey hadn’t yet brought out his gun, still strapped to the small of his back, as Turner turned towards him, a pistol gripped in his right hand and his rifle in his left.
In an instant Dempsey was moving, launching himself at Turner just as their eyes met. The explosive momentum allowed him to tackle Turner before he was steady on his feet, throwing his full bulk at high speed into the older man’s ribcage, sending them both crashing into the undergrowth. The impact forced Turner’s gun from his grip.
Dempsey leaped back up immediately, reaching for the gun still strapped to his back. But the strapping had been put in place to keep it secure during his crawl, not for a quick-draw contest, and before he could release it Turner had also scrambled to his feet and covered the ground between them at speed.
Dempsey saw him coming, but his effort to free his gun left him open. And Turner took the opportunity. His timing impeccable, he hit Dempsey at a run just as the weapon came free.
Dempsey reeled backwards from the powerful impact, managed to keep his grip on the gun, but was unable to recover in time to avoid the expertly placed knee-strike that Turner then delivered to his ribs.
The air in Dempsey’s lungs rushed outwards as he felt several rib bones give way. He was stunned. Only for an instant, but long enough. Turner struck again, this time aiming the back of his fist at Dempsey’s exposed wrist. The blow knocked the Glock 19 from Dempsey’s hand, into the cover of the nearby undergrowth.
Turner’s arm was still swinging away from himself as he switched direction and threw his entire bodyweight into a second knee-strike, this time to Dempsey’s solar plexus. Every drop of power he managed to rip through his torso was delivered with pinpoint accuracy. A shuddering blow that took both men back to the floor.
Dempsey hit the ground hard. Disarmed and with ribs already broken, the third blow had sapped his energy and torn up his insides. He did his best to ignore it. To hide it. But he knew he could not fool Turner.
Turner seized the advantage. He pulled himself upright before Dempsey had a chance to move and manoeuvred his body on top of the bigger man. Dempsey felt his arms crushed under Turner’s knees. It left his upper body completely exposed for Turner to rain blow after blow upon it. Head. Neck. Chest. None of the blows were the most powerful Dempsey had suffered; Turner was hampered by his position. But they were hard enough. And they were relentless.
Dempsey could feel his strength sapping and his consciousness failing. He could not survive much more of this.
Instinct, experience and skill kicked in.
He ignored the blows. Stopped trying to avoid them and just allowed them to land. Instead he focused on his right arm. Consciously targeted every last ounce of strength towards it.
At first Turner did not seem to notice as Dempsey slowly pulled his right arm from under the weight of Turner’s knee.
When he did notice, it was already too late.
As soon as his arm was free Dempsey reached up and grabbed Turner’s left wrist. He held it in place. Dempsey was still the stronger man, and his desperation only widened that gap between them. It caused the ferocity of Turner’s attack to falter. He hesitated, as if torn between the blows his right fist could still deliver and the vice-like grip on his left wrist. It was all the invitation Dempsey needed.
Seizing the moment, Dempsey freed his left arm, now able to fight back. Much the broader and heavier, Dempsey had always been a powerhouse. It was an advantage he now brought to bear, pulling him closer. From here Turner could cause Dempsey no real damage, and his attack weakened.
With an explosion of power that tore through his abdomen, he brought his legs up high and used them to envelop Turner’s body. A further gut-busting thrust and Turner was thrown clear across the undergrowth.
Separated, both men climbed back to their feet.
Dempsey finally had a moment to shake off the blows he had taken. To regain his breath. His composure. He faced the rising Turner as he did so, and for the first time he could see fear creeping into his old friend’s eyes.
It was all the encouragement he needed.
‘Predictable spot you chose, wasn’t it?’
Dempsey’s question was delivered with a smirk. It was designed to delay. To give him more time as the breath returned through the pain of his broken ribs.
‘Still couldn’t get the drop on me, though, could you?’
Turner also spoke through hard-fought breaths. The struggle seemed to have tired him as much as it had Dempsey. Maybe more. And Dempsey now saw why. Turner’s hand pressed into his ribcage as he pulled in air; the act of a man trying to restrict the movement of broken ribs. He was carrying an injury as well, Dempsey now realised.
The two men started to close the distance between them, drifting around one another. Slowly, with all of the caution of two natural predators.
Turner moved first.
He feigned a blow with his left hand once they were in striking distance. Dempsey pretended to buy it, moving his right arm up to protect himself. It was the movement he knew Turner’s feint was designed for, as it exposed Dempsey’s broken ribs long enough for a second knee-strike.
Only this time that strike did not serve Turner so well.
Aware of what was coming, Dempsey used Turner’s movement against him. With his parrying arm raised and so able to add momentum, he brought his elbow down with phenomenal force. It caught Turner as he threw himself forward and sent him crashing to the ground, the skin above his eye torn apart in the process.
Turner was down, but he did not stay there.
Though blood was seeping into his left eye and his head was still reeling from Dempsey’s blow, Turner struggled to his feet. But it was a slow movement and it left him vulnerable.
Only halfway up, Turner could not defend against the perfectly timed knee-strike that crashed into his face. It smashed into his exposed nose and sent him careering into a nearby tree. His legs buckled beneath him as Dempsey watched, causing short, sharp branches to dig into his back as he slid down the tree’s trunk.
This time he was that little bit slower in climbing back to his feet again. More painfully than before. Slow and unsteady.
Dempsey stood and watched. He was now ignoring his own pain as he made Sam Regis’ killer suffer.
‘You’re getting old, James.’
‘Maybe,’ Turner replied, his breathing now audibly painful. ‘But I’ll be around long after you.’
Turner launched himself at Dempsey without warning, throwing parried blow after parried blow. Punches that kept coming, but with no clean strike landing. Dempsey blocked or avoided whatever Turner could throw at him, but in doing so he could not switch from defence to offence.
It was a stalemate that could not continue, and it ended when Dempsey lost his footing on an exposed tree root. It was just the slightest stumble, but it gave Turner the opening he needed. He sent a well-timed kick towards Dempsey’s chest as the agent struggled to place his feet. It sent Dempsey reeling backwards and to the floor, where he landed heavily on his spine.
He was back on his feet just in time as Turner rushed towards him, and, moving with an unexpected speed, swept Turner’s legs out from under him. Bringing himself upright with the momentum, he quickly followed up with a kick to Turner’s jaw.
Turner was sent sprawling backwards. Blood was flowing freely from his mouth, but Dempsey could tell that this was the least of his problems. Turner’s eyes said it all. The last blow had defeated him. He was done.
All Turner could do was scramble backwards through the dirt as Dempsey walked towards him.
‘It’s over, Jim.’
Turner did not answer. He just continued to crawl away. To put distance between him and the approaching Dempsey.
And in the next moment both he and Turner spotted the abandoned Glock, laying within Turner’s reach.
Each man had a firm grip on the weapon. And each was determined to be the one who used it. But this was not a battle won by the greater will to win. It would come down to something much more basic. It would come down to physical strength.
Turner gave it his all. Used every ounce of strength he had left. Still the weapon was turning towards him. Dempsey was winning, and he was pinning Turner to the tree behind him as he did so. Its fledgling branches once again dug into Turner’s back. Deeper this time.
Dempsey pressed ever harder, wrestling control of the pistol.
The barrel of the gun kept turning, until it faced fully inwards. Towards Turner’s chest. His best efforts had not been enough and – as he looked away from the gun and into Dempsey’s eyes – he must have known it was over.
He snarled at Dempsey in defiance.
‘I should have killed you in Colombia.’
The words were simple, his mouth contorted by blood and bitterness as he spoke.
Dempsey needed just two words in reply. He uttered them as he squeezed the weapon’s trigger and sent three bullets into Turner’s chest.
‘You tried.’
EIGHTY-TWO
All eyes were on Haversume as he strode into the clearing.
Sarah Truman and Harry Lawrence walked ahead of him. Haversume kept his gun trained on their backs. He intended to press every advantage he had.
He walked slowly, giving him time to take in the details that were around him.
Eleven armed men in the clearing represented his interests. Nine accompanied Michael. They seemed an evenly matched grouping. Or they would have been, if it were not for Joshua.
It was the location of Joshua that interested Haversume most. He instinctively cast his eyes to the hills. He was not sure why. Haversume knew he would be unable to spot a hidden sniper at a distance of twenty feet, let alone the quarter of a mile Joshua had likely chosen. Still, human nature compelled his gaze to the distant trees.