Irish End Games, Books 4-5-6

by Kiernan-Lewis, Susan

  “You really are an arsewise bollocks, aren’t you?” Dickie said with disgust. “A kid and a girl killed three of ye?”

  “So they did,” Bailey said, glowering, his eyes riveted on the gate in front of him. “And made me dig their graves.”

  “Well,” Dickie said to Mac. “At least we know they’re all stupid as shite in there.”

  “What makes you say that?” Mac said.

  “They let this plonker go, didn’t they?”

  “It just means they’re still human.”

  “That’s what I said, isn’t it?”

  “I’m going in with you,” Bailey said. “Just to have one more chance at the Yank bitch who thinks she’s in charge of the place. Knocked up or not makes no difference to me.”

  “What’s that?” Mac said. “One of them is with child?”

  “So?”

  “You’ll not touch her,” he said but he knew it sounded weak even to his ears. It had been a long day and promised to be an even longer night. After all, if she was far enough along it probably wouldn’t matter and it would mollify the men.

  “Bugger you,” Bailey growled. “I’ll do a sight more than touch the bitch.” He looked around. “We all will.”

  Chapter 37

  John handed his gun to Archie. Neither of them were experts on firearms but history had taught John that just because Archie said he knew nothing about a subject didn’t mean he didn’t know a whole lot about it. The fact was, in John’s experience old people often knew stuff they didn’t even know they knew. The firing pin of his gun appeared to have crud on it and while it hadn’t been a problem up to now, John didn’t like their only handgun not working properly.

  The cottage had been silent for awhile now. John didn’t know whether that was good news or bad. He and Archie had resisted going in. He assumed Sophia or Regan would call if they needed help.

  “How soon do you think your mother will be able to travel?” Archie asked as he examined the gun.

  “You’re asking the wrong person,” John said. “Although, knowing Mom, probably pretty quick.”

  “Aye, she’s a rare one is your mother.”

  “She says the same thing about you,” John said with a laugh.

  Suddenly, an enormous noise exploded like the forest around them was erupting in a cacophony of broken tree limbs and rock. John whirled around to watch the front gate, a whirlwind of planks and wood flying in all directions as a large van plunged into the compound. He and Archie jumped aside as the vehicle roared into the main pathway where they were standing in front of the cottage. Archie shoved John toward the cottage porch steps.

  John’s mind was a whirling storm of fear. He struggled to get to his feet and reached for his gun when he realized he didn’t have it. Archie did.

  As if he were seeing it in slow motion, John watched the van doors slide open and men pour out. This was no random attack. Filthy, ragged and determined, these men were on a mission. Suddenly, John recognized the man from three days earlier—the one they’d let go. A sick feeling in the pit of his gut vied with an uncontrollable urgency to act.

  One of the men headed immediately for the steps of the cottage. They knew exactly where they were going. John moved to intercept the first man and heard a gunshot ring out. The man, his face bearded and dirty, stopped abruptly then looked down as the exit wound in his stomach pumping crimson down his shirt. He looked at John with surprise as if he thought it was John who’d shot him. Suddenly the air erupted with gunshots, one right after another. John turned to see Archie standing without cover shooting straight into the group of five men. One man, cowering behind an open van door, was shooting back.

  With an anguished cry John saw Archie get hit. No! Two more shots thudded into Archie as he dropped his gun and fell slowly to the ground. Not caring if he was shot too, John ran to him. He put a hand on Archie’s flannel shirt as he scooped up the gun that had fallen to the ground. Before he could raise it up to shoot back a tall man was standing over him and pressing a gun barrel to John’s forehead.

  “Not this time, laddie,” the man said. “Put it down.”

  Another man picked up a rifle from the porch. John raised his gun and shot him in the back.

  “Son of a bitch!” the tall man said and jerked the gun out of John’s hand. “You little shite!”

  A second man joined them and the tall man handed him John’s gun. “Watch him, Chezzie,” he said.

  John saw Bailey and another man on the steps to the cottage. Bailey looked over at them.

  “Oy!” he called. “The women are in here!”

  A long scream seemed to underscore his words and a hideous grin etched across Bailey’s face. Both he and the other man on the stairs entered the cottage. John jumped to his feet, his hands clenched in fists at his side.

  Without another word the tall man headed for the cottage.

  “Don’t try anything, boyo,” Chezzie said. “I’m happy to put a bullet in yer brain.”

  “Leave my mother alone, you bastards! She’s having a baby!”

  “Your mother, is it now?” Chezzie said, but he frowned as if confused.

  When he heard his mother scream again, an involuntary surge of desperation erupted in John’s chest. With the gun barrel aimed at his chest, John turned and ran for the cottage.

  **********

  Mac heard the gunshot and whirled around in time to see Chezzie throw the gun at the kid who was running toward the cottage. The gun hit the kid solidly in the back of the head and he went down like a falling rock.

  “What the feck?” he yelled to Chezzie.

  “The fecking gun!” Chezzie said as he walked over to the kid on the ground and toed his body with his boot. “I pulled the trigger but nothing happened and then bam! it goes off like two seconds later into the fecking ground.”

  Mac’s gaze went to the old man lying in a puddle of his own blood next to where the kid lay and something churned in his gut. Was it possible this could be any more fecked up? Two of his men dead, two of theirs and one of them a kid.

  Hold it together, he admonished himself. Do what needs doing.

  He stepped into the cottage and immediately saw Dickie standing in the front room struggling with a girl who had long curling black hair—exotic, possibly gypsy, but child-bearing age for sure. Dickie had succeeded in getting most of her shirt off but she was fighting and clawing like a cornered she-bear, her eyes wild with fear.

  “By God, you better not kill her,” Mac said as he passed Dickie. “Where’s Bailey?”

  He looked down the short hallway and saw Bailey holding a shotgun loosely in one hand and standing in the doorway of a bedroom. Women’s screams came from inside.

  Shit! Was a woman really giving birth in there? What the feck were they going to do with a newborn?

  A sense of calm came over Mac. It was a feeling of inevitability, that things were slipping out of his hands and he had no control of what would happen next.

  He heard Bailey’s cackle over the women’s screams and saw him lift and aim his gun into the room.

  “Surprised to see me so soon, bitch?”

  Was the crazy fecker going to kill the women inside?!

  Mac lurched down the hall but before he could reach Bailey, the sound of the rifle exploding detonated off the walls of the cottage.

  Chapter 38

  Mac watched Bailey fall backward against the hallway wall, the shotgun dropping from his hands. It didn’t make sense. He ran to the bedroom door. Bailey’s body was no longer blocking the view into the room. He lay slumped against the hallway wall, his chest a pudding of gore, his eyes open and rolled up into his head.

  Turning to look into the room, Mac saw a girl standing by the bed holding a shotgun aimed at the doorway.

  Mac’s mouth fell open. His hand holding the gun hung by his side.

  The woman in bed was on her back with her knees up and her face flushed with pain. She screamed out, “Regan!” The girl paused for a moment, looking
at Mac in the eye. Then she lowered the rifle and set it down and turned to the woman in the bed.

  Something about how the girl looked at him, like she was looking into his very soul, assessing him, judging him, ricocheted through Mac’s body and brain like nothing he’d felt before. He couldn’t explain it. He couldn’t explain why he had to walk out of that room, walk away from the jackpot he’d been searching for.

  He staggered down the hall and outside into the air, sucking in great gulps of it. He couldn’t explain what was happening to him. He only knew he had to respond or die. He had to go where his will sent him. And that was away from this cottage and away from this place.

  Dickie had gotten the Italian lass onto the porch. Her shirt was completely off now, her naked breasts were streaked with blood—hers or Dickie’s, Mac couldn’t tell. He put his gun to Dickie’s head.

  “Let ‘er go,” he said.

  “Are ye shitting me?” Dickie snarled but let loose of the girl. A set of five jagged scratches traced down his cheek. She fled back into the cottage.

  “At least let me waste the kid,” Dickie said motioning to the yard where the boy lay not far from the old man. Chezzie stood over both bodies as if he didn’t know what else to do. “The little bastard killed Marty.”

  “Get in the van,” Mac said.

  “Are you daft? There’s three bitches in there! What are ye afraid of, hero? That the boss lady will be too happy with you?”

  Maybe it was the hero comment. Maybe it was the humiliating way the girl with the shotgun had looked at him and then put down her rifle like he wasn’t worth killing. Or maybe it was just Dickie thinking he knew anything about Mac’s relationship with Sinead. In the end, Mac knew it didn’t really matter why.

  He pulled the trigger and watched Dickie, a startled look on his face, hit the back of the door and slide to the floor, a smear of blood marking his final trajectory.

  “Sorry, squire,” Mac said. “I just don’t think this arrangement is working out.”

  Chapter 39

  As long as she lived, Sarah knew she would always remember the fog filling up the sky at the end of the day Archie left them. Sometimes the greatest trials of our lives happen and we can’t even react, she thought. Life was like that back in Jacksonville before she and David and John even came to Ireland. The jobs, the busy schedules, the constant anxiety about doing the right thing by John and keeping him safe. It was just like walking through a heavy dense fog, not being able to see anyone else or where you were going or the dangers that were there but hidden.

  Today, the day Archie died was like that. An endless nightmare masquerading as a dreamlike haze. Some part of Sarah’s mind had known they were under attack. Her pain and single-minded focus hadn’t completely protected her from the rest of the functioning world. She knew there were men in her room as she labored to give birth. She even knew that John was outside fighting against the people attacking them. And yet, even knowing it, she felt separate from it all. It was like she’d stepped out of her body—a body her mind had put in lockdown with only one thought, one goal, and one focus.

  No other thought or desire could exist. She had to do this. And when somehow, miraculously, the screaming and the explosions and all the noise that was happening on a plane far away from where Sarah existed, when it all stopped, she didn’t even try to put the pieces together to comprehend why anything was happening.

  She just held Regan’s hand and listened to Sophia’s voice and pushed Siobhan Archibald Donovan out into the cold, cold world.

  **********

  Later that night, Sarah sat on the porch, wrapped in a woolen blanket, the patter of the evening rain like gentle background music to her thoughts. All her children—Sophia, Regan, John and Siobhan—were with her. The two girls, exhausted and spent, slept side by side on the floor of the porch—devoted sisters at least for one night. John sat next to Sarah on the wide cushioned lounge chair he’d dragged out of the cottage for them.

  Tiny Siobhan, as bright and pretty as a penny, slept in Sarah’s arms. Her cap of red fuzz comforted and reminded Sarah that Mike was still with them in the world. Somewhere.

  Could she ever look at this dear little one and not think of the terrible price they’d paid on the day of her birth? Would the hurt fade in time? Or would she somehow see glimpses of their dear old friend in the little sprite?

  “He gave his life for her,” John said quietly as they listened to the night sounds. “That’s how I look at it.”

  Sarah reached out and took his hand in hers. “Careful you don’t end up blaming her for it.”

  “I would never. I love her already.”

  The heavy mist formed thickly over the compound like a funeral shroud. Sarah watched a billow of the chilling fog roll in. It would give them a respite from worry about another attack at least tonight. No sane person would try to find his way in this fog.

  “I can’t believe he’s gone,” she said.

  “I know.” A tear rolled down John’s face and Sarah fought not to break down.

  Would they always remember this day so sadly? How could they ever celebrate the baby’s birthday knowing it was also the day they lost Archie?

  Sarah took in a long breath and focused on the gentle pressure of the baby’s weight in her arms. A daughter. A precious girl to love and protect. And she had been so sure it was going to be a boy.

  “How’s your head, sweetie?” Sarah asked. The gash on the back of John’s head had bled profusely but by the time Sarah was aware enough to look at the world again, Regan had bandaged it. He hadn’t said much about how he’d gotten it. She glanced at the rug one of the girls had tossed down on the porch to cover the blood. Three men had died on this porch tonight.

  May they all rot in Hell.

  “It’s fine,” John said.

  “We still have painkillers.”

  “I don’t need them.”

  “We don’t have to stand guard tonight. We’re safe for now.”

  John didn’t answer. They both watched the fog swirl around them. The baby gurgled but didn’t wake. Of the six men who’d attacked them today, only two left alive. They’d left their dead where they fell. Sarah knew that while Sophia had stayed with her and the baby right after she delivered, Regan and John had dragged all four bodies to the back of the compound.

  How were any of them ever going to have normal lives again after this? Dragging dead bodies around? Checking to make sure they were really dead? Doing what was necessary if they weren’t?

  “He was like a grandfather to me,” John said in a shaking voice. Sarah opened her arms and drew him in snugly next to his sister, to hold them both safe and near. She remembered how easy it always was to keep John safe when he was little. She could just scoop him up and hold him close as she was doing now.

  Only as tightly as she held him, she couldn’t protect him now. Not in this terrible new world and not from the pain of loving someone.

  The two held each other and wept for the loss of their dear one.

  Chapter 40

  The next morning at the work camp, the rain was coming down hard as it had all night long. The men inside the barracks could hear it battering against the metal walls. Terry came to Mike’s bunk where Mike sat listening to the sounds of their answered prayers against the roof and walls.

  “Tell me again the drill when it rains,” Mike said.

  “It varies,” Terry said. Mike could see he was nervous but there was something else there too. He was ready. “Sometimes they take us out and put us to work slogging in the rain, repairing the camp walls or re-digging the latrines. But since that involves them standing out in the rain to watch us, as often as not, they just ignore us for the day.”

  “Let’s pray for that.”

  “You really think this will work?”

  “Something is going to happen today, Terry,” Mike said. “I pray the end of the day sees us all sleeping in the woods and ten miles closer to Ameriland. And all of us alive to see it.”<
br />
  He shouldn’t have said it but it was on both their minds. They looked at their lads, already talking about the day. To the boys, it was a battle to be won. Just something to be done, victory and success assured. Even Tommy hadn’t had that hope kicked or starved out of him. He thought he was going home today.

  Please God, let them all be going home today.

  Mike was ready to fight for breakfast this morning. He figured this was one day—even more than putting in a full day at the quarry—when everyone would need the calories. But the food never came.

  Terry shook his head and shrugged. Why feed them if they weren’t working them? The whole barracks knew what was up. There was no helping that. The news had spread quickly that an escape was in the works. Some thought they knew when but all knew it was happening.

  Gavin joined his father on his bunk watching the front door.

  “Think they’ll make us work in the camp today?” Gavin asked.

  “I doubt it. It’s raining pretty hard out there.”

  “A lot of the other men know something’s up. Do we let them come?”

  “How would we stop them exactly?”

  “Good point.”

  “It might work in our favor,” Mike said. “The more the guards have to deal with, the easier it will be for the six of us to disappear.” He looked over at Davey who was sitting up on his bed for the first time in two days. Mike gave him a thumbs up and received a weak smile in return.

  “Some of the lads think we need to quiet Carey,” Gavin said.

  Mike glanced at the man. He was sitting on his bunk, elevating his sore foot. He’d been accepted well enough by the other men, but the compound men wouldn’t abide him once they’d heard of his betrayal.

  Would he really be stupid enough to give them away? And lose his only chance to escape?