when Jack knew something was not quite right. He needed to snap out of it, and he needed to snap out of it fast. Jack slowly began to come round—it was as fast as his battered brain would permit. His head hurt and his ears were ringing. The side of his head, just below his left ear, felt damp. It was either sweat or blood. He couldn’t bring himself to open his eyes. Pain ravaged every part of his body and he couldn’t face the possible horrors that a selfexa mina t ion might reveal. For a short and oddly pleasant moment, he felt as if he was still moving through the air. No... He was moving. Though he was still on the ground. Again the odd feeling of flying was his brain making the best sense that it could of a situation that still made very little sense at all—he was lying down and he was moving, therefore he must be flying. However, he felt the ground that he was lying on and so he couldn’t have been in mid-air. It still didn’t make any sense. The ground under his body was moving, so he knew he wasn’t on a bed. As he opened his eyes the large, bloodied face of one of the Guards greeted him. The man was dragging Jack through the guard hut; he was saying something to Jack but the ringing in his ears prevented Jack from making out what those words were. Blood and sweat mixed into a frightful war paint on the man’s face. A terrifying thought occurred to Jack; if the guard was in such a bad condition, then how much worse a condition was he in? After all, this badly injured man was looking after Jack.
Like a newborn frightening for life, Jack began to fight against the pain as he ordered his legs to move. A bolt of pain raced the length of his spine as his feet scraped along the ground. Relief pulsed through his body, injecting him with a sudden burst of energy—he may have been badly bashed up but at least he still had movement in his legs. The lost of mobility had always been one of his worst fears; given all the fire fights he had been in over the years, the possibility that one of those stray bullets could have caught him in the spine wasn’t such a ridiculous notion. He tried to move his legs again—this time the bolt of pain was much less intense. The third time resulted in a decent attempt at getting to his feet. The guard’s face contorted into an expression of anger as he yelled at Jack. The ringing in his ears was subsiding but not enough for Jack to make out what the man was trying to tell him; though judging by the earnest expression on the man’s face Jack
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guessed that he was telling him to stay where he was, and that he should not try to get up—advice that Jack himself would have offered had the situation been reversed. Suddenly his ears popped; like the pressure equalisation on a plane journey.
“Stay down man,” yelled the guard. “You took a hell of a beating. I want to move you as little as possible until the ambulance gets here. You may have damaged your spine.”
Jack gave in to the man’s orders find it slightly odd that the guard was trying to move him at all if he feared for his spine. Perhaps leaving him where he was would be the better option, Jack thought. He was too sore to argue the point with the well-meaning guard. He closed his eyes for a moment. His eyelids flew open when a thought occurred to him.
“Where is your mate?” croaked Jack.
“He didn’t make it man,” said the Guard. “I think his neck is broken. I have to get you inside. I thought I heard gunshots. I know that it is risky to try to move someone with your kind of injuries, but we cannot stay out in the open. I will try to be as careful as I can. Help is on the way. It will be here in a few minutes. Hang in there man.”
Jack relaxed as he allowed the guard to drag him on through to the safety of the inner housing complex. The gunfire was probably due to the dead cop’s side arm. The heat from the fire could have caused the shells in the weapon to explode, not to mention the supply that the cop undoubtedly had in the front of the vehicle. The effort needed to explain this was too much for Jack, and by the time the guard would understand what he was trying to tell him, then the bomber might be in a position to really fire shots at them, if he was still around.
The guard stopped dragging Jack. He let Jack go abruptly. Jack’s head hit the concrete with a thud. Under normal circumstances he would have been angry with the man; but these were far from normal circumstances. He opened his eyes again and watched as the guard quickly moved to close the metal inner door of the guard hut, which led to the street outside the complex. In the guard’s mind, that door being closed was all that was needed for them to be safe. Jack knew better. The guard began to push the door shut when suddenly his body spun backwards. A spray of blood exploded from the left hand side of
for the time being, though he did the guard’s head as he fell.
In an instant, adrenaline raced into every cell in Jack’s body. He had seconds to save himself from the gunman on the other side of the gates, and the door protecting him from certain death lay wide open. The door closed would never stop a determined attacker, but it might just slow him down enough for Jack to make it to somewhere where he was a little less vulnerable. Jack looked behind him towards the houses. They were too far away—he would be shot in the back before he made it to cover. Jack dragged himself to his feet. His left arm hurt like hell and his left leg was numb from the pain. He nursed his arm and dragged his leg as he limped towards the open door. With both hands, and screaming internally from the pain his actions caused, he pulled the door towards him. It would not close. He quickly scanned the door for any signs of damage that might have been caused by the explosion. Looking down he saw that one of the dead guard’s feet was getting jammed in the door. He dragged the man’s leg clear of the door as two bullets whizzed past his head. He didn’t hear the sound of gunfire, but he knew what a bullet flying past his head sounded like. The third round slammed into the door when it was almost closed, pushing it back a few inches and preventing the locking mechanism from engaging. One last push and the door was closed. Jack slumped against the door. He quickly moved clear of it when two rounds impacted the door with threatening thuds. The assassin was not giving up that easily.
Jack drew in a deep breath and turned towards the houses. His training had taught him that a deep breath could be used to alleviate a small amount of pain, and so he timed his steps to coincide with deep breaths as he moved. This was a well-used technique of midwives, but it also applied to all kinds of pain, and not just childbirth. With each faltering step he grew stronger. By the time he made it to the first house the pain was bearable. Jack dived for cover behind a black Mercedes which was parked up in the driveway of the house. The car was the last word in luxury but it was not armoured. He needed to get back to his own place. He had a small arsenal in a hidden locker in one of the back bedrooms. It was the only room that he kept locked whenever he was entertaining, even though the heavy metal door with its combination lock was not likely to fall to the curiosity of even the most determined snoop.
As Jack began to jog towards his house he could hear the sound of sirens in the distance. They were definitely getting closer. If the gunman didn’t act in the next few minutes then he would not get a chance to act at all. A few more minutes of evasion and he would be safe; but Jack knew better than most that a few minutes under fire can seem like an eternity. The two hundred yards to the relative safety of his house stretched out before him like a
heaved and hauled his body from
never-ending highway. Jack one house to the next, taking a moment’s shelter behind cars and bins, as he looked back nervously towards the guard’s hut.
Thick black smoke bellowed from the other side of the security gate and the smell of acrid, burning fuel, wafted delicately through the air—the wind was blowing the smoke in the opposite direction which was one small mercy. The sound from the sirens grew louder. It would only take a few more minutes and he would be safe. Jack continued as another jolt of energy carried him the last few yards to the front door of his house. He fell against the door before searching through his pockets for the keys to the house. He scanned the neighbourhood as he searched frantically for the keys. He could not see the gunman but something was still terribly wrong with wh
at he was viewing. It took him a little while to work out what was wrong, and during those few moments of intense concentration, his search for the house keys came to a halt. He had it. With the explosion and the gunshots and the smoke and the sirens, someone in the complex should have been curious as to what in the hell was going on. Not one of his neighbours was out in the street. He couldn’t even see a set of curtains or blinds twitching nervously as one of them dared to have a quick look out.
Jack finally whipped the keys from his pocket. The keyhole was at a slight angle which normally made slotting the key into it a little bit awkward, but for some reason, in his heightened state of anxiety he managed to get the key into the hole the first time. He flicked his wrist and threw his shoulder against the door. The door gave way with ease and Jack spilled into the hallway. As he lay on the floor he turned and kicked the door closed. Jack took a deep breath and then he scrambled to his feet before hurrying up the stairs and on through to the small bedroom at the back of the house. A wave of relief momentarily overwhelmed him as he sensed that safety was now his.
The clatter of thoughts he was processing at lightning speed momentarily paralysed his higher brain functions as he stared absently at the numbers on the combination lock. A smile accompanied the mild anger that he felt when the combination finally through to the fore. 0007. It was a bit on the nose, made it unlikely that anyone would guess it, even if they did suspect him of being a spy—spies were not known for their sense of humour. Jack stabbed the numbers into the keypad with his index finger. A small click from the locking mechanism acknowledged Jack’s legitimacy. Jack pulled the heavy door open. A six-foot door of three inch steel took some effort to move, even though it swung uninhibited on four oversized hinges. Jack scanned the array of weapons. There was a gun for every occasion, not to mention the knives, grenades, gas masks and two small canisters of knockout gas.
He selected a pistol in case someone should make it inside his home, and the pump action shotgun to make sure that didn’t happen. He was just about to reach for the weapons when he felt something familiar and alarming press against the base of his skull at the back. The click of a trigger being cocked confirmed what Jack suspected. Automatically Jack raised his hands. The person holding the gun on Jack took a few cautious steps backwards. Jack took this as a silent instruction for him to turn around. The blood drained from Jack’s face. The gunman was much older now than the last time Jack had seen him, but that wasn’t the main reason why Jack was alarmed. How he had aged at all was the question to which he needed an answer; after all, dead men don’t grow old.
pushed its way but the extra 0
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6
Class Reunion
Hello Sean,” Barry Fagan said, with disdain in his tone. “Or should that be, hello Jack?” The last time Jack had set eyes on Barry Fagan he was tumbling over the side of a container ship into the cold Irish Sea. That was over ten years ago and as far as Jack was concerned, that chapter in his life was closed. Jack’s recollection was not complete, or as accurate as he would have liked to believe.
Ten years ago...
Barry smirked mockingly at
Jack. “What is it mate?” Jack
asked.
“I think I understand how you managed to escape,” Barry explained. “Coward.” Jack hadn’t noticed the sailor approach them until he was standing beside him. The sailor heard what Barry said to Jack. The sailor grinned, sensing a fist fight was about to break out. It was clear to Jack that Barry was going to be a problem and so he used the opportunity granted to him by the insult to do something about it. Jack rushed Barry and he pushed him to the ground. Within seconds Jack was
on top of Barry and planting a few heavy punches to his face. Barry
groaned as he struggled against Jack’s weight and ferocious onslaught. Barry managed to strike back with a blow to Jack’s left temple, and it was enough to send Jack spilling backwards onto the deck of the ship.
Barry regained his composure and he quickly got to his feet. He pulled out the pistol that he had tucked into the back of his jeans and he walked over to where Jack lay. He pointed the gun at Jack and as he did Jack kicked Barry hard on his left knee. As Barry responded to the kick Jack kicked him again, this time sending the gun spinning across the deck.
In a life changing moment both men locked eyes briefly. They knew that whoever made it to that gun first would live and the loser would die. They scrambled to their feet and sprinted for the gun. Jack slid the last few yards ahead of his rival and he scooped up the weapon. Spinning from where he lay on the deck Jack fired the gun twice at Barry, hitting him centre mass. Barry hit the deck hard and he fell silent.
Jack turned when a strong hand grabbed at the weapon from behind him. It was the sailor. Jack knew that he couldn’t kill this man as well so he released the gun. The sailor tucked the gun into the top of his jeans, at the front, for easy access, should Jack change his mind about being cooperative. The sailor then helped Jack to his feet.
“Remind me never to call you a coward,” said the sailor. Jack smiled.
The two men walked across the deck towards the bridge. Jack assumed that he was going to be brought before the Captain who would decide on his fate.
“I told the Captain that you Irish would be trouble,” said the sailor. “I’m a Scot,” said Jack.
“And your friend?”
“He’s Irish,” Jack said, as he turned towards Barry’s body.
Jack and the sailor looked at one another with disbelief. Barry’s body was nowhere to be seen. Jack and the sailor ran across the deck to where they had left Barry. Jack followed a trail of blood to the side of
the ship. He looked across the sea behind the ship. There was nothing to see except for the white froth that was being generated by the ship’s mighty turbines. Barry was gone.
Present Day...
“How the hell did you survive?” Jack asked.
Barry smirked at him. It was that same dirty, mocking smirk which
had spread across his lips ten years before as the pair stood on the deck of that container ship, just before the fight broke out. “Christ Jack, it wasn’t that hard to work out. I never left the ship. I dragged my sorry arse to the side before heading down into the hold. I was in agony for days. There were times when I thought that I wouldn’t make it. I cannot believe that you didn’t find it odd that my body was not floating on the waves. At times, when I was down there in agony, getting closer and closer to death, I even believed that you might have felt a little bit of remorse for what you did to me and the others. That you let me escape as some kind of apology for that despicable act of betrayal.”
“And is this one of those times?” Jack asked, with a slight grin. Barry smiled.
“I see that you haven’t lost any of that cockiness Jack. It is too bad
that we ultimately ended up on opposite sides of this dirty little war. I think that if things had been just a little bit different then you and I could have got on like a house on fire. Too bad indeed.”
“In case you hadn’t noticed, Barry, the war is all but over. Are you really going to put the entire Northern Ireland peace process in jeopardy just so that you can fulfil some ancient act of revenge? Are you so reckless?”
“No Jack, you don’t get to play that card with me. What I am doing now is about the past. The future peace will take care of itself no matter what happens to you. Both sides have some unfinished business that needs to be sorted out before a lasting peace can be put in place. Both sides understand that and they are prepared to turn a blind eye to it in an effort to secure a lasting peace.”
A look of concern swept across Jack’s face.
“What are you saying Barry? You think that you will be able to kill me and no one on my side will ask questions? That they will not seek to bring you to justice? And you know the kind of justice they deal in.”
Barry smiled.
“I know British justice all too well Jack. But in answer to yo
ur questions. Yes I will get away with it. Not because I am full of myself and of my own importance, but because I can state that assertion as a matter of fact. Now do you understand? Now do you see just who it is that you have been working for all these years? Your life means about as much to them as the life of some IRA terrorist. And that my old friend is your moment of betrayal right there. I hope it tears at your guts in the same way your betrayal has torn at my guts for all these years.”
There was a coldness to Barry’s tone that told of how he believed what he was saying even if there was no substance to his words. For a moment the belief in Barry’s voice sent a chill running through Jack.
It wouldn’t be the first time that his masters back in London offered him up as a peace offering. There had been a few occasions where he suspected as much since the first hint that someone in London was not playing fair by him back in the seventies. That warning had been
whispered to him by another spy, moments before he died. At the
time it seemed to point to his old boss, Commander Deeley, but with time, Jack had dismissed it as nonsense. In a round about way Deeley was still his boss in so much as Jack’s immediate superiors answered to Deeley. But why would this all come back now? Why would such a meaningless execution be permitted to proceed? If all old scores had to be settled from thirty years of conflict in Northern Ireland then it would take another thirty years before any peace process could begin. “For Christ’s sake Barry; doyou really believe that crap?” Jack protested. “There is no way you will get away with killing a British agent. Especially when you have killed two guards and a cop. My god, the fallout from the South Africans alone will be enough to throw the entire peace process into doubt. They will demand an explanation for
the deaths of three of their citizens. When the connection is made between the deaths of four people here, one of which is a British agent,
Deadly States (Seaforth Files by Nicholas P Clark Book 2) Page 8