Only Eagles Fly

by Graham Guy

  Fucking idiot thinks he’s Wyatt Earp, for Christ sakes! What a sick bastard.

  “Draw! ” he yelled, then six shots again rang out.

  The Weasel was in full flight. A huge western hat, spurs on his boots and a six-gun holstered to his leg. He’d erected several man-sized targets about 20 paces in front of himself and was acting out a gun fight. Over and over he went through the ritual. Dropping to the ground, the fast draw. Talking to the targets as though they were real people. But every time he fired off six rounds he grouped them all in the chest area.

  Jesus, the bastard’s good! McLoughlin conceded.

  The Weasel was using a Colt .45. McLoughlin had shot one many times and he knew that to group six shots at 20 paces into an area about three times the size of a cigarette packet was no mean feat. The best he’d done was into an area about twice that size. But The Weasel was doing it from the draw and fire position. McLoughlin knew he’d found his quarry’s sanctuary. He knew if he waited long enough, he’d be led to his hideout. He strained his neck to see as far as he could without being seen.

  Where the hell is his car?

  “Draw! ” came the scream and again six shots followed.

  Then all hell broke loose. The Weasel had just reloaded and was about to draw and fire again when McLoughlin moved. He didn’t think he’d made a sound. But he had.

  The Weasel spun round and fired in the direction of the noise.

  McLoughlin dropped down flat, but it was too late.

  Chapter 22

  When Georgette McKinley boarded the helicopter at Bill Murphy’s house she firmly believed that would be the last she’d ever hear of him. She consoled herself in knowing she had given the two of them her best shot. As the weeks dragged by she began to come to terms with a love lost. She was again beginning to take an interest in her work. Not like before, but the old spark was slowly reigniting. One day, however, her entire world was turned on its ear. The station’s security guard approached her at her desk and asked her to follow him.

  Georgette, puzzled, followed the guard as he left the newsroom and headed for the front desk. When she arrived at reception, there was already a score of people present.

  “Have a look at what’s just come for you!” the guard said.

  “These are for me?”

  In front of her was a giant heart-shaped flower arrangement with hundreds of red roses. Amid questions and cat calls from over-awed staff, she reached for the card that was attached. Very timidly she opened it. Immediately she felt herself fill up.

  But your smile in my eyes

  is burned to my soul,

  We were more than just shadows on the wall.

  If you were a dream,

  I don’t dare dream it.

  The lingering, the longing,

  the moment to moment.

  This river’s run dry

  there’s no end to my day.

  But is it too late?

  Am I too late?

  Are we too late?

  Ask me again about three dreams away.

  She reached for a phone and dialled. “What’s a girl supposed to say?”

  “You could start with ‘hello’,” Bill Murphy replied.

  “What about the mountain?”

  “We’ll walk round it.”

  “Don’t do this thing, Bill, if the distance is too far.”

  “I’ll hold onto your hand. I’ll never let you go.”

  “Three days a week or seven?”

  “Eight.”

  “Why now? You didn’t want this.”

  “It’s what I’ve wanted all along, I just didn’t know.”

  “You and me and forever?”

  “One’s no good without the other.”

  “How long have I got to think about it?”

  “The offer ends at the termination of this phone call.”

  “I’ll be there tomorrow,” she told him tearfully. “Whatever forever is, I don’t see any point to my life unless you’re in it.”

  “Don’t be late,” he told her.

  Chapter 23

  Ken McLoughlin cursed loudly as he felt a .45 slug clip the skin of his right arm. A couple of centimetres further over and his arm would have been completely shattered.

  “John James McGregor-McWeasely. Police. Drop your gun and put your hands in the air!” McLoughlin screamed, trying desperately to draw a bead on The Weasel with his Glock.

  “Fuck you, arsehole! Come and take me if you think you can!” he screamed back. He followed his verbal barrage with a volley of shots from the colt. Two slammed into the tree McLoughlin was using as cover and a third thudded into the shoulder section of his bullet proof vest. It spun the policeman sideways, but in doing so, gave him a clearer view of The Weasel. McLoughlin was about to fire, when another shot from The Weasel kicked up the dirt in front of him.

  McLoughlin knew he didn’t have much time. The Weasel was toying with him and he knew it, such was his agility and his total expertise with a firearm.

  Although it was only a minor flesh wound to McLoughlin’s arm, it bled profusely and he felt a searing pain from his shoulder down. He tried to put it out of his mind as he fought to get The Weasel in his sight. He let go a volley of shots in quick succession, but The Weasel bolted the instant he fired. McLoughlin showed himself for a split second. It was all The Weasel needed. He turned and fanned the trigger. But the chamber was empty. He screamed and cursed loudly.

  McLoughlin fired and he saw The Weasel go down. He waited several moments, not knowing if his quarry was foxing. Slowly he crawled over to where he expected The Weasel to be. But he was gone. As he moved a hand, he felt it sink into a wet patch. It was blood. And quite a pool of it. He strained his ears for the slightest sound. Then it came. Off to his right.

  Oh, Jesus! Don’t tell me he’s gonna head for that house back there.

  McLoughlin sprang to his feet and charged off through the bushland. His wound concerned him, but the safety of that man he saw and any other people in the house further down concerned him more.

  He’d run a short distance then stop, trying to hear the slightest of sounds. It was difficult because the noise of his breathing and his heartbeat were already crashing through his eardrums. When he was convinced The Weasel was still in front of him, he raced forward again. Fear tore through him when he thought of the consequences should The Weasel lay in wait for him. He gambled that he wouldn’t. He figured he was now running for his life and would use any means at his disposal to achieve his purpose.

  McLoughlin knew only too well the brutality of the man. As he continued his charge forward he looked up ahead and the house he passed on the way down had come into view. But he couldn’t see the gunman.

  * * *

  Georgette McKinley, over the moon with the latest happenings, was wasting no time in getting to Bill Murphy’s place. She swung her car off the dirt road into his driveway leading up to the house.

  As she approached, she tooted the horn a couple of times and brought her car to a halt. The moment she stepped from her vehicle The Weasel pounced. He shoved her to the ground and jumped in behind the wheel of her car. McLoughlin, seeing what happened, raced from the scrub and screamed for him to stop. The Weasel, seeing the charge towards him, tried to start the engine, but the keys weren’t in the ignition.

  Georgette still had them in her hand. With McLoughlin rapidly descending upon him he was too panicked to fire. Instead, he bounced out of the vehicle, dragged Georgette to her feet by thrusting his arm around her throat, and put his gun to her head. McLoughlin could see blood seeping from a wound to The Weasel’s side.

  “Back off, arsehole, or the bitch gets it!”

  Bill Murphy, hearing the commotion, peered through a front-room window. He froze, seeing Georgette held hostage with a gun in her face. Stark fear and panic raced through him. He started to charge out the front door when he stopped.

  Think, son! Think! It’s no good going out there. That’s not going to help anyone.
Think! he screamed to himself.

  He half-walked, half-ran around the room, terror-stricken. He looked out the window again. The gunman was dragging Georgette toward the barn. A police officer was following As he dragged Georgette with him, she was trying to force his arm away from her windpipe in order to breathe. The gunman crashed his gunhand into her face. She screamed loudly.

  “Don’t fight me, bitch, or you’re dead!” he cursed.

  The gunman dragged open the barn door with his foot and moved inside, favouring his wounded side, which was visibly bleeding. The police officer was still following. As he stepped inside the barn, Bill Murphy heard the gunman scream, “OK, arsehole, what’s it gonna be, you or the bitch?”

  “Drop it!” the policeman screamed back.

  “Fuck you!”

  Bill Murphy, trying to turn his panic into rational thinking, raced through his house to the back door and ducked across to the barn. Using the outside stairs he climbed into the loft. From there he had a clear view of the events below.

  He looked around for something to use as a weapon. There was nothing. Then he remembered the previous owner had left behind an old Lithgow .22 rifle. It was standing in a corner. He went to it and picked it up. As he did, his heart sank. It was very old and very rusted, but still in one piece. It was covered in bird droppings, dust and dirt. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and ran it over the breech. There was no elevator in the rear sight and the bolt looked like it was seized up. He withdrew it and pulled back the firing pin. It stayed back.

  ‘Shit!’

  He looked around for an oil can. Anything that would lubricate. There was nothing. He could hear the yelling and screaming below. Bill was now totally terror-stricken. Suddenly he had to pee, and suddenly he had an idea. He held the bolt under his penis and urinated on it. As he did so, he worked the firing pin back and forth. He couldn’t believe how effective it was.

  Jesus, that’s better than bloody Mobil.

  He held the barrel up. A small amount of light was visible.

  How bloody clogged up is that? he cursed.

  He knew he was running out of time by the threats and counter-threats going on below. Standing next to the old Lithgow, where the previous owner had left it, was a cleaning rod. He cleaned it across his jeans and then worked it through the barrel of the rifle. Satisfied that would be enough, he reached up to where he was sure there was a packet of bullets. There was a packet. But no bullets.

  For fuck’s sake! he screamed silently.

  Now almost blinded by panic, he felt in his pocket and took out a bunch of keys, change, a small pocket knife and a .22 short. It was the bullet he’d carried around for years. Burred, worn down. Even the lead was loose in the casing. It had already been loaded into a rifle but failed to go off, the indent from the firing pin still evident on the rim. Bill Murphy put the tiny round in the breech and inserted the bolt. He peered through a gap in the woodwork. The gunman was no more than six metres from him, his weapon pointed at Georgette’s temple.

  He pulled back the firing pin and took aim at the gunman’s head.

  * * *

  McLoughlin could tell the situation was reaching its climax.

  “Drop your gun, copper, or the bitch gets it! Now!” The Weasel screamed.

  McLoughlin was desperate. The Weasel held all the cards and he knew it. He had to buy time. Find an opening. He dropped his gun.

  “And the backup you bastards carry. Chuck it out. Now!”

  McLoughlin leaned down and withdrew the small handgun from his ankle holster and threw it a short distance away.

  “You’ve been following me for a long time, haven’t you, copper? Melbourne, up north. That bastard I took out with the .50 cal. He your partner?”

  McLoughlin didn’t answer. The Weasel knew from his seething expression that it was. He burst out laughing.

  “Certainly fucked his day, eh? And if you hadn’t moved when you did, I’d have fucked yours, too. Ah, but all good things come to those who wait. And today’s your lucky day. Look at that! All your useless, arsehole training, all your stakeouts and following bullshit and you’ve been fucked by The Weasel. Ain’t that a son-of-a-bitch? Even in the city you couldn’t get me. Didn’t know I was watching you two pricks all the way back to your car did you? Weak as piss, pig! Weak as bloody piss!”

  McLoughlin was desperate to keep him talking. He had to find an opening. “Didn’t get up to Queensland at all, did you?” he asked.

  Again The Weasel squealed with delight.

  “You know about that? Man! Those mother-fuckers were gonna steal my car. Fucked their day, too!”

  “What about the two women?”

  The Weasel threw his gun arm in the air momentarily before pushing the barrel back into Georgette’s face. “Whoooa! Hey, man! You have been busy. Go to hell!” he exulted.

  “And all those poor buggers you knocked over in Melbourne?”

  “Prove it!” he sneered.

  “I will. What was in the plane?”

  The Weasel again screeched with laughter. “You don’t know, do you? Son-of-a-bitch! You don’t fucking know! You reckon you know everything else. How come you don’t know that? And do you know what, you never will either because…”

  The Weasel didn’t get to finish the sentence.

  * * *

  Bill Murphy, standing in the loft, pulled the trigger on the old Lithgow. It fired, but only just. It went off with more of a ppffftt than a bang. But the bullet, even though practically powerless, still had enough in it to lodge into the gunman’s cheek. It broke the skin and shocked him more than it hurt him. He threw his hand to his face and filled the air with profanity.

  But it was all the distraction the police officer needed. He rolled onto his side, pulled his other back-up from his ankle and fired. The bullet took the gunman at the bridge of his nose. He died instantly.

  Bill Murphy swung down from the loft and scooped Georgette into his arms. They clung tightly to each other, trembling, crying and touching each other’s faces. Both tried to speak, but no words would come.

  The police officer moved across to check on the gunman. “Shit!” he cursed. “Now we’ll never bloody know, will we?”

  Bill Murphy, as white as a ghost and still visibly shaken, looked at him. “What the hell happened here? Who are you?”

  Georgette looked at the policeman. “You’re the guy from Melbourne, aren’t you?” she asked, finding it difficult to speak.

  “Yes, I am,” he told her, trying to wrap a makeshift tourniquet around his wounded arm.

  “You two know each other?” Bill Murphy asked.

  Georgette shook her head. “No. He’s a cop, Bill. I don’t suppose this is the guy you’ve been after all along is it?”

  “Public Enemy Number One.”

  “This little shit?” Bill Murphy exclaimed.

  “This little shit” McLoughlin began, “has pulled more robberies and killed more people than will ever really be known.”

  “That day when I spoke to you in the city… was he the one you were after?” Georgette asked.

  McLoughlin nodded, getting fully to his feet. He held out his hand to Bill Murphy and introduced himself. “Let me say I don’t know what the hell it was you fired at that prick, but it saved my life, so thank you. You’ve certainly got a scoop today if you want one, haven’t you?” he threw to Georgette.

  “So what now?” Bill Murphy asked McLoughlin.

  “If you wouldn’t mind running me back to my car, I’ve a few calls to make. You seen him round here before?” McLoughlin asked.

  “Not sure if it was him. But often there’d be a car go down but I’d never see it go back.”

  “What sort?”

  “No. Couldn’t say. Just a car.”

  “Tell me. What’s down there?”

  Bill Murphy thought for a moment. “Nothing! Just scrub. It’s a national park.”

  McLoughlin looked at the two of them. They were obviously traumatised over all
of this. “Is there anything you feel you need? Can I do anything for you?”

  It suddenly dawned on Georgette that McLoughlin had been shot. “Oh my god, look at you! Is that a bullet wound?”

  “Bit close, eh?” McLoughlin smirked.

  “Boy!… Bill, can you get something from the house? Some disinfectant or something. Some bandages?”

  “Sure.”

  As McLoughlin began to take off his bullet proof vest, he felt something fall to the floor. He leaned down and picked it up. It was a .45 slug. McLoughlin held up his vest and poked his finger in an indentation on the shoulder. “That one was a bit too close,” he told her.

  Suddenly McLoughlin remembered The Weasel’s gun. He rolled him over. The weapon was still cocked and still in his hand. He put his thumb between the hammer and the cylinder and pulled the trigger to release it, then eased the hammer down.

  “Look at that! A genuine colt .45. How the hell does a creep like that get hold of something like this?”

  Then something caught his eye. The Weasel’s shirt had been torn away from the bullet wound in his side. McLoughlin, using the barrel of the .45, poked it under the shirt and lifted it up.

  What he saw fairly staggered him. He put the colt on the floor and carefully pulled away the rest of the shirt. Strapped to The Weasel’s waist was an elaborately fitted-out leather belt with two attached cords leading to the top of his trouser belt. These were attached to two ‘finger-sized’ key rings.

  “What is it… a bloody bomb or something?” she asked.

  Georgette started to move to get a closer look.

  “Jesus Christ. Don’t move, lady!”

  “Oh shit, what?”

  “This prick’s fully loaded. Just sit there. Let me fix this little problem and I’ll tell you.”

  Bill Murphy had returned with a first aid kit he kept in the kitchen.

  McLoughlin saw him approach. “Stay with the lady, sir. Don’t come any closer,” he commanded.

  Bill Murphy put the first-aid kit on the floor and put his arms around Georgette. “What is it?” he whispered in her ear.