The form lying facedown on the sandbags looked familiar, but Fitzduane couldn't bring himself to believe that it was the Hangman, or Balac or Kadar or Whitney or Lodge or whatever he was calling himself these days.
Kadar wiped the blood from his eyes and blinked. He could see. It was still possible. It could be done.
He raised his upper body on his hands, then took most of his weight on one arm and gripped his pistol with the other. He half turned to identify the precise location of his target. His eyes locked on those of his rescuer, and he stirred in surprise and then burning hatred. Good God! It was his nemesis; it was that damned Irishman. A lust to obliterate Fitzduane swept over him.
Simon Balac! The Hangman! The shock of recognition hit Fitzduane with equal force. He was momentarily stunned. Somehow he had assumed that the Hangman would remain safe in the background, directing operations. He had never expected that the man would put himself in harm's way. He felt a cold, clinical desire to kill, and then an adrenaline rush. It was a combination he hadn't experienced since seeing Anne-Marie slaughtered in the Congo nearly two decades earlier. It was a killing rage. He moved a step toward Kadar.
The Bear, who was out of ammunition and had been delayed while looking for an alternative weapon, was climbing the ladder leading to the roof. He called out to Fitzduane. It was a casual shout of inquiry, but it saved Fitzduane's life. The Irishman turned slightly to acknowledge the Bear and the Hangman rolled and fired.
Fitzduane felt a burning sensation as the round furrowed his cheek. He staggered backward and slipped on a coil of rope. He crashed onto the sandbags as further shots from the Hangman cracked over his head and smashed into the tripod-mounted block and tackle.
With difficulty the Hangman hauled himself upright.
Distracted by his agony, his hands shaking, Kadar made a half turn and fired in the direction of this new arrival. His burst of four shots missed, but the Bear lost his original point of aim, and instead of impacting on the Hangman's torso as intended, the crossbow bolt sank into the Hangman's broken leg at knee height, splintering bone and ripping cartilage. He screamed at the sudden crescendo of pain and emptied his magazine in futile rapid fire in the direction of his tormentor.
The Bear crouched down on the access ladder behind cover and restrung his crossbow and fitted a fresh bolt.
Kadar sobbed in agony and frustration and groped for a fresh magazine for his automatic. There was nothing there. He remembered his fatigues ripping when he landed. The spare clips must have fallen out of his torn cargo pocket. He glanced around and saw one of the magazines on the edge of the roof. As he limped hesitatingly toward it, a second crossbow bolt smashed into his back. It failed to penetrate his Kevlar body armor, but the momentum of the missile threw him forward, and he stumbled onto his knees.
The impact of the roof on his wounded knee and broken leg caused pain so extreme that he felt cocooned in a miasma of pure horror. Beads of sweat broke out on his face, and it was only through the maximum exertion of his formidable willpower that he was able to remain conscious. He fought to stay in control. His nightmare of suffering was worse than anything he had ever known or could have believed possible. His cries echoed into the flame-lit darkness, and tears ran down his cheeks. He tried to crawl toward the magazine. He whimpered.
Fitzduane, blood streaming from his furrowed cheek and momentarily disoriented by his fall, took long seconds to recover. Still somewhat dazed and oblivious of the shotgun strapped to his back, he dragged himself to his feet and with both hands grabbed the heavy coil of rope he had tripped over.
Kadar sensed Fitzduane's approach as he was reloading his automatic. He worked the slide, chambered a round, and cocked the weapon, then turned to shoot the Irishman.
Fitzduane slashed down hard and at an angle with the rope, lacerating Kadar's face and knocking his gun hand to one side. He then dropped the rope and grabbed Kadar's hand as it moved back toward him. Groggy from his wounds and the near-unendurable pain, Kadar tried to fire but could not; Fitzduane had his thumb inserted between the hammer and firing pin, and he gripped the slide tightly. Slowly Fitzduane forced the weapon away from where it had been pointed, but he had to remove his thumb as the Hangman twisted the automatic. Kadar fired repeatedly in a frenzy of desperation, but the rounds blasted futilely into the night.
Fitzduane waiting until the Hangman's weapon was empty and then butted him in the face with his head, smashing his opponent's nose. As the Hangman reeled and cried out in agony, Fitzduane loosened his grip on the man's arms and drew his fighting knife. He plunged it under the body armor into the terrorist's stomach and twisted and ripped with the blade. A terrible keening moan filled the air.
The Bear came up, another bolt fitted to his crossbow, and fired point-blank at Kadar's threshing, contorted face. The Hangman's head was twisted to one side at the moment of being struck, so the bolt cut through both cheeks, clefting the palate and smashing teeth. His whole body convulsed at the impact, but frenzied, he fought on. Blood and mucus frothed from his lips and bubbled from the holes in his cheeks, and terrible gagging animal sounds came from him. The Bear felt nauseated as he strained to reload his weapon.
Fitzduane withdrew his fighting knife, angled it toward the vitals, and then thrust it hard into Kadar's side and left it there. Without a pause he flicked open the coil of rope, knotted it around the Hangman's neck, and kicked the spasming body over the side of the keep. The roped hissed through the pulley and then snapped taut.
Fitzduane lay down on the roof and looked over the edge. The rope from the block and tackle ended in a shape twisting and turning in the glow of the fire from the great hall. It hung just a few feet from the ground.
Fitzduane hauled himself off the roof and descended the circular stairs to the bawn below. The Bear followed him.
When they reached the courtyard, Fitzduane turned and looked up at the hanging form. A Ranger shone a light on the distorted and bloody head. The crossbow wounds dripped blood and matter. The damage done to the face was extensive. Nonetheless, they could see that it was, without question, the Hangman. The body was still twitching.
Fitzduane looked at his friend and then back at the Hangman. The killing rage had subsided. What he saw sickened him.
"It must be finished," said the Bear.
The Irishman hesitated for a moment, and then he thought of Rudi and Vreni and Beat von Graffenlaub and Paulus von Beck and of all the pain and bloodshed and horror that this man — this man he had once liked — had been responsible for. He thought of the time he had gone to Draker to tell them of the hanging and how he had stood there in his wool socks talking to a lived-in but still attractive brunette in her mid-thirties who wore granny glasses. He thought of the carnage in Draker when they had gone to rescue the students, and of a blood-smeared body perforated with Uzi fire, one hand still holding her granny glasses. He thought of Ivo and Murrough and Tommy Keane and Dick Noble and of the woman he loved, her thigh pumping blood. He thought that he was tired and that the Bear was right and that this thing must come to an end. He didn't care about the reasons anymore.
The body twitched again and swung slightly on the rope.
Fitzduane slid his automatic shotgun into firing position and released four XR-18 rounds into Kadar's form, smashing the torso completely, ripping the heart from the body, but leaving the head and hands intact.
"Dead?" he said to the Bear.
"I think it is quite probably," said the Bear, going very Swiss and cautious all of a sudden. There was a pulpy mess where Kadar's middle had been. "Yes," he said, nodding. "Yes, he is very definitely dead."
"Swiss timing," said Fitzduane.
"So it is over," said the Bear. He was looking at Fitzduane with compassion and not a little awe. The business of killing was a tawdry activity, whatever the need, but it was a business, like most human activities, that demanded talent. Fitzduane, sensitive and sympathetic though he was by nature, had a formidable talent for violence, a hard and bloody
edge to his character. Here was a decent man who had tried to do a decent thing and who had stumbled into a bloodbath, had participated in that slaughter. What scars would his friend's soul now carry? The Bear sighed quietly. He was weary. He knew that he, too, was tainted.
He shook his head, depressed, then pulled himself together and gave a quiet growl and stared at the remains of the Hangman. Fuck him anyway; he deserved to die. It had to be done.
Fitzduane looked out over the glowing remains of the great hall and beyond the bawn. There were no lines of tracer, no explosions, no screams of pain or sounds of gunfire. Rangers were moving into the sandbagged emplacements on the battlements. Kilmara in his Optica still circled in the sky above.
Fitzduane reached out for his radio. "You still up there?"
"Seems like it," said Kilmara. "It's really quite beautiful from the air, but there's nowhere to pee."
"The Hangman's dead," said Fitzduane.
"Like the last time?" said Kilmara. "Or did you manage a more permanent arrangement?"
"I shot him," said Fitzduane, "and knifed him and the Bear shot him and we hanged him and he's still here — well, most of him. Enough to identify anyway."
"How often did you shoot him?" said Kilmara for no particular reason. Stress reaction was setting in. He suddenly felt very tired.
"Quite a lot," said Fitzduane. "Why don't you come down and take a look?"
"So the fat lady has finished singing," said Kilmara.
"Close," said Fitzduane.
* * * * *
Duncleeve — Fitzduane's Castle — 0300 hours
Fitzduane and Kilmara finished their tour of inspection, and then Kilmara was called away to take a radio message from Ranger headquarters in Dublin.
Kilmara was limping but otherwise in good shape. He had sent the Optica back to refuel an hour ago and had parachuted into the bawn. It had been a perfect jump, but he had landed on one of the cannon and twisted his ankle.
The immediate threat seemed to be over, but until the island had been thoroughly searched by daylight, they couldn't be sure, and it was prudent to play safe. Accordingly the exhausted defenders and the only marginally fresher Rangers stood to and manned the full castle perimeter again but left the territory outside to the dead and whatever else chose to roam around at that hour of the morning.
Ground transport brought regular army units to the mainland end of the island road, and a company of troops was sent over by rope while the engineers set to building a Bailey bridge. Mortar and light artillery emplacements were set up to give fire support if needed. As dawn was breaking, around five in the morning, the first regular army unit arrived on the island.
Kilmara had been absent longer than expected. He returned looking distinctly annoyed, sat on a sandbag, and poured some whiskey into the mug of coffee a trooper brought in.
"I've got good news and ridiculous news," he said. "What do you want to hear first?"
"You choose," said Fitzduane. He was sitting on the floor, his back resting against the wall. His wounded cheek had been tended to by a Ranger medic. It appeared quite likely there would be a scar. Etan was nestled in his arms, half asleep. Without conscious thought he was stroking her gently, as if seeking reassurance that she was indeed alive. "I'm too bloody tired. I don't think I've ever been so tired. If this is what a siege is like, I'm glad I missed out on the Crusades. Imagine this kind of caper going on for months on end in a temperature like a furnace while you're wearing the equivalent in metal of half a car body under a caftan with a cross painted on it for the other side to shoot at. They must have had iron balls in those days."
"Or died young," said the Bear.
"Start with the good news," said Etan, who was bandaged and in slight pain but cheerful; she was just glad to be — more or less — unharmed. The Ranger medic had said the wound wasn't serious and would heal quickly.
"We've got a prisoner —a guy named Sartawi, one of their unit commanders," said Kilmara, "and nearly in one piece for a change. And he's talking. It will make explaining away all these dead bodies a lot easier if we have the background. All I can say so far is that it's just as well you had your shit together, Hugo; otherwise we really would have been headed for a bad scene. The Hangman didn't intend to leave any survivors. There was a hidden agenda, and Sartawi was in the know. All the students were to go in the exchange. It was the Hangman's idea of a little joke."
"What's the ridiculous news?" asked the Bear.
"We're having a visitor," said Kilmara. "He's flying in by chopper — piloting the damn thing himself — in less than an hour, and he's being tailed by a press helicopter. This is all going to be a media event."
"The little fucker doesn't miss a trick," said Fitzduane. "I take it you tried to put him off?"
"Need you ask?" said Kilmara. "I told both him and his press guy that the time wasn't right, and anyway, the place isn't secure."
"But he didn't believe you," said Fitzduane.
"No," said Kilmara. "He did not."
"Why don't we kill him?" said Fitzduane. "I've had a lot of practice lately."
"On live television," said Etan, "and in front of half the Irish media? And me without my makeup on."
"I'll help," said the Bear, "but who are you talking about?"
"Our Taoiseach," said Fitzduane, "one Joseph Patrick Delaney, the prime minister of this fair land . He screwed us in the Congo, and he's been screwing this country ever since. He's coming here to kiss babies and pin medals on the wounded — and make a short speech saying he did it all himself. He's corrupt and a class-A shit and decidedly not one of our favorite people."
"Oh," said the Bear. "I thought the Rangers were responsible for keeping him safe."
"This is a very mixed-up country," said Kilmara. "I think I'll get drunk."
* * * * *
Fitzduane's Castle — 0623 hours
It had started to rain shortly after dawn, and the wounded man lying concealed under the remains of the homemade tank greeted this downturn in the weather with relief. The cold rain soothed his horribly burned body and helped conceal him from the searching soldiers.
The man hadn't been wounded in the tank itself, but near the walls. He had been caught by a Molotov cocktail blast as he prepared to throw a grapnel, and for some seconds before his comrades had beaten out the flames he had been a human torch. By the time he recovered consciousness the comrades who had saved him had been killed. He had found their bodies one by one as he crawled his way to the cover of the tank and temporary safety.
He was within a few seconds of the cooling wreckage of the tank — the journey seemed to have taken hours — when a random burst of automatic-weapons fire smashed into his legs, splintering the bones and destroying any lingering hope that he might have a future. He could, perhaps, surrender, but the best he could hope for would be life a revoltingly disfigured cripple — and he had no home to go to, no country to go to. The idea of a future in a refugee camp — if he wasn't shot or imprisoned — had no appeal. And he would be penniless. Ironically, for many the whole point of this mission had been to make enough money to give themselves completely new lives. And for a time it looked as if they might make it.
Well, it was the will of Allah. Now all that remained was to die in the most suitable manner — to die avenging his comrades and so to meet them again in the Gardens of Paradise.
He had lost his AK-47 when he was hit by the gasoline bomb, and that he regretted, for a true soldier never abandons his weapon; but crawling to his steel sanctuary he had found something far more deadly: an RPG-7 rocket launcher. It was loaded, and although there were no spare rockets, he was confident that one would be enough for his purpose. He doubted very much that he would have the opportunity to fire for a second time. It would be as Allah willed. Each man had his own destiny, and out of apparent disaster often came good.
The man with the burned body and smashed legs moved his weapon into firing position when he heard the sound of helicopter rotors coming ever
closer. The pain was truly terrible, but he embraced it and used it to keep himself conscious for those last few precious seconds.
The helicopter came into range. The RPG-7 was a straightforward point-and-shoot weapon with no sophisticated guidance system, so it was vital that he be accurate.
The helicopter was going to land in front of the castle. Through the 2.5 magnification telescopic sight it looked as if there were only one person inside it, but he must be someone important because soldiers were bracing themselves and an officer was shouting commands.
All eyes were on the helicopter. No one noticed the tip of the RPG-7 pointing out of a slit in the wrecked tank. The helicopter was less than seventy meters away when the dying man fired.
The Taoiseach of Ireland was actually thinking of Kilmara, and the bittersweet irony that the man he had betrayed so long ago was now going to enhance his political reputation through reflected glory, when he saw the 1.7-kilogram rocket-assisted fin-stabilized missile blasting toward him. For an infinitesimal moment he thought his victorious troops were firing some kind of victory salute.
The HEAT warhead cut straight through the Perspex canopy, making two neat, round holes as if for ventilation. There was no explosion. Fitzduane, Kilmara, the Bear, Etan,, and the other survivors of the original defenders watched the missile strike — and plow through the cabin harmlessly — with absolute incredulity.
There was a barrage of shots as the firer of the missile was cut down.
Kilmara put down his high-power binoculars. He had been looking directly at the Taoiseach in the approaching helicopter at the precise moment of the free-flight missile's impact.
"Well, I guess we can't win them all," he said slowly as the Taoiseach headed to fast toward a decidedly rough landing. "Too much vodka on the RPG-7 production line, I suppose." His eyes lit up. "Still, that'll teach him to listen to my advice. What a hell of a way to start the day."
Fitzduane 01 - Games of The Hangman Page 59