"Are you expecting anybody today, Donna?"
"Like who?"
"You haven't got a plumber coming around or anything, have you?"
She shook her head.
"Take Mattie into your bedroom. Put something against the door and don't come out until I call you."
"What's happening?" Mattie asked.
"I'm not sure yet, kid. Just go keep an eye on your da for me."
Donna took Mattie's hand and led him to the bedroom. Cormac weighed his options. Go and face them in the hallway or draw them in to the apartment. He expected the doorbell to sound. There was a security pad on the door that could be buzzed open from a little speaker phone in the hall.
There was a knock at the door to Donna's apartment. Somebody else had let them through. Those communal security doors were utterly pointless. In any case, the decision was out of Cormac's hands. He'd have to face these heavies in the apartment.
Cormac made a conscious decision not to draw his gun. It went against his training and his instincts, but there was something in him that wanted to resolve the situation in the safest possible manner. There was too much at risk with Donna, Mattie and John trapped in the bedroom. Besides, he was low on ammo.
The door crashed open, the night latch useless without a Chubb lock to back it up. Cormac held his ground, just a few yards from the doorway. If they had guns he was prepared to dive for cover along the couch. The heavies stepped in, not overly concerned about cover. One of them wore a low-slung tool belt, a claw hammer hung at each hip. He'd plaster dust on his boots and undistinguishable tattoos on his forearms. His face was ruddy and weather-beaten. His partner was dressed for the gym: tracksuit trousers, trainers and a hooded top. He was younger but just as broad as Bob the Builder.
"Did you think we wouldn't find you, dickhead?" Sporty Spice asked.
"You two need to get out of here now," Cormac said. "Consider this fair warning."
Sporty Spice turned to Bob. "This man must have been dropped on his head when he was a child. Do you hear him, like?"
Bob shook his head. "Taking the fucking piss." His voice had a forty-a-day rasp.
Good, Cormac thought. He'll be easy enough to handle... so long as the hammers stay in his belt.
"Big Frank sent us. Get the aul' fellah and the kid and c'mon," Sporty Spice said.
"I'll hang about here for a while yet. I've a few questions you two could answer for me before you go, though."
"I think he's a cop," Bob said.
"Wise up," Sporty Spice said. "Sure Frank told us who he is. Kelly's a good fenian name."
"Look at him. Fucking undercover, so he is."
Bob was smarter than he looked. Cormac would have been shot weeks ago if this one had been put on the crew.
"Let's keep it civil, lads," Cormac said. "No need for name calling."
Bob drew a hammer and handed it to Sporty Spice.
"I'm not looking for trouble, lads."
"I bet you're not," Sporty Spice said.
Cormac bit back his temper and continued. "Okay, so me and Frank have a couple of loose ends to tie up. I'll come along with you guys on my own. Then things don't have to get stupid."
"Aye, he'd be pleased as fuck with that arrangement," Bob said.
Cormac rounded the sofa. It didn't look like the heavies were carrying guns. Decommissioning had made them a little tougher to distribute around the greater Belfast area, though it was still a possibility they had a pistol or two concealed. He kept his hands visible and took a step forward; almost within Sporty Spice's hammer-swinging range. "Any other way isn't going to go well for you two."
Bob squinted. The cogs were beginning to spin behind those eyes. Cormac allowed himself a few seconds of hope. He was handling the situation, tense as it was, with nothing more than—
Sporty Spice lunged forward and swung the claw hammer in a big downward arc. Cormac scrabbled backwards, dodged the wild swing but bumped against the back of the couch. He relaxed his muscles and tumbled backwards. His body flopped onto the seat cushions and he rolled onto the floor. As he rose onto one knee Cormac snaked his hand into his coat and closed it around the grip of the Glock 17. He drew the weapon and stood. Supported his right wrist with his left hand. Levelled. Grinned. At this range he couldn't miss. Sporty Spice knew it too. The young thug had the hammer held above his head, cocked for a lethal strike. It froze there.
Bob's husky voice grated; "Back up, wee lad."
Cormac spared the older man a quick glance though his aim on Sporty Spice didn't falter. Bob looked worried. He didn't want to have to report back an almighty fuck-up to his superiors. The man knew the score. He'd the calm carefulness of experience. Cormac reckoned he could work with that. The other eejit, though, he could be a problem. The raised hammer began to visibly shake. Lactic acid or a ruse, Cormac couldn't be sure. Either way they weren't going to be locked in the stand-off for much longer.
"Do as he says," Cormac jabbed his Glock at Sporty Spice. "Lower that weapon very slowly and step the fuck back."
"Why don't you lower yours?"
"Mine's a gun, dickhead. Who's going to come off worse?"
Bob offered his two cents. "You know, if he was going to shoot, he'd have done it by now. Might be worth a go, son."
Sporty Spice twisted at the waist to look over his shoulder. "You want to swap places?"
Cormac took advantage of the distraction and kicked out at Sporty Spice's floating ribs. The blow rocked the thug backwards. Cormac took a backhand swing at him and caught the side of his head with the barrel of the Glock.
Bob pushed past his injured partner. He held his left hand up as if to ward Cormac off; his right hefted his claw hammer. Cormac considered shooting him but opted to save the ammo. He darted forward, clattered into Bob and made a grab for the shaft. Bob reeled backwards. Cormac stuck close and went with him. They hit the wall adjacent to the open front door. Bob's back absorbed all the impact. His stinking breath clouded Cormac's face. The hammer came down. Cormac raised his left arm. Slipped it inside Bob's. The attack slid away like rain off a roof. Cormac sank his forehead into the older man's reddened face. Cracked the nose. Felt a wild surge of joy. He drew back his head to butt him again. Then something wrapped around his legs.
This was Sporty Spice's half-hearted effort to re-enter the fray.
The younger thug attempted to lift Cormac but he couldn't break his stance. He grappled for Cormac's hips, intent on throwing him to the ground. No chance. The blow to the head must have shaken something loose. The big lump had abandoned his hammer and just wasn't fighting smart. Cormac turned in his opponents rubbery hold and took advantage of his position. He used one free arm to grab a handful of his attacker's ear and the other to pistol-whip the back of his head. Sporty Spice went limp and Cormac let him fall to the ground. He lifted a foot to finish him but Bob wouldn't stand for it. The older man shoved Cormac from behind. Cormac tottered a few steps to recover from almost tripping over Sporty Spice. He turned to face Bob.
Blood poured steadily from the aul' fellah's busted nose but his eyes were clear. Cormac edged backwards. The push had landed him back in the middle of the room. Bob closed the fighting space in two strides. Cormac's patience ran out. He raised his gun.
"I will shoot."
Bob spat blood. "No you won't." He plucked a Stanley from a loop on his tool belt. Thumbed the switch and bared a wicked triangular blade.
Chapter 9
Money is killing this game. I'd play for three square meals a day and a roof over my head if that's all it paid. Fucking love those Ferraris, though.
Rory Cullen, CULLEN: The Autobiography
The man in the black military-style jacket indicated that Lydia should sit on the barstool opposite his. Her rubbery legs folded a little too quickly and she laid her hands on the round table for support. It wobbled under her weight and rocked the amber contents of a pint glass. She settled on the worn cushion and rested her clasped hands in her lap. The man fixed his eyes
on her breasts.
She could smell blood. Feel the too-recent memory of when stained fingers traced the line of her jaw. But this wasn't the bastard who'd touched her at the holiday home. His bare face lacked the telltale claw marks Lydia had inflicted. It could have been the second intruder from the night before but she didn't think so. She'd sensed a terrible wildness about those two and, from their voices, had pinned them as a little younger than the stranger sat in front of her. He looked about forty. His sunbed tan did little to conceal the pockmarked skin on his cheeks. Momentarily lost in some lechery, he gnawed on his lower lip and Lydia caught a glimpse of gleaming white teeth.
"Who are you?"
He looked up at her face but Lydia could take no comfort from the shift in focus. She tried not to imagine what went on behind his greedy eyes.
"I'm just a messenger, darling."
His east London accent surprised her. She'd expected broad Belfast tones.
"I'm here with a friend." She tilted her head back towards the corner bar where Rory chatted to the Polish barmaid.
"Yeah, looks like he's keeping a real close eye on you. But don't fret, darling. I'm only here for a quick natter. We'll be done before your valiant knight's done chatting up that foreign bint behind the bar."
She wanted to lift his glass and throw its contents in his face. But the need to hear something, anything about her family suppressed the urge. She nodded, Say your piece, then.
"The men you're working for want you to wrap things up today. They want access to the house in Teddington. Do what you have to do to get them in."
"What about my—?"
"No questions, darling. It's a simple instruction." He paused for a few seconds, daring her to speak again. "Very good. Now, if you've held up your end of the bargain, all will be well. If not... you probably know what to expect."
The man flashed his ridiculously white teeth and got out from behind the table. He winked at her, downed his pint and left.
Lydia sat on and tried to digest what she'd just been told. She needed to get Rory back to his house and... Then what? She hadn't found a kink in his security system yet. Would she be able do that without Rory breathing over her shoulder?
She felt a hand on her back and almost upended the table.
"Whoa, take it easy, Lydia."
"Rory, for fuck's sake, you near put the heart in me sideways."
He gave her a look. "Jesus, my ma used to say that. Did you pick that one up off John?"
She looked away.
"What are you doing over here anyway, you big freak? Staring at the wall like some headcase. They'll be after you with the butterfly nets if you're not careful."
"I'm not a third wheel kind of girl."
"You took off so I could score with the barmaid? Very considerate but I was just being polite. Jesus, do you think I try to bed every woman I meet?"
"I don't give it any thought at all, to be honest."
"Ach, don't get all sniffy about it. God you've had something up your hole for the last few days. Would you not just relax and smile for a bit? These moods of yours are bringing me right down."
Rory held out his hand. Lydia took it and hauled herself off the stool. She didn't look at his face. Her words were directed at his chest.
"Will we finish up our drinks, then?"
"What about one more for the road?"
"Make it a half one, will you? I could do with a few hours at the computer back at yours."
###
You're going to have to shoot this bastard.
It was the last thing Cormac wanted to do. And it wasn't just down to his ammo shortage. He'd already killed one of O'Neill's men. The man's cousin no less. It was a safe bet his cover was fucked. But Bob – with murder in his eyes and a Stanley knife in his hand – would make for a decent consolation arrest. He might even get a lead on Big Frank Toner out of it.
Sporty Spice was still sprawled out on the floor with no sign of recovery. Bob stood alone against a bigger, stronger, armed opponent. There was only one way it could go. But Cormac had to rely on the aul' fellah coming to the same conclusion.
"Last chance, big man. Put your weapon down."
Bob pounced. His blood-smeared face twisted as he loosed a primal snarl. Cormac skipped backwards and jerked his head back. The blade whistled past his face.
Cormac readied himself for the next swipe. It didn't come as quickly as he'd expected. Bob had overextended himself, his first attack too clouded by anger to be anything but clumsy. The older man tried to plant his feet to attack from a stronger stance. Cormac took his opportunity and sidestepped Bob to move into the open-plan kitchen. He felt a new energy course through him. More fighting space, a choice of weapons, a moment to breathe.
He reached out with his free hand and snatched a knife from the block on the countertop. The ten-inch blade was water-stained but plenty vicious. He tucked his gun away and adjusted his grip on the knife so the dull edge of the blade rested against his forearm. Bob approached slowly. Cocky. He bounced the Stanley knife from one palm to the other. Must have watched a few too many American street gang flicks in his youth.
"You drew blood first," Bob rasped, and pointed a thumb at his busted nose. "It wasn't me."
Not exactly versed in Rambo movie trivia, though.
"That's not the line, dickhead."
Bob shrugged off the accusation. "Whatever, son. You're still fucked."
There was rust on the Stanley blade. Cormac looked beyond the emboldened and approaching Bob. He dropped his jaw and widened his eyes.
"Jesus, Mattie, don't."
Bob took the bait and turned to see what the kid was up to. Cormac slashed the back of Bob's right arm. Skin split and tendons severed. The Stanley blade fell to the floor. Bob yowled like a beaten dog. Cormac kicked the Stanley blade under the fridge then grabbed Bob by the back of his neck and ran towards the American style fridge in the corner of the kitchen area. Forehead met brushed steel. It wasn't enough to knock the tough aul' bastard out. He squawked as loud as his smoke-damaged lungs would allow.
Cormac pulled back and shoved him forward again, looking for the knockout. Something went in Bob's neck. Shit. He'd silenced the aul' fellah for good.
Chapter 10
Hooligans... They're just wankers.
Rory Cullen, CULLEN: The Autobiography
Lydia raised her hands to her ears, prepared to cup them. Rory held the champagne over the kitchen sink and popped the cork. The little wooden bullet shot up, butted the ceiling and plummeted to the floor. A dribble of foam ran down the elegant glass neck and trickled over his fingers. He sat the bottle down beside the flutes on the worktop and licked the traces of bubbly from his knuckles. Then he retrieved the cork from the floor and took it to a cutting board on the worktop. As Lydia poured, Rory cut the cork into two identical halves. He wrote the date on each piece and handed one to Lydia. He pinned the other half to a notice board hung on the back of the kitchen door adorned with at least twenty other dated and neatly lined champagne souvenirs.
"That's some collection," Lydia said.
"I've had a lot to celebrate."
Lydia wanted to shove her champagne flute into his face.
The champagne frothed in the glasses as Rory dropped a strawberry into each one. He tilted his towards hers for the obligatory clink. The little red berries bobbed in their drinks.
He affected an effeminate stance. "Fruity."
She granted him a polite smile. It felt like a hard day's work.
Bubbles popped and tickled Lydia's nose as she sipped. The ice-cold drink rolled down the back of her throat and she relished its cool trail. But her pleasure was short-lived. Guilt crowded in and blackened her glimmer of cheer. How dare she enjoy anything while her family suffered? Her second sip turned sour on her tongue.
Rory tipped his glass upright and emptied the champagne and strawberry into his mouth. His cheeks bulged as he tried to chew the berry without spewing the bubbly. He swallowed the whole lot d
own, hooted and burped.
"Fuck yeah. I'll have another one of those," he held his glass out to Lydia.
She poured him another drink and plucked another strawberry from the top of the punnet. It bobbled around the rim of the glass and fell to the floor. They both lunged for it and their foreheads met with a snooker break clack. Lydia stumbled backwards and Rory caught her by the wrist. He kept her on her feet but splashed them both with his drink.
"Shit, sorry," Rory said.
"Ow, Rory you utter bastard!" Lydia rubbed her forehead.
"Jesus, take it easy, Lyds. It was only an accident, like."
"Lyds?"
Rory opened his mouth. His tongue ran along his lower row of crooked teeth. He pushed his jaw forward. It was obvious he wanted to say something else and Lydia was ready for him. Ready to unload all her pain. But Rory let her down. His face eased into an awkward smile.
He set his glass by the sink and then stepped up to Lydia to examine her forehead. Rory cupped her face in his hands and tilted her head back to examine the damage under the cluster of spotlights. Her heart sped up.
"It's a wee bit red, but I don't think it'll bruise. Sorry, Lydia."
Rory's hands lingered on her face and Lydia raised her eyebrows. He smirked.
"Want me to kiss it better?"
She pushed him. Hard. He shrugged.
They took the bottle, the strawberries and their glasses to the kitchen table and sat opposite each other. Lydia was glad of the physical barrier. She could still feel the warmth of his palms on her face. The day before, a man in a balaclava, with blood on his hands, had traced the line of her jaw with his fingertips and Rory's touch had invigorated the hangover from that intrusion. She forced down a slug of champagne.
"That's the girl," Rory said, "have a top-up."
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