Undercover

by Gerard Brennan

  "I still don't understand how that led him to kidnapping."

  "You've got the hottest player in the Premiership in your stable now." John pointed at a dumbstruck Rory Cullen. "Us being skint, you know they weren't after our money. Not directly, anyway. They're looking to get control of young Rory, there."

  "But why?"

  John shrugged then winced. "Maybe McGoldrick wants to sign him by any means. Or he's working on something with Rooney that'll earn them even more money. Rooney likes to bet on the footie, and he's better at it than I ever was. But how much better would he be if he controlled some of the greatest talent out there?"

  "Match fixing?"

  "It's a theory, babe."

  John's smile was interrupted by a savage fit of coughing. He groaned when it passed and a thin line of blood burbled over his bottom lip. Lydia felt panic like a battering ram in her chest. She unfastened her seatbelt and rushed to John. Knelt down in front of him and grasped his hand. Donna, the doctor, was beside her. She remained on her feet and reached out to cup John's head in her hands.

  "I'm fine," John said, his voice barely audible.

  Donna shouted in to the cockpit. "How long until we get to the hospital?"

  Stephen Black spoke over the stuttering pilot. "Mere minutes. I can see it from here."

  Donna held two fingers against the side of John's neck and looked at her watch. She patted John's shoulder and said, "Good man, John. Keep on fighting. You'll make it, so you will."

  John nodded and closed his eyes. Donna looked down at Lydia, still on her knees, her fingers entwined with John's.

  "He'll make it," Donna lied.

  "I know," Lydia lied.

  Chapter 23

  It's football. Not rocket science. I mean, people actually care about football, don't they?

  Rory Cullen, CULLEN: The Autobiography

  Cormac fired round after round – the Glock bucked in his grip – but none of his shots found their target. The motorcycle continued its jerky approach while his fingers worked with well-oiled grace to snap home a fresh clip of ammo. He jacked the slide and raised the gun. They were close enough now to score a hit. He aimed for the driver's chest and squeezed.

  Nothing happened.

  He jerked at the trigger again.

  Jammed.

  The motorcycle was almost on top of him. It skidded to a halt, sideways to allow the pillion passenger a clear shot. Cormac charged, covering the couple of metres between them quicker than the gunman could cock the hammers of his sawn-off. He bent his legs and sprang into a dive. Tackled the man on the back of the bike like an American footballer. Their bodies crunched together. Cormac's head cracked off the other man's helmet. His vision clouded for a second. But adrenaline dragged him from the depths. Kept clarity. They tumbled to the ground. Came to rest side-by-side.

  Cormac rolled onto his knees and brought his jammed pistol down on the gunman's helmet. Smashed through the visor. He drew his hand back and jabbed the muzzle through the gap he'd created. The gunman shrieked. Cormac scrambled to his feet and soccer-kicked the cracked helmet. Then he stomped down. The helmet cracked further. The floored man went still.

  Cormac felt a thud in his chest. His feet left the ground and he landed on his back, skidded across manicured grass. He heard the revs of a motorcycle and rolled to the side. It buzzed past him, kicking up clods of golf course. Cormac watched the bike skid and turn a neat 180 degrees. And then it was coming for him again. He scrambled on his hands and knees towards a large bunker and flopped into it. The motorcycle hit the edge of the bunker like a ramp and soared over Cormac's prone body. The front wheel slammed into the sand and the rider was flipped over the handlebars. He landed on the grass with a bone-jarring thump.

  Cormac pulled himself out of the bunker, pulling at strands of grass like a Romero zombie digging itself out of a grave. His heart hammered in his chest and his breath hitched. He loosed a short burst of half-insane laughter, marvelling at the fact he was still alive.

  The motorcycle's engine had stalled and the helicopter was now well out of earshot. He was almost suffocated by the blissful silence. But it was broken by a groan. The man he'd knocked off the back of the bike was coming to. His leather-clad body shook as he came back to his senses. Cormac aimed his Glock and tried to shoot the man but the gun was still jammed. He holstered the bastarding thing and reached for his ankle holster.

  Empty.

  "Fuck."

  He'd given it to Donna.

  Cormac looked around for an alternative weapon. He spotted a rake at the edge of the bunker. Its shaft was half the length of a standard lawn rake but the head was wider and felt satisfyingly heavy. He gave it a little practice swing and smiled to himself.

  Ahead of him, the rider with the smashed visor had retrieved his sawn-off. He used it like a mini walking stick to aid his struggle to stand. It seemed like Cormac had done a real number on the guy. His movements were sluggish but he managed to get himself upright, if a little wobblingly. He raised his sawn-off. Cormac swung the rake and the metal head clattered into the gunman's wrist. The sawn-off flew from his grip before he could squeeze the trigger.

  Cormac swung the rake again, this time at the man's head. The ruined helmet gave up the ghost and fell apart. Pieces of it came away like cracked eggshell. Cormac recognised the revealed face instantly. One of the Scullion brothers. Mick. The tough fucker looked damaged and dazed but he remained upright.

  "Give it up, Mick," Cormac said. "There's no point, I have you."

  "Fuck you, peeler scumbag."

  "Be sensible, big lad."

  Mick growled and darted forward, his fists swinging. Cormac bobbed and weaved his way out of Mick's path then caught him low in the legs with the rake. Mick toppled over and landed face-first in the grass. Cormac straddled Mick's back and slipped the shaft of the rake under the stubborn bastard's chin. He gripped both ends of the shaft and pulled back to choke him. Mick coughed and spluttered when Cormac eased the pressure again.

  "It's over, Mick. Don't make me kill you."

  Mick bucked and writhed under Cormac in a bid to escape. Cormac pulled back on the shaft again and reminded the lunatic who was in charge. When he felt the pinned man's body sag he released the pressure again. Mick gargled an indecipherable curse, threat or prayer but was still. Cormac sighed in relief. He got off Mick's back and stood up.

  Cormac drew his jammed Glock and took the opportunity to try and fix it. He ejected the clip and jiggled the slide. Something clicked and he was able to rack the pistol. He slipped the clip back in, relieved that he was armed again. Mick had rolled onto his back and was greedily gulping air. Cormac looked to the bunker. The fallen rider hadn't moved. He kicked one of Mick's legs to get his attention.

  "Who was on the front of the bike? Your brother?"

  "Fuck yourself." Mick's voice was raspy, his throat damaged.

  "He's not looking good, whoever it is. Took a very nasty spill. You want me to call an ambulance?"

  "Suck my dick."

  "God, you're a contrary fucker, aren't you? I'll go find out myself, then. Of course, removing his helmet might cause him even more damage. Shame to take the risk."

  "Fuck him too."

  "Ah, so it's not your big bro, then."

  "Pete's dead."

  Cormac bit his tongue. He'd almost told Mick he was sorry for his loss. In reality, the world had lost a psycho. He said nothing, waited to see if Mick would get any chattier.

  "This whole move's been cursed from the start. Ambrose lost the run of things. Stupid bastard. And look where it got him. Hope the bastard is dead, and that's no lie. We were doing fine running Belfast. There was no need to get involved with these Brit pricks at all."

  "The boss got greedy, eh? Is that aul' Ambrose over there? You must be seriously short-handed if he's in the thick of it, risking life and limb on a motorcycle."

  "We were meant to have back-up. Pricks never showed up."

  "Why not?"

  Mi
ck laughed; a pathetic breathless wheeze. "Wouldn't you like to know?"

  Cormac held out his hand. "Come on, get up. We can't stay here all night."

  Mick looked Cormac up and down. "Where you planning on taking me?"

  "The nearest cop-shop."

  "I need to go to hospital. Some English wanker shot me. Same bastard probably done our Pete."

  Cormac had missed it at first because of the poor light and the dark leather gear Mick was wearing, but there it was, a gunshot wound in his left flank. And yet he'd still gone after Cormac. Psycho or not, Mick was one tough prick.

  Cormac waggled his helping hand. "Come on, get up."

  Mick swallowed his pride and reached out. They gripped each other's forearms and Cormac hauled the beaten man upright. Mick took a few steps back and started to unzip his leather jacket.

  Cormac raised his Glock. "Hold up there, Mick. What are you up to?"

  "Just want to check this wound. Relax."

  "I'll relax when you're behind bars." But he lowered the gun.

  Rattlesnake-swift, Mick pulled a large hunting knife from inside his jacket and lunged at Cormac. His lips were peeled back in half-crazed savagery. Cormac swivelled on his right heel a quarter-turn. The blade cut through the air he'd occupied seconds before. Cormac snatched Mick's wrist with his left hand. Clamped an iron grip on it to keep the knife at bay. He pushed the muzzle of his Glock into Mick's ear.

  "Seriously, mate. Give it up."

  Mick reached into his jacket with his free hand.

  Used up his last chance.

  "You're a fucking idiot, Mick Scullion."

  Cormac pulled the trigger.

  ###

  Lydia felt the helicopter's descent in her stomach before Stephen Black called out from the cockpit.

  "We're about to touch down, ladies and gentlemen."

  "Have you radioed ahead to the hospital?" Donna asked.

  "Our good friend, Captain Giles, has taken care of that."

  Donna turned to Lydia and smiled. "Looks like he's going to make it."

  Lydia allowed herself a sigh. She looked at John and the icy claw around her heart eased up its grip a little. They were nearly there.

  Electric light from the rooftop helipad seeped into the helicopter and tinted everything a pale blue. Lydia couldn't see much from the middle passenger seat except the edges of the hospital roof. The helicopter rocked and swayed like a boat in choppy water before it finally thumped down on its skids. The engine whined to a halt and the whoosh of rotor blades chopping through the air faded. Lydia closed her eyes and drew long, calming breaths into her lungs in preparation for the medical mayhem that would undoubtedly greet them on disembarking the helicopter.

  "Let's get a move on, then," Stephen Black said.

  He stood in front of her, a grin like a wedge of Edam on his tanned face. He rubbed his hands together with enthusiasm. Lydia unbuckled her safety belt and stood up. She shook some life back into her legs and reached out for Mattie's good hand. Her son made no teenage protests. He interlaced his fingers with Lydia's and treated her to one of his lopsided smiles. His eyes were round with nervous excitement and he looked about three years younger.

  Stephen Black slid open the helicopter door. He stepped out onto the roof where the pilot was already waiting. Lydia and Mattie held back while Donna and Rory eased John out of his seat. They guided him to the exit and Stephen Black and the pilot helped him down the steps. Two paramedics in luminous coats wheeled a gurney towards John, careful to stay well clear of the rear rotor even though it had come to a stop. A doctor stood near the doorway leading into the hospital building. He pulled his white coat tight over his flimsy scrubs and thin frame. His expression was less than delighted.

  Lydia followed her husband closely, her grip on Mattie's hand tightening. He squeezed back with surprising strength. John was guided onto the gurney with great care and the paramedics snapped the side barriers into place. Donna went to the doctor and after a quick introduction began to fill him in on all the essential information. The doctor's expression was hassled but he listened closely as he checked John's pulse and had a peek under his dressing.

  At the doorway leading down into the hospital building, the paramedics wheeled the gurney into a large lift, barely jostling the patient. There was only one button on the control panel; an express trip to casualty. The doors whooshed open after a long drop. Fluorescent lighting glared. Lydia felt woozy. She experienced a lightness of mind that tinged her senses with a dreamlike quality. Her surroundings became vague, disconnected; her only tether to reality, Mattie's hand. She would be okay as long as her big brave son kept her grounded.

  The doctor spoke to her over his shoulder as the hurried down a grim corridor: "There are some policemen here that want to speak to you."

  "How did they find us?"

  The doctor's brow wrinkled. "It's the hospital policy for all gunshot wounds."

  "Can it wait? I don't want to leave him until I know he's okay."

  "He is okay. There's a possibility of infection and his blood pressure is low but he'll get that all taken care of here. The wound looks surprisingly good considering the reported stress our man's been put under."

  Donna nodded along with the doctor's words. "He's right, Mrs Gallagher. Go talk to the police. It'll pass the time while your husband gets checked over. And they can start looking for the people who did this to your family. Surely that'll put your mind at ease?"

  They turned a corner and one of the paramedics punched a button on the wall to open the automatic doors ahead of them. The doctor stopped at a nurse's station and muttered some instructions to a young and fragile-looking girl dressed in a navy-blue tunic. She tugged at her earlobe and nodded along to each order.

  "Jenny here will take you to the police. We'll get the patient set up in a bay on this ward. Just return to this station when you're ready." He looked pointedly at Stephen Black and Rory. "Gentlemen, there's a seating area at the bottom of the ward."

  Stephen Black looked to Lydia with his eyebrows raised. She nodded to him.

  "I'll be fine. Mattie can look after me now."

  Before they parted ways a commotion broke out at the doors of the ward. Thuds, shouts and a metallic crash. Lydia felt panic like a nail-bomb in each lung. They were here for her and her boys. Somehow the bastards had found her. She dragged Mattie in behind the nurse's station. Rory and Stephen Black followed her.

  "Shit, what about John?" Lydia said.

  "The doctor's wheeled him into a bay," Rory said. "He's behind a curtain."

  Lydia grabbed Stephen Black's forearm. She felt the little dagger he hid there through the cheap material of his tracksuit jacket.

  "Stay with Mattie."

  "Where are you going?"

  "To find those cops. Obviously the useless bastards haven't heard a thing from whatever room they're holed up in."

  "I really think you should stay here, Mrs Gallagher."

  "He's right," Rory said. "I'll go."

  "No," Lydia said. "You distract them. Make them chase you and draw them away from Mattie."

  Rory looked uncertain but nodded. "Fuck it, okay."

  The star striker vaulted over the nurses' station counter. His twang, one hundred per cent more Belfast, bounced off the ward walls;

  "All right then, ye fuckin' wankers. C'mon tae fuck!"

  An east London accent matched Rory's volume, "There's the cunt. Have him."

  Another man grunted and she heard their hurried footsteps clump past her hiding place. She saw two men dressed in black army surplus fatigues go after Rory. They had guns but didn't fire. The footballer was too valuable to them. But they were determined to catch him. Rory feinted left and right then turned and ran to the bottom of the ward. Towards the seating area the doctor had just pointed out. It could well have been a dead end but Lydia didn't plan to stick about and find out.

  Lydia gave Mattie's hand a squeeze then let go.

  "I'll be back soon, Mattie."r />
  "You better," Mattie said.

  She nodded at him, then scampered on her hands and knees around the counter. On the other side, her head butted into something. She squeaked and looked up: a pair of faded black combat trousers, an army surplus jacket to match, and a cruelly amused face to top it off.

  "All right, love?"

  "Shit."

  The man bent at the waist and grabbed the back of her neck. He dug his fingers in and rag-dolled her to her feet. The ward spun and he snaked his arm across her throat, hugged her back in tight to his chest. Lydia felt a circle of cold steel kiss her temple. She wanted to puke. A gargled yelp came up instead.

  "Let her go."

  Stephen Black's voice lacked its usual playfulness. He came into view as Lydia's captor turned to face him. His silenced pistol was drawn and aimed, it seemed, right at Lydia's face.

  "Who the fuck are you, mate?"

  "Certainly not your mate." His lips twisted like he'd bitten into something sour. "Now let her go."

  "Seems to me like you're not in any position to tell me what to do. So why don't you fuck off, eh?"

  "I'm a very good shot. Do you want a bullet in your eye?"

  "Come off it. If you were really that good I'd be dead by now." He began to walk backwards, digging his forearm a little harder into Lydia's throat. "Lads! I've got the bitch. Come on. That Cullen prick will do what he's told now."

  Tears rolled down Lydia's face. How could they be back in this position? It wasn't fair. They'd beaten the bastards and were in a safe place. There were cops under this roof for God's sake. Where were the useless bastards, though? She tried to scream but couldn't get her throat to obey her.

  And then, "Hey, dickhead."

  John?

  She felt the pressure on her throat ease as the man changed position. Then she heard a sickening thwack. The man let her go. She turned on her heel to see her husband, awake and burning with fury. John held an IV drip stand over his shoulder like a baseball bat. He swung and the length of stainless steel clattered into the side of the man's head. The man in black fatigues flopped to the floor. John raised the stand over his head and brought it down across the back of the fallen man's neck. Then he righted the stand and used it for support so he could raise a leg and stomp down on the bastard's head.