by Robert White
We'd hoped to have been in position long before sunrise, as taking on a heavily fortified building with something like a dozen guards would have been much simpler in the dark with the element of surprise.
The foul weather and difficult conditions had slowed our progress and our plan was fucked before we started. This of course was not unusual. All three of us had experienced monumental fuck ups in our time in the forces; it was almost a pre requisite. So much so that I reckoned all Ruperts were sent on a ' how to bollocks up a simple job' course before they passed out.
Our black coveralls and balaclavas stood out on the pure white snow like a whore in a nunnery and we would be picked off by the Irish before we got anywhere near the high chain-link and razor wired fence.
All we could do was sit, watch and wait for darkness to fall and that was eight hours of freezing frustration away.
This did nothing for Rick's mood.
We took turns with the binoculars and tried to keep an accurate count of the guards, noting their routines, clocking any vehicle movements. Of course we did our best to look for Lauren or our targets.
I got a much needed brew on and we ate freeze-dried rations and chocolate to keep our energy levels up. We'd just about accepted our fate when J.J. piped up.
"Heads up, boys, there's a Toyota 4 x 4 heading toward the farm and moving fast. The guards are running around like fucking chickens."
J.J. handed me the binoculars and he grabbed his rifle sight.
He was on the money; the impending arrival of the metallic blue Chelsea tractor was causing all kinds of consternation in the camp. The guards were indeed preparing for something or someone important and even though we'd already guessed they'd be armed, several of them were now openly carrying weapons.
J.J. was on it. "They have G36's like the cops...looks like all of them have this weapon, Des."
I took another look at the motor. It was still too far away to see who was driving, but whoever it was, he was not taking his time. The big heavy all-wheel drive was bouncing down the lane, kicking up a huge plume of snow behind it as it went. With a hundred meters to go, one of the guards must have hit the button in the security lodge, and the massive wood and metal gates began to slide open.
The Toyota barely slowed down enough to negotiate the entrance and almost flattened a guy standing guard at the lodge. It came to a screeching halt in a cobbled courtyard that sat between a barn and the main house.
Security was on the vehicle like flies around a turd.
The driver stepped out immediately and began barking orders to the men. He was tall, over six feet, slim and blond.
Rick had borrowed J.J.'s sight and was at my shoulder.
"That's Clarke," he said with more than a hint of derision in his voice.
Clarke was joined by another guy, shorter, stocky, dark crew cut, blood on his face and coat.
"Seamus O'Donnell," said Rick.
"Aye," I said. "And someone's given him a right dig in the coupon. His nose is all over the place."
The large tailgate of the Toyota was opened remotely and Clarke beckoned over two of the guards.
They stepped over smart as you like and started to pull something big and heavy from inside the boot. Within seconds it was obvious that they were removing the body of a woman. My heart was in my mouth for a moment until I recognised her.
"Jeezo, Rick, that's Kristy McDonald."
The two men shuffled sideways, one with Kristy's ankles, and the other with her wrists. Despite both guys looking pretty burly, they struggled with her dead weight and dropped her unceremoniously on the cobbles just yards from the Toyota.
Neither Clarke nor Seamus O'Donnell seemed overly concerned by Kristy's demise, or the way their crew had treated her dead body.
From the rear of the massive house stepped Declan O'Donnell and Dougie McGinnis. Dougie almost sprinted to Kristy's body. His heavy overcoat flapped in the wind, displaying his stripy shirt, pot belly and sidearm. By the time he'd done ten yards he was blowing out of his arse. He almost slipped on the ice, but managed to keep himself upright. Finally he knelt by her corpse, stroking her hair. Even from our vantage point three hundred yards away it was obvious that he was distressed.
Unlucky.
Whether Declan O'Donnell had dared to openly display his homosexuality when his father was alive, I had no way of knowing. However, since Paddy's demise at the hands of our Lauren, he had launched himself from the closet like a gay rocket.
He flitted between his brother and his lover like a camp social worker. Dabbing Seamus's nose with a red handkerchief and stroking Clarke's hair, much to his annoyance.
Suddenly Dougie stood and charged the rear door of the Toyota like a wounded rhino.
Lauren North's Story:
Clarke had shot me in the left knee. At first I didn't feel anything, I'd simply fallen over where I'd been standing, dropped the pitchfork and found myself dangling precariously over the edge of the bales.
As the pain receptors in my brain caught up with the damage the 9mm round had done to the internal workings of my knee joint, I heard myself screaming in agony. Nothing could have prepared me for the level of pain I was suffering. Given the choice, at that particular moment, I would have begged anyone to shoot me dead there and then; anything to stop the excruciating agony.
Seamus enjoyed pulling me from the top of the bales by my hair and letting me drop on my back to the concrete floor. The jolt of the fall sent further rivers of misery through my body.
He looked into my eyes and I saw his father staring lecherously at me in his Bentley, stuffing notes down my bra. He drew back his massive fist and punched me full in the face. Instantly the pain was gone and darkness fell on my world.
When I came round, I was bouncing about in the back of a big blue Toyota. Clarke and O'Donnell had done nothing with my knee and I was bleeding like a stuck pig all over the nice deep pile carpets.
Each bump in the road was terrible. I tried to lean to one side and raise my leg so it sat across the back seat, but the moment I attempted to move, O'Donnell, sitting in the front seat, swiped at me with his fist or the back of his hand, clipping me around the top of my head and knocking me sick.
Declan pulled out his mobile and barked at someone to open the gates of the farm.
Before I knew it, I was back in exactly the same spot where I'd topped Ewan Findley and all my efforts had come to nothing.
I could hear people pulling Kristy's corpse from the boot, but to be honest, I was in so much pain and losing so much blood, I was past caring.
Then I heard Dougie McGinnis screaming at the top of his voice. Seconds later he opened the door of the car and dragged me out.
My left leg doubled up under me as he pulled me sideways by my T-shirt, ripping most of it from my back.
I screamed in agony.
Looking down at my leg as Dougie dragged me across the icy cobbles, grunting and cursing, I saw that the whole bottom half of my jeans were red with blood. At this rate, no matter what this band of brothers had in mind for me, if they didn't stop the flow of blood, I would be dead within the hour.
Rick Fuller's Story:
We watched helplessly as Dougie yanked Lauren to the large double doors of the barn. She screamed in pain and left a trail of blood in the snow as she went.
My stomach churned. But at least she was alive and we knew her location; that said, looking at the amount of claret left in her wake, we had to get to her, and quick.
The twins ominously followed Dougie into the barn. Clarke stayed put and appeared to be giving more orders to the security guards, pointing first toward Kristy's body, then a small outhouse and finally toward our position.
Were they going to come to us?
Within seconds, I had my answer. We watched as two guards picked up Kristy's corpse and carried her to one of the VW vans. Leaving the doors open, they ambled to the outhouse that Clarke had pointed to. One then pulled open a heavy door before they both disappeared in
side. Moments later they emerged struggling with a massive weight. It was Ewan Findley, and he didn't look too well. He was completely blue in the face and his trousers were around his ankles. He was also very dead.
Des let out a low whistle.
"Our Lauren's been a busy girl, eh?"
I nodded as two other guards helped their mates launch Findley's massive bulk into the V Dub. The van shook with the huge extra weight. The boys finished by throwing a couple of shovels and a pick unceremoniously on top of the corpses and slammed the doors shut.
All four jumped into the vehicle and they headed for the gate.
Des was on it.
"You reckon they're heading our way, pal?"
"Could be." I turned "...J.J. Get your M24 up and running, use the gully for cover and then find some high ground so you have a good view of the compound and our position."
The Turk nodded and made the sniper rifle ready. He fixed the Leupold Ultra M3A fixed-power scope and Harris 9-13" 1A2-L bipod to the weapon. Lastly he slotted in the extended mag and pushed two spares in his coveralls.
J.J. fixed his MP7 to his back with its sling and checked his pistol. Finally he felt in his back pocket for his knife. He opened it lovingly, checked the blade, kissed it and slid it back in its place.
"We go see Lauren now, eh?" he said, his cold eyes as black as the devil's own.
"Yes," I said. "We're going to get her back."
"Good," he said. "We must kill all these fuckers...every last man...yes?"
"Oh aye," said Des, peering through the binos, "every last one of the wee bastards."
The Turk smiled at that, nodded and turned before setting off along the gully, head dipped. J.J. was a killing machine. I was glad he was on our side.
Before he'd travelled two hundred meters, the guards were out of the gate and the van was bouncing across what looked like open ground, heading directly for our position.
The real fun was about to begin.
Lauren North's Story:
The barn was huge. It had a stone-flagged floor that must have been hundreds of years old. Massive oak pillars rose up from it to support the ancient beams above.
Dougie dragged me over to one of them, just about in the centre of the building.
As I got closer, I realised why he had chosen it.
Some seven or eight feet from the ground, a galvanised steel ring had been bolted into the massive timber. Dangling ominously through the ring was a chain and at either end of that, were steel cuffs.
Even more terrifying was the fact that he had gone to the trouble of covering the stone floor around the pillar with plastic sheeting. He had prepared the place of my death, secure in the knowledge that I would never escape.
Declan and Seamus were deep in conversation somewhere behind.
As McGinnis dragged me along the last few feet to the pillar, he grabbed both my wrists and using all his bull strength, lifted me off my feet. I felt like my arms were being torn from their sockets, my knee was agony. Seamus stepped forward and clicked the two steel handcuffs in place. When Dougie released me, my feet dangled a good foot from the floor.
The metal cuffs instantly cut into my already bruised wrists. Everything hurt and the pain in the various sites of my body was annihilating my reasoning capabilities. I needed to think, I needed to stay focused.
Blood dripped from my jeans and made a plop...plop sound on the plastic sheets below me.
Seamus stepped in front of me. He was the embodiment of his father, both in looks and disposition. He sneered.
"Finally," he said. "I have dreamed of seeing you dangle from this post for months...and now...well here you are."
I was feeling sick and dizzy. The blood loss was starting to take effect. I wanted to fight, I wanted to scream at him, but I couldn't, I was too weak. I could feel my eyes closing, I was drifting into unconsciousness.
Dougie slapped me awake. He hit me so hard my ears rang and I saw stars.
His face was inches from mine, eyes wild with anger and hate. He sprayed me with spittle as he shouted. "Wake up, bitch! We ain't done with you yet!"
I turned my head away from him and did my best to stop tears flowing. Suddenly, all thought of keeping my focus drained away. They were going to kill me and there was nothing I could do.
Dougie pulled a knife from his pocket and shoved it under my chin.
I prepared myself for the end.
Rather than gut me, he used the blade to cut the remains of my t-shirt from my back. Dread ran through me as he then sliced off my bra, my bloody jeans and my panties. My clothes dropped onto the plastic sheeting with wet slaps. I could hear my breath, short and shallow, as the fear of what was about to happen gripped me.
The vile excuse for a man stood back to admire his work and inspect my nakedness.
"Now would you look at that there, eh, Seamus? That is as fine an example of womanhood yer ever likely to see dangling in yer barn, eh?"
Dougie laughed at his own quip.
Seamus gaped at me, his mouth slightly open; drinking in the view. He walked to the edge of the sheeting beneath me to get a closer look.
He jutted his square chin toward me.
"Turn her round, Dougie. I want to see her arse."
McGinnis guffawed. "Ah, you're an O'Donnell, that's for sure, Seamus. Yer dad was an arse man himself."
Dougie stepped onto the plastic and grabbed my hips to turn me around. I felt like a cross between a laboratory specimen and a joint of meat on a spit. I considered using the last of my strength to kick out at the animal, but for what? I was beaten and I knew it.
As a young nurse, I had worked in a trauma unit where many of the patients had been victims of rape. I remembered a woman detective had attended the ward one day to give advice to us girls, should we ever find ourselves in such a position. Fight, shout, and scream, she said. She even suggested soiling yourself to stop the attacker from penetrating you.
I wasn't going to scream, it wouldn't do me any good, and I wasn't about to defecate either. No, I was going to do what many of those poor women did when faced with a rapist.
Absolutely nothing.
Dougie positioned me with my face against the wooden pillar. I hadn't considered what effect the movement would have on me, but not being able to see O'Donnell and McGinnis scared me even more.
I started to shake involuntarily.
"Nice," said Seamus. I could hear the leer in his voice. "Very nice indeed....okay, Dougie, turn her back."
Moments later I could see my foe again.
I focused on Declan, who had watched the proceedings in indifferent silence. He stood with his feet planted, yet he spun his body left and right, the way a six-year-old girl would do. He even managed the crooked little finger to the lips to complete the picture. The twins could not have been more dissimilar. Declan was an aberrant man; delicate of movement, pitifully thin, and without doubt, completely mad.
Seamus placed a brawny arm around his sibling.
"Now then, Dec, you won't be wanting to see our bit of fun now, will you? And you definitely won't be getting your cock out and taking your turn, so why don't you go and have a nice cuddle up to yer man eh?"
Declan gave a sour looking smile.
"You're both disgusting animals," he spat, in the campest of voices.
Seamus and Dougie howled.
Declan did not join in.
He walked up to me and looked into my eyes. They never left my face as he addressed his peers.
"When you vermin have played your little boy game," he said flatly. "Call me and I'll finish the job for you."
The sour smile returned. His fish eyes burned into mine. He cocked his head quizzically; clearly insane.
"I'm going to cut your throat, darling," he said.
Des Cogan's Story:
J.J. was out of sight in minutes. The van carrying the two dead Irish was still on a collision course for our position. Rick checked over his MP7 and fitted the noise suppressor to the muzzle. The
weapon was quiet without it, but we couldn't risk alerting the remaining guards at the house when we took on the lads in the van. I followed suit, then taped two mags together, slotted one home and released the action. After setting the fire pattern to burst of three, all that was left to do was to check the safety and clip the weapon to my chest using the sling.
It was bitterly cold, and just completing regular drills was difficult. I did my best to keep my body moving, bending my knees and arching my back. I couldn't feel my toes or my fingers.
Rick pointed over the ridge of the gully. Some five hundred yards east of us was a small copse and the van had turned toward it.
He cleared his nose into the snow. We were both struggling like fuck with snot. When you get really cold for prolonged periods, your nose runs like a tap and there isn't a thing you can do about it.
"Come on, Des, let's move," he said, pulling on his Bergen. "This is a burial party and, a pound to a pinch of shit, that copse is the graveyard. We need to be there before them... or we're fucked."
I checked my Sig and made sure the clip was secure on my holster. Five hundred yards isn't far, but when you're wading through two feet of snow carrying upwards of four stone of kit on your back, well, let's say our body temperatures were about to rise somewhat and if something could fall off, it would.
Rick went to take point and pushed by me. I don't quite know why, maybe because I was so worried about Lauren, or maybe it was just time, but I grabbed him by the arm. Instinctively he flinched.
"Whoa there, boy, " I said, holding on tight and stopping him in his tracks.
He shot me a look. I'd seen it a million times. He was focused on one thing, everything else in the world obliterated from his mind. Do the job, slot the fuckers, go home, and most of all...don't fuckin' touch me.
I also knew that if a doctor was to take his pulse at this very moment, he would suggest that his patient was sitting at home on his sofa listening to chilled fuckin' Ibiza. Rick Fuller was as dangerous a man as you'd ever care to meet...even to his friends.