Hetman: Hard Kil

by Alex Shaw

  “Course I did, the officers running the Det are thick as a brick wall!”

  “Chomh tiubh le balla bríce!” Quinn translated the phrase into Gaelic.

  Fox continued. “They had me meet Fannon and pass on his orders! I’m surprised you didn’t take him out sooner.”

  “We didn’t know he was rotten.” Grew said.

  Fox shrugged. “I don’t understand. I gave Dolan everything. If he didn’t tell McCracken then he must have had a reason? Or did McCracken know and not tell you?”

  “I don’t know Paddy. I’ll just have to ask him.” Grew sounded confused, uncertain.

  “You ask too many questions,” Quinn scowled at Fox. “For someone apparently in the know.”

  As he swam back to consciousness, Snow registered the pain first and then the musty smell. He opened his eyes but the world around him remained dark. He realised that he had a hessian sack over his head. He tried to move but found that he was hog-tied.

  “Yer awake. Have a drink you must be parched.”

  As Snow tried to turn towards the voice, the contents of a bucket splashed over his head. The ice cold water made him gasp.

  “That’s better. Your friend in the big house, ‘Mr Fox’ says that he’s one of us,” the voice was now near Snow’s ear. “I don’t care either way if he’s for the cause or not, as long as it doesn’t stop my bit of fun. You see I’ve grown up being pissed on by you Brits, but then suddenly as soon as I’m old enough to volunteer some Sinn Féin soft-touch says ‘no’, ‘stop’. Jesus feckin Christ, am I meant to accept the ceasefire just because some bearded homo with a Brit cock up his arse says so?”

  Snow’s voice was raspy as he spoke. “He usually has a cock in his mouth too.”

  The IRA volunteer burst out laughing. “That’s funny coming from a Sass man like yerself.”

  Inside the hood Snow was now alert and calculating his options. There was a dim light filtering through the hessian and he could just make out the shadow of his captor. He could only hear the one voice but that did not eliminate the possibility of other cell members being present. He’d try the easiest solution first.

  “You don’t have to do this you know. You can let me go and I’ll swear to the fact that you helped me.”

  “Me to turn grass? Don’t make me laugh.” The volunteer grabbed Snow’s chin through the sack. “What’s yer name Sass man?”

  Snow didn’t let his anger show. “Aidan, and you?”

  “Glendon.” He released his grip on Snow’s chin. You got some Irish in you, Aidan?”

  “My great grandmother.” Snow lied. His name was the result of his diplomat father’s sense of humour. ‘Aidan’ had been conceived at the British Embassy in ‘Aden’, South Yemen. “How old are you, Glendon?”

  “You think I’m too young is that it?” Glendon’s voice showed annoyance. “I’m Eighteen and let me tell you I’m not listening to Sinn Féin. They can just take their deal and shove it.”

  “Up their arses?” Snow started to cough but a vicious pain travelled along his spine and into the back of his head. He let out a gasp.

  “That Mr Fox really did a number on you.”

  “Being hit on the head with a rifle butt didn’t help much either.”

  “Dear oh dear. Why don’t I lend you my Nokia so you can call your mummy?”

  “That would be good, thanks.” Snow said deadpan.

  “What, so you’ll press a button and it’ll turn into a speedboat?”

  Snow forced himself to laugh at his captors joke. “Who do you think I am James Bond?”

  “No I do not! Don’t you watch the news? Pierce Brosnan is the new Bond and he’s from County Louth!”

  Inside his hood Snow remained silent. He was being held captive by a film geek.

  “No phone call, but I’ll get you some water. I won’t pour it over you. Well not this time.”

  Feeling light-headed Snow shuffled into a sitting position as Glendon moved away beyond his field of vision. Snow listened intently and still could hear no one else in the barn.

  Returning with a plastic water bottle, Glendon crouched and lifted the sack from his prisoner’s head. Snow could now see that Glendon was flame haired, muscular and had a pistol protruding from his waistband.

  Snow leaned in to the bottle, their eyes met and the inexperienced Irishman suddenly realised that he’d made a mistake.

  Snow jerked his head forward. There was a sickening click from the bridge of Glendon’s nose as Snow’s forehead made contact and the cartilage flattened. Glendon let out a yell and fell backwards, dropping the bottle as blood streamed down his face.

  Snow struggled forward, rolled off the youth and with supreme effort pushed his hands down as he raised his legs. The bonds cut deeply into his wrists but his arms were now in front of him. Glendon regained his senses and thrashing his legs kicked Snow hard in the kidneys. Another sharp pain tore at Snow. Glendon grabbed the pistol, which Snow now recognised as a Soviet issue Makarov and tugged it out of his jeans. Snow twisted and clamped his still bound hands around the youth’s neck. Glendon’s arms flailed, his left hitting Snow on the top of his head whilst his right tried to manoeuvre the pistol.

  Snow squeezed and pulled up. There was a crunch, Glendon’s neck snapped and the Makarov fell to the floor. The volunteer was dead.

  Snow shuffled backwards, and realized that he was panting like a wild animal. He stared at the boy, his first kill. One life traded for another. Since passing Selection it was a given that this day would come, but somehow he’d never thought that he’d have to kill a daft kid. Snow felt cold and hollow, but he had no time for remorse or to make sense of it.

  Forcing his actions aside he searched Glendon, found a penknife and cut away his bonds. Collecting the Makarov, Snow pushed himself to his feet. He swayed, the edges of his vision greyed and he almost fell. There was an instant hammering in his head and a fire in his spine. He’d hit the pavement hard when Paddy tackled him. A possible concussion, but what about his back? Snow was no doctor but like all members of the SAS had received medical training. He heard his instructors’ voices telling him to ‘suck it up’ and get on with the mission. If he could stand and hold a weapon he could fight.

  Snow grabbed at an exposed beam in the wall of the barn, closed his eyes, took several deep breaths and straightened up. Opening his eyes his vision was clear, but the pain was just as fierce. He focussed on the Makarov. It had a full clip of eight 9.22mm rounds. It was a basic weapon, but he liked its feel. It had been the first handgun he’d ever used as a teenager on a range in Moscow.

  A hundred yards away Fox was looking relaxed. “You still got that scar on your stomach Marty?”

  “Piss off Paddy, course I bloody have.”

  “Show your friend.”

  “Ach what for?”

  “Think of it as a purple heart.”

  Grew lifted his shirt and pretended to look annoyed.

  “Where’s that from?” Quinn asked.

  “He did it to me with a crappy little toy rifle!”

  “You soft shite.”

  “Soft! I was six and he was five. It hurt like hell.”

  “But the mental scar still does, eh Marty?” Fox goaded.

  The three men chuckled for several seconds and then lapsed into silence.

  “Where are the other lads?”

  “What, you don’t know Paddy?” Quinn asked suspiciously.

  “Dolan claimed I didn’t need to know.”

  “Then you don’t.” Quinn retorted.

  “What’s the harm?” Grew tapped his nose. “Two boyos are waiting in Keady with a little surprise for Taylor. We’re gonna blow the big-mouth up when he leaves for work in the morning.”

  “And the others?” Fox persisted.

  “Out for the craic.” Quinn added angrily. “I should have been with em having a drink.”

  “Will this do you?” McCracken entered from the hallway and held a bottle of whiskey in his hand.

  Qui
nn reached for the bottle. Fox sensed that that although clearly in charge, McCracken had deference for the man.

  “So what happens now?” Fox felt his heart rate quicken.

  “I can’t get through to Dolan, can’t find a phone box and I’m not using this thing!” McCracken held up his mobile by its antenna, as though he was dangling a mouse by its tail. He swung it gently before putting it on a worktop. “This does however give me time to drink and gives you plenty of time to try and persuade me that yer for real. And if you can’t then…”

  “Dolan won’t be happy if he loses me you know.” Fox noticed a reflection in the glass and let his eyes follow it.

  “That’s a chance I’ll have to take. I’m not his whipping boy.”

  “Just his rent boy?”

  McCracken took a step forward and pointed angrily with his index finger. “Any more feckin wise cracks and I’ll slot you regardless of who you say you are!”

  “Jimmy!” Grew left his chair; bringing his gun to bear on the window.

  Fox sprang to his feet and kicked Grew in the groin. He staggered; Fox grabbed the AK and in the same second the kitchen window exploded behind them. Quinn’s Browning came up as two rounds tore into his skull. Fox turned the AK on McCracken but he was already moving and the 7.62 mm rounds drilled harmlessly into the wall behind. The IRA hard-man scampered away into the hall.

  Snow entered through the backdoor holding the Makarov with a two handed grip. His aim moved from Fox to Grew.

  “McCracken.” Fox said. “Moving.”

  Snow paused for a millisecond before nodding his consent. He kept his pistol on Grew, who was lying on the floor clutching his groin as Fox ventured further into the house.

  Fox hurtled down the hall, all thoughts of personal safety gone. The front door slammed and Fox thudded against it before pulling it open. Several shots rang out but Fox continued forward as the doorframe splintered around him. In the dark grey of early morning the tail lights of McCracken’s car burned brightly as it careered around a bend and out of sight.

  Fox fired into the hedge that blocked his view in the hope of hitting something. He continued to give chase and arrived in the road to see McCracken speeding away.

  Fox dropped to his knee, took aim and depressed the AK’s trigger. A final burst of rounds tore at the Cavalier, smashing the rear windscreen before the Kalashnikov clicked empty.

  “Shit! Shit! Shit!” Fox shouted in disgust.

  Snow looked around the kitchen. Quinn’s blood, bone and brain had painted one of the walls crimson but his hand still gripped his Browning 9mm. A bottle of Jameson’s lay next to the dead man’s leg and on the other side of the room Grew sat on the floor with his back against the wall and his knees against his chest.

  “I knew he wasn’t for real. I just knew it!” Grew spat.

  “Shut up.” Snow bent down to pick up the bottle, but wincing in pain thought better of it so rolled the whiskey with his foot towards Grew. “Open it.”

  Grew slowly unscrewed the top. He held it up and Snow snatched it back.

  “To the victor the spoils?” Fox’s voice was Scottish again.

  “No I need it to stop the pain in my soddin head!” Snow took a long slug.

  Grew started to chuckle. “That was a beauty.”

  “Left or right? Which leg’s your favourite?”

  “Screw you, ‘home counties’. Rules of engagement, I’m unarmed. You got me, but yer already in deep shit. You think the ceasefire is gonna last when the news gets out that you’ve assassinated a member of the South Armagh Brigade?”

  Snow kept his Makarov aimed at Grew. The room became silent.

  Fox shouldered the AK. “Aidan I’m Sorry, I had to make it look real – it was the only option. We couldn’t get away.”

  “I figured that out, eventually.” Snow drank some more. “I could have slotted you, I almost did.”

  Fox grinned and crossed to the window. “What happened to one in the barn?”

  “I slotted him.”

  “Good.”

  “I snapped his neck.”

  “He killed Fannon.”

  “Him?”

  “Aye. Marty here told me. The kid was a real psycho – why do you think McCracken recruited him?” Fox turned and leant back against the Belfast sink.

  Snow pointed at McCracken’s mobile, still sitting on the worktop. “We need to phone in and tell them about McCracken.”

  “And the IED they’ve gift wrapped for Taylor. But first this gob-shite here is going to give us the name of the RUC turncoat who let us through the cordon.”

  “Keep dreaming Paddy. I know my rights.”

  “Left.”

  “What?”

  “Shoot him in the left, Aidan.”

  Snow pulled the trigger and sent a single round into Grew’s thigh.

  “Ya feckin crazy man!” Grew rolled sideways, holding his thigh. “Ya going to feckin pay.”

  “Sorry, I meant to say his right.” Fox shrugged.

  Snow adjusted the aim of the Makarov.

  “O’Briain! Brendan O’Briain that’s the bugger’s name!”

  “Now that wasn’t so hard was it? Where’s McCracken running too, Marty?

  “Yer out of your mind if you think…”

  Snow fired again. This time the round smashed a floor tile next to Grew’s groin. “I shouldn’t drink and shoot.”

  “The Republic.”

  “Where?” Snow pointed the Makarov at Grew’s head.

  “He’s got a safe house – Dolan set it up.”

  Fox nodded. “Marty, one more question, before we put away the guns. I promise. How is your ma?”

  “What?” Grew was confused. “She’s fine. Why do you want to know?”

  “Does she still have that problem with her legs?”

  “What problem?”

  “You know, being unable to keep em closed!”

  “You dirty bastard!”

  “Dirty Sass bastard.” Fox looked at Snow and grinned.

  Palace Barracks, Holywood, Northern Ireland.

  Snow sat alone in the mostly empty canteen and nursed his coffee. Examined by an army doctor who had diagnosed a concussion and bruised spine, he had been given strong pain killers and told to rest up for a week.

  After a few hours’ sleep however, Snow had pronounced himself fit for service. He closed his eyes momentarily and when he opened them Fox was sitting opposite.

  “You OK?”

  Snow nodded and wished that he hadn’t. “It tickles a bit.”

  “That’s not what I meant.”

  “I dunno Paddy.”

  Fox’s voice became stern as he stared at the young trooper. “They had guns; they both would have used them on you. You’ve been bloodied. It’s Darwinian, better for you to be walking and talking than them.”

  “You’re right.”

  “Course I am. Look, if I told you that killing a man doesn’t change you I’d be telling porkies. But that’s what we’re trained for, isn’t it? Saving lives by, if necessary, taking others. You know that. ”

  “Yes.” It wasn’t a line that the MOD liked to publish, but it was true nonetheless.

  “Now listen, daft bollocks. I’ve just seen Lancing. The IED’s been neutralised, we’ve got McCracken’s men so Taylor gets to live.”

  “Great.” Snow meant it. Taylor was no gun wielding madman; he was a citizen who had a right to openly express his opinions. Whether or not Snow agreed with Taylor’s opinions was not the issue. McCracken’s men had no right to use force to silence him.

  “But, the Garda have arrested Dolan.”

  “Bugger.”

  “Aye, bugger indeed.” Fox muttered. The police in the Irish Republic were as eager as the RUC to make the ceasefire work, but in his experience their enthusiasm would probably mess things up. He cursed again, this time more at himself for failing to stop McCracken at the farmhouse. “That means we can kiss goodbye to Jimmy McCracken.”

  “So he gets t
o re-group and start again somewhere else?”

  Fox shrugged. “Perhaps in time, but the IRA has released a statement saying that they have nothing whatsoever to do with McCracken, Dolan or his group.”

  “Handy.”

  “O’Connor’s behind it, back channels and all that.”

  “So is she still too political?”

  “Always, but the result is that McCracken is out in the cold. He’s just a thug on the run with a gun.”

  “You should get a pen and write that down.”

  Fox allowed himself to smile. “I just might.”

  “We still don’t know who his mole was.”

  “Aye but he, or she will make a mistake – just you see.”

  “So who saved the ceasefire us or them?”

  Fox shrugged. “Does it matter? We had fun. Job done.”

  Snow sipped his coffee and made no comment.

  ***

  ALSO BY ALEX SHAW

  HETMAN – the 1st Aidan Snow Thriller

  A Special Forces Thriller introducing a reluctant hero, former SAS Trooper Aidan Snow.

  Attacked by an unknown adversary, Framed for two assassinations, Hunted by the Ukrainian Security Service, the life of former SAS Trooper Aidan Snow has been blown apart.

  Teaching at an international school in Ukraine, former SAS Trooper Aidan Snow has laid the nightmares of his past to rest. But when after ten years Snow meets again the man who put a gun to his head and ended his military career his past becomes very real. Told by the British Secret Intelligence Service (SIS) that his would be tormenter is dead Snow tries to forget...

  Attacked by an unknown adversary, Framed for two high profile assassinations and Hunted by the Ukrainian Security Service, Snow is torn from the life he has worked so hard to build and must once again rely on his SAS training in an attempt to clear his name.

  Discovering a mercenary brigade made up of former Soviet Spetsnaz soldiers Snow trusts only himself to stop them and save those he cares about.

  Snow is left one step ahead of the authorities with no one to watch his back.

  In a Fire Fight, Pray for SNOW....

  Start reading HETMAN on your Kindle now:

  US: http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00381B3UE