Souls At Zero (A Dark Psychological Thriller)

by Neal Martin

  Anger welled up in her as she thought about the pain and suffering caused to her daughter. Almost reflexively, that anger was directed at Harry, because he was the one who came back into their lives again, bringing all that trouble with him. But Harry was an easy target. She knew it wasn't really his fault. How could he have predicted his brother was still alive, let alone have known that his brother would end up kidnapping Kaitlin? He couldn't have. Despite this understanding though, the anger in her didn't go away. It sat in her like a ball of hot lead in her stomach, needing to be directed at someone.

  "Gemma?"

  "What?" she said sharply, snapping her head around to look at Nigel who had just walked into the conservatory.

  The bodyguard, in his late thirties, clean cut in a black suit, sporting short dark hair and confident brown eyes, didn't flinch at Gemma's abrasiveness. He regarded her calmly, unaffected by her dark mood. "I've just had John on the phone," he said. "He's on his way up here."

  Gemma frowned. "What for?"

  Nigel shrugged. "Says he wants to look after you and Kaitlin himself. Harry asked him to apparently."

  Gemma went silent for a moment. She hardly knew Rankin, and if she was being honest, there was something about the man she didn't like. He seemed like he hid too many secrets about himself, much like Harry in fact. "Call him back. Tell him I'm happy with you and Kieran. There's no need for him to come up."

  "I told him that. He insisted. Should be here in about an hour."

  "What about you and Kieran? Are you leaving when he gets here?"

  Nigel nodded. "Looks like it. He's the boss, I'm afraid. Nothing we can do." He smiled reassuringly. "You'll be safe with John."

  Gemma stared out the window again as a nameless dread overcame her.

  A dark shadow had moved over the Lough outside.

  Kaitlin McGuire lay in the strange bed with her eyes open. She hadn't slept since she awoke from a nightmare in the middle of the night, muffling the scream that tried to escape from her mouth because she didn't want her mother to hear it. She saw the way her mother kept looking at her ever since Harry had rescued her. Her mother looked at her like she was damaged and beyond repair. Like Kaitlin would never be the same again.

  Kaitlin didn't feel like she would ever be the same again either. And it wasn't just because she was now missing a finger. The things she had seen at that farmhouse. All the death. The blood. She couldn't stop thinking about any of it. Every time she closed her eyes, she would see one of the men Harry had shot, lying on the floor, motionless, bleeding. So much blood. So much death. She knew the men deserved what happened to them. They were trying to kill Harry and her after all. But that didn't make it an easier to digest.

  Then there was Harry. Her daddy. She knew he was protecting her when he killed those men, but she couldn't help seeing him in a different light now. Is that who her father was? A killer?

  No. Not a killer. A protector. There's a difference.

  She kept telling herself that as she lay curled up in the bed, her eyes blank and unfocused.

  Her body was full of pain, especially her left hand where the finger had been cut off. It throbbed incessantly, felt like it was on fire, despite the pills the hospital gave her. How long would the pain last for? Forever it felt like.

  Sometimes she wondered about what she would say to her friends if she ever went back to school. How would she explain her missing finger? Would they make fun of her then? Would they stop being her friend because they saw her as some sort of basket case to be avoided at all costs? Was she going to end up alone for the rest of her life because no one wanted to be around her anymore?

  All these questions brought tears to her eyes, helped by the unending pain in her hands and in her left leg every time she moved it even a little bit. Her skull, as well, felt like it was going to crack right open at times, like a broken Easter egg.

  In her darkest moments, she wished she had died back at that farmhouse. She wished her daddy's brother had killed her, instead of just cutting off her finger. At least then she wouldn't have to deal with all this pain.

  Only thinking of Harry brought her out of the pitch darkness of her mind. She had heard everything that was said between him and his brother Declan. Even though she didn't quite understand it all, she ended up feeling sorry for them both. Harry especially, who clearly loved his older brother. Even if Declan blamed Harry for running all those years ago, Kaitlin didn't. Harry was a kid like her at the time. She knew how easy it was to be afraid. She also knew the kind of person Harry was now. He was the kind of person that would risk his life to protect her. And now, from what she could gather, he was also the kind of person that would risk his life to get justice for his older brother.

  Kaitlin just hoped he wouldn't die in the process. She couldn't live without him now.

  Now she needed her daddy more than ever.

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  As Rankin drove along the main road that would lead him to the address where Edger's ex-wife and the girl were staying, he couldn't help admiring the view that run alongside him like a realistically painted canvas in a film studio. The lough, with the rolling hills overlooking it, was idyllic. Living in the city all the time, he had forgotten that such places of natural beauty existed in Northern Ireland. It reminded him that he once thought about buying a second home in a place like Fermanagh, maybe one of those holiday mobile homes that overlooked placid lakes and forest vistas. He knew Victoria would appreciate such a place, as would his two daughters. Maybe when all this Edger mess was cleaned up, and things settled down again, he would look into buying a place somewhere.

  But as the Satnav on the dash of his car finished directing him to his destination, thoughts of holiday homes became quickly banished from his mind, replaced by thoughts of what he now had to do. Of the blood he had to spill to protect what he already had.

  He pulled into the driveway of the bungalow belonging to Gemma McGuire's parents and parked his black Range Rover alongside Nigel McCann's white BMW 5 Series. Before he got out of the car, Rankin reached into his coat pocket and took out the small revolver there. It was a Ruger LCRx .38 Special. The gun was unregistered, so it couldn't be traced back to him. He flipped open the cylinder and checked the gun was fully loaded, which it was. Then he put the revolver back in his pocket and exited the car. The wind blowing off the lough opposite was strong, and it blew Rankin's greying hair around his face. He didn't bother to gel it back this morning before he left for Fermanagh, and he used his hand to sweep his fringe back from his eyes.

  Nigel greeted him at the front door. "Alright, John," he said, stepping aside to allow Rankin into the hallway. "Bit of a change from Belfast, eh?"

  Rankin smiled at the bodyguard. "It is indeed. I wish I had these views outside my house."

  Nigel smiled back and led Rankin into the conservatory where Gemma McGuire sat. "Hiya, Gemma," Rankin greeted her. "You doing okay?"

  Her smile was forced. Rankin wasn't sure if she disliked him or she just wasn't in the mood for friendly greetings. "I'm fine," she said. "There was no need for you to come up here."

  Ignoring her bluntness, Rankin said, "Harry insisted. Not to take anything away from Nigel and Kieran, but Harry wanted me here."

  "Surely it would be better if you all stayed instead of just you?"

  It was Rankin's turn to force a smile. "These guys have done enough."

  "We don't mind staying," Nigel said. "It's no problem."

  "Right," Kieran McCormick said, now standing beside Nigel. "It's no problem."

  Fucks sake.

  "Thanks guys, but I'll take it from here," Rankin insisted. "Get your gear and head back to Belfast. I'll give you's a call later."

  The two bodyguards looked at each other, then nodded at Rankin, before leaving to pack up their stuff. Five minutes later, they were gone, and Rankin was alone with Gemma McGuire in the conservatory. He sensed her discomfort as she got up off the couch she was sitting in and offered to make him coffee. He t
hanked her and she went to the kitchen.

  The conservatory was wide open to the main road, Rankin noticed. He didn't want any passing cars seeing what he was about to do. He headed into the kitchen. Gemma was there, the kettle boiling in the background.

  "So where's young Kaitlin?" Rankin asked, as he stood next to the large American style fridge/freezer.

  Gemma hardly looked at him, as she busied herself preparing two cups, spooning instant coffee into each of them. "In bed. Resting. Sugar?"

  "No thanks."

  Rankin continued to stand casually as he reached inside his coat pocket and wrapped his hand around the handle of the revolver.

  Gemma stirred the two cups of coffee, and turned around to offer Rankin his.

  Rankin had the gun out. It was aimed at her head.

  Eyes widening in shock, Gemma dropped the coffee cup from her hand, and the cup smashed on the tiled floor, steaming hot coffee splashing around her bare feet. "I knew—" she began to say.

  "I'm sorry about this, Gemma."

  He pulled the trigger on the .38 Special and shot Gemma McGuire in the face. The noise was deafening inside the kitchen, and the bullet went through her left eye socket, exploding out the back of her head, not stopping until it punched a hole the size of a man's fist in one of the kitchen cupboards behind her. The redhead's blood and brain matter splattered all over the glass of the kitchen window, and the cupboards behind her, before she dropped dead to the tiled floor, a huge amount of dark blood pouring out from the massive exit wound in her head.

  The smell of gunpowder hung thick in the air as Rankin stared down at the corpse for a long moment.

  Pity. She was a nice woman.

  He put the gun back in his pocket and stood listening for any signs of the daughter coming to see what was happening. She had no doubt heard the huge bang of the gun going off. When he heard nothing, he assumed she was electing to sit terrified in whatever bedroom she was in. He thought of her sitting in there, curled up in fear perhaps, unable to move.

  A familiar sensation passed through him.

  Excitement. Anticipation.

  That's not why you're here.

  His eyes lit on the block of knives on the kitchen worktop.

  Just kill her quick and be done with it. Plenty of time later for play.

  The ex-military cop walked forward, stepping over the corpse of Gemma McGuire. He reached out and took one of the knives from the wooden block. A small paring knife with a three inch blade.

  No sense wasting a good opportunity.

  He walked out of the kitchen to find Kaitlin McGuire.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  At shortly after 8:00 a.m. Edger woke a sleeping Paul Black from his slumber in one of the armchairs in the living room of the cottage. Black had spent the last few hours snoring and spluttering in his sleep by the warmth of the fire while Edger had checked over all the guns to make sure they were in good working order, which they were. All of the weapons were military grade, of a standard he hadn't seen since he was in the Legion. Even in Iraq, he and his team always used the Kalashnikov AK-47, leaving the high tech rifles to the likes of the Blackwatch guys. Edger wondered how the hell his brother had even managed to acquire such weapons in the first place. Aside from the rifles and handguns, remote detonated plastic explosive devices were not easy to come by outside of the military. Edger could only assume that Declan had stolen, or had been supplied, with the weaponry by those who ran the Red Falcon Country Club. If that was the case, it gave a good indication of what Edger and Black would be up against when they stormed the castle, so to speak.

  When Black opened his eyes, the now former police detective immediately began to cough uncontrollably, sounding like he was going to vomit up a lung. Edger could only watch with a pained expression as Black fumbled a white handkerchief out of his trouser pocket and covered his mouth with it until the coughing subsided. When he removed the handkerchief from his mouth, Edger noticed it was now stained red. "Jesus Christ," Black wheezed as he rested while trying to catch his breath.

  "Bad?" asked Edger, stating the obvious.

  Black nodded. "My fucking lungs are on fire."

  Edger wondered what Black would do if they survived what was to come. He got the impression Black was treating all this as some kind of suicide mission, it seemed. A way to end his life with valour and dignity rather than go through the torture and humiliation of painfully and slowly dying from lung cancer. Edger thought if he was in Black's position that he might elect to go out the same way. "When you're ready, we need to get going."

  Black nodded as he took out his cigarettes and lit one, the first drag causing him to start coughing all over again. "Ah, Jesus…"

  "Them things'll kill you."

  Black made a face. "Very funny, Edger."

  "Sorry. Bad taste."

  When Black had gathered himself again, he stood up and put his suit jacket on, then grabbed his overcoat from off the back of the chair. "Where we going?" he asked.

  "We need to find one of those club members, find out when the next big meeting is," Edger said. "We'll decide on the way back to Belfast which one we're going to go after. In the meantime, I need to call in and see my daughter on the way. She's staying in my ex-wife's parent's house in Fermanagh."

  "Fair enough."

  "I'll leave the Fiesta there, and we can take your car the rest of the way. I've already loaded the guns and stuff into your boot."

  Before they left, Edger went around the back of the cottage to the grave he dug for his brother the night before. He hunkered down by the rectangular patch of freshly turned over earth and placed a hand on the cold, damp soil. "Goodbye, brother," he said. "Rest in peace."

  About an hour and a half later, Edger pulled the Ford Fiesta into the drive of his ex-wife's parent's house, frowning as he spotted the black Range Rover parked there, recognising it immediately as John Rankin's vehicle. No sign of Gemma's parents' car or even Nigel's BMW. What was Rankin doing there, and where was everyone else?

  Black pulled up behind the Fiesta in his red Audi A3 just as Edger got out of the car. Edger told him to wait, and went to the front door of the house. He knocked on the glass before pushing down on the handle and opening the door. "Hello?" he called. "It's Harry."

  There was no reply as he stepped inside the house, closing the door behind him. The house felt eerily silent as he first checked the living room and then the conservatory. No one there. "Gemma? John, you here, mate?"

  Still no answer.

  What the hell is going on? Where was everyone? It's not like they can't hear me.

  A bad feeling came over him as a thought hit him: What if the Red Falcon Club had tracked Gemma and Kaitlin down?

  The thought made him sick to his stomach, and he reached inside his jacket and took out the Beretta, slipped the safety off as he walked slowly down the hallway towards the kitchen. "Gemma? Kaitlin?"

  He stopped when he noticed the bloody footprints on the white tiled floor of the kitchen.

  No.

  Edger raised the Beretta and walked into the large kitchen, stopped in horror when he saw all the blood.

  Saw the body on the floor.

  "Gemma, oh Jesus Christ…"

  She was lying in a pool of her own blood, a gaping hole in the back of her skull. He knelt down beside her and stroked her face, clenching his teeth to prevent the tears that wanted to come. "Oh Gemma…I'm sorry…"

  Then he remembered Kaitlin.

  Please not her as well…not her…

  He shot to his feet.

  "Kaitlin!" he called out as he left the kitchen to check all the bedrooms. "Kaitlin, answer me!"

  Where the fuck was John? Where was Nigel and Kieran? They were supposed to protect Gemma.

  The first bedroom he checked was empty. He quickly moved to the next one. Empty.

  Then he heard a muffled sound coming from the smallest bedroom at the end of the hall.

  There was someone in there.

 
His heart thudding against his chest, Edger walked down the hall with the semi-automatic held out in front of him, his finger on the trigger.

  Pausing by the door, his hand on the handle, Edger listened for a second, hearing muffled sounds from within. Someone was in there.

  Someone holding Kaitlin.

  Edger took a breath, and pushed down on the door handle, before bursting into the bedroom, the Beretta out as he prepared to shoot.

  The shock of what he saw caused him to freeze.

  It was Rankin. The man was naked from the waist up, and he was standing at the other side of the double bed in the centre of the room. Kaitlin was with him. He held her against him with one hand covering her mouth. His other hand held a small kitchen knife, and he had the blade up against Kaitlin's throat.

  Edger was sickened when he noticed his daughter was completely naked, and that there was blood running down her chest from a long slash wound that went almost shoulder to shoulder.

  Shaking his head, fighting back tears, Edger trained the gun on Rankin's head.

  "Don't, Harry," Rankin said, clearly shocked that Edger was even there in the first place. Rankin had clearly expected to be alone for a while. "I'll cut her throat. I will." He pressed the edge of the blade harder against Kaitlin's throat, and she screamed, or tried to, as Rankin still had his hand over her mouth.

  Edger shook his head in utter disbelief as he tried to make sense of the scene before him. "What the fuck?" he said, screwing his face up in disgust and disbelief.