CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
“You’re crazy, you know.” Donovan surveyed the picnic table in front of him. Every firearm and bit of ammunition, except for the ones carried by each man was on the table.
“How much do we have?” Sarah stood next to him and looked down on the table. “Is it very much? Is it enough, do you think?”
“No, it’s not enough,” he said with exasperation. “There are at least thirty of them and only five of us. If each of us had a Gatling gun and automatic weapons too it wouldn’t be enough.”
John approached the table. He held a large biscuit in one hand stuffed with jam.
“Wow!” he said. “That is a lot of guns.” He turned to his mother. “You have to let me come, Mom,” he said. “We need every man. Mr. Donovan said so.”
Sarah turned and looked at Donovan.
“I did not say the boy should come,” Donovan said loudly, turning and frowning at John. “I did not say that.”
“No, but I know we’re outnumbered and we need every man.”
“Stop it right now, John,” Sarah said. “The answer is no so please let Mr. Donovan and me continue without having to fight this battle, too.”
John blushed and turned away from the table. Sarah called after him but he kept walking.
“Damn it,” she said. “I know he’s just trying to help…”
“Alright,” Donovan said gruffly. “Here’s my plan and you’ll abide by it, aye?”
“Of course.”
“Oh, don’t say that when you know it’s the last thing you’ll do.”
“I don’t know what you mean,” Sarah said. “I have no idea as to the best way to handle any of this and am only too happy to be told what to do.”
“Even if, like with young John, I tell you to stay back at camp?”
“Except that.”
Donovan gave her a withering I-told-you-so-look.
“Come on, Mike,” she said. “The plan?”
Donovan looked down at the guns and sighed.
“I’m in the lead,” he said, glaring at her as if expecting her to challenge it. “And we’ll put two of our lads in the trees the night before.”
Sarah nodded. “Snipers?”
“More for coverage, like, than snipers,” he said. “So when we retreat we don’t get all shot to shit.”
“That doesn’t sound like a great plan,” Sarah said, frowning. “In fact, it sounds more like planned suicide.”
“Which is what I’ve been telling you all along. Plus…” Donovan nodded to the grey skies with scudding dark clouds bunching up on the horizon, “there’s a bad storm coming.”
“The Irish aren’t afraid of a little bad weather,” Sarah said.
“Don’t do that,”
“Do what?”
“Pull that national shite on me. Try to make it seem like it’s somehow the patriotic thing to do to march into a well-armed camp where we are hopelessly outnumbered. This is not bloody England, you know. We don’t buy into that stupid “we the five hundred” shite.”
“Six hundred,”
“Okay, how every many, it doesn’t matter, okay? This is not an epic poem. This is real life and you are putting every man and his family at risk by this barking mad, this crazy…”
“Look, Mike, much as I like to argue this same issue with you over and over again ad nauseum let me remind you that I am not the bad guy here. Okay? It’s easy to lash out at me for doing what needs to be done, but you know it’s Finn and his damn gang that is putting your people at risk, not me.” She held up a hand to cut off his protests. “If you think I’m the bad guy then bugger off right now and I’ll go alone.”
“I have no doubt you would.”
“I would.”
“Because you’re crazy.”
“Because. I. Want. My. Husband. Back.”
Donovan sighed heavily and looked away.
“Look, Mike, let me put it to you this way: if you had a wife, let’s say, oh, I don’t know, say she’s the mother of your children and you love her very much and if she were being held by murdering scum, would you just sit tight, and hope they don’t come bother you? Or would you gather up your guns and as many people as you could and go bloody get her?”
He shook his head but she could see he finally agreed.
“We’re all going to get bloody killed,” he said.
“Right,” she said, patting him on the shoulder. “Leave the pep talk with the men to me, okay?”
Finn had slept very well. The farmer’s bed was soft and large and the fleeing family had been kind enough to leave the linens on the bed. Finn had drunk long into the night but, as usual, woke up refreshed with no ill after affects from the night’s abuses. It also seemed to him that his bad arm hadn’t hurt last night. He touched it now and massaged it gently. It surprised him to realize that he associated the pain of his healed wound with the continued life of the woman who had caused it. He really believed it would stop hurting him as soon as she ceased to exist. He stood up and looked out the window at the grey misting Irish morning. Today seemed to be a perfect day for that, he thought with a smile.
David watched the young boy wolfing down a full breakfast over the campfire. He had been present last night—indeed it really appeared most of the men thought David to be invisible most of the time—when the boy had presented his report to Finn. The cheering and the drinking had shifted into high gear at the prospect of a battle with the American and her group. David was as near to a state of shock as could be possible without having taken an actual hit on the skull. Up to this moment, he thought Sarah and John were living placidly and quietly in the little cottage just as he’d left them. The boy, Conor’s, revelation and subsequent speech by Finn destroyed that scenario in one swift, blinding moment.
“The bitch is coming to us!” Finn roared to his men. Sparks from the outdoor fire shot into the air almost as if conjured up by him and his words. With a bottle of wine in one hand and a fist in the other, Finn had gathered his crew of twenty men. “And we’ll meet her halfway. Are we not accommodating?” His gang laughed, more from a general belief that it was expected of them rather than any real mirth. “I don’t want her touched so be mindful of that,” he said. “Anyone else—and she will not come alone—kill them straightaway. D’ya ken?”
He turned and clapped young Conor on the shoulder and handed him the wine bottle. Before he turned to go back into the house where he would drink alone until he fell asleep, his glance fell briefly on David.
The plan was easy if not foolproof.
David ate the moldy soda bread and washed it down with strong, tepid tea. He felt lucky there was anything to eat this morning at all. Like the others, Brendan had drunk too much and was still asleep. One of the younger gypsy boys, with terrible acne and crossed eyes, had made him breakfast, such as it was. The cold had been awful during the night and David fought to return feeling to his numb fingers and toes. He slept by the campfire which usually went out a few hours after he nodded off. He wasn’t tied or restrained in any way as he was still considered too weak to do much more than bring a spoon back and forth to his lips.
He may have encouraged that assumption more than was absolutely accurate.
David could tell that most of the gypsies were still sleeping off last night’s drinking. Even Finn, usually an early riser, hadn’t shown himself yet this morning.
All David had to do was get up as if he were going to relieve himself in the woods, like he had done many times before, and just keep walking. With any luck at all, he’d intercept Sarah and her group well before they were ambushed by Finn’s death squad.
He took one more look around the deserted camp, stood up, brushed the nonexistent crumbs from his meager breakfast off his jeans, and headed for the woods.
Sarah sat quietly atop Dan. The bad weather was definitely moving in and quickly. She looked around at the small group of men, also on horseback, and felt a wave of discouragement.
Couldn’t the storm have held off just o
ne day?
Four men sat their horses and alternately watched her and the skies. One—a big fellow named Bill—would stay behind to protect the women and children.
It wasn’t early. Sarah hadn’t been sure if that mattered and Donovan didn’t seem to have an opinion on it.
“D’ya think I have experience in this sort of thing?” he had responded sourly when she queried him.
No one had experience in any of the things they were lately being called upon to do, Sarah thought, least of all her.
She glanced back at the black hulk that was once their cottage. Just thinking about Dierdre and the loss of her was enough to make Sarah want to slide out of her saddle and return to her cold bedroll in the barn. The feisty little Irishwoman had been Sarah’s emotional mainstay since the crisis had happened. Whether it had been leek and kidney pies or tips on carding wool or common sense advice on how to keep her worries about John’s safety at bay, Sarah didn’t feel she’d ever find a dearer or more valuable friend.
While the men checked and rechecked their tack and guns and studied the weather, Sarah closed her eyes and prayed.
The further he got from the camp, the harder David ran, unmindful of the noise he was making as he crashed through the dense woods. From what he’d heard last night around the campfire, he was fairly certain he knew the direction that Sarah’s party was coming. If they were on horseback as was generally assumed, they’d have to come down either the main road or across the pastures. Because he didn’t know the area or the trails, David ran parallel to the main road and away from the gypsy camp.
His arm, mended but not strong, hung at an unnatural angle to his body as he ran.
His mind raced.
Would he be able to hear Sarah’s group on the road? Would he be able to identify them? It didn’t make sense that Sarah would actually be with them but Finn seemed convinced she would be. Would they shoot first when he hailed them?
Would this nightmare ever be over?
David stumbled against a root and caught himself from plowing face first into the ground. His breathing was coming in short, ragged gasps but he was afraid to stop and rest. He needed to get distance from himself and the camp. Even that drunken, lazy crowd had probably noticed his absence by now.
He forced a long breath into his lungs and, exhaling, pushed himself off a small sapling for momentum.
“Whoa, sport. Where would ye be heading now?”
The words were as friendly as the tone was deadly.
David froze.
Brendan came through the bushes ahead of David, a smile on his face that never reached his eyes.
“Making a run for it, Yank?”
“And so, I want to thank each of you,” Sarah said, wiping the perspiration from the palms of her hands on her jeans and gripping the reins tightly. “I know that you know we can’t live with this group of…of cowards and murderers virtually in our midst and that without any police to protect us, we need to step forward and deal with it.”
The men listened passively and for a moment Sarah found herself wondering if they only spoke Gaelic although she knew that wasn’t true. Out of the corner of her eye she saw one of the wives standing by the cook fire in jeans and running shoes. The woman stood with her hands on her hips staring directly at Sarah. It was not a friendly stare.
Why were they doing this? She looked at Donovan who was still watching the storm clouds move in. Were they really risking their lives just because Donovan asked them to?
The night before she told herself she didn’t care why the men came with her, as long as they did. She would worry about morals and why and all that once she had David back with her. In fact, now that she thought about it, she realized that once David was back, she wouldn’t need to think about it. Unless…she looked at the glowering wife again. Unless some of them didn’t come back. Was she asking this woman to risk her husband so that Sarah could retrieve her own? Was this just another case of the rich American’s needs and wants trumping everyone else’s?
Why were these thoughts invading her head now of all times?
In exasperation, Sarah jerked Dan’s head away from the center of the camp and pushed him forward with her legs.
I can’t think about any of this right now, she thought. Let’s just do this.
From what Donovan had told her, she figured it was at least a thirty-minute ride to where the gypsies were camped out at an abandoned neighboring farm. Sarah didn’t want to lose the one advantage they had—the surprise factor—and so she’d suggested to Donovan that they not ride in a group but in spaced-out single file. He seemed fine with the suggestion.
She was grateful for the man. He was a natural leader and the men in the camp, even the older ones, clearly all looked to him to tell them what to do in this new and uncertain world after the crisis.
As she led Dan out of the camp at a walk, she caught John’s eye as he stood next to the little cart pony Ned. He waved to her but didn’t smile. She had hugged him fiercely not five minutes before she mounted up. Leaving him again left her with a sick feeling and she had to remind herself, nearly by the minute, that what she was doing—as unnatural as it felt—was in fact bringing her family back together again. She waved to him and forced a smile.
Dear God, please don’t let this be the last time I see him.
David stared at the rope winding tighter and tighter around his wrists. He felt like the wind had been knocked out of him but, except to bind his hands, Brendan hadn’t touched him. The sickening feeling of being so close, in his mind, to ending this nightmare and then landing right back in it made him want to vomit.
“Sorry to ruin your plans for the day, mate,” Brendan said jovially as he cinched the hemp handcuffs tighter. “Finn thought you might try something like this, today of all days, you know? Not that I appreciate being awakened by a bucket of piss being thrown on me. That’s thanks to you.”
David looked at the man. “Sorry about that,” he mumbled with as much sarcasm as he could muster.
“Do I look worried?” Brendan said, giving the lead rope attached to David’s hands a hard yank to test its security. “Now, I may smell a little raw…” He laughed heartily at his own joke and then indicated the path back to the camp.
“You don’t have to do this,” David found himself saying. “You don’t have to do everything that sociopath tells you to do, Brendan.”
“Feet moving, if you please, Yank,” Brendan said, tugging on the lead rope. “I’ll drag you behind me all the way if I have to but neither of us’ll be happy about it.”
“He threw a bucket of piss on you, you said.” David began to move in the direction of the camp. “Why would you willingly be his house slave?”
“Unlike yourself, we don’t have slaves in Ireland,” Brendan said.
“Clearly, you do,” David said. “I’m talking to one now.”
“Aw, shite, I was hoping we could stay friends a little longer. Name calling me isn’t a way to do that.”
“Neither is tying up people, Brendan.” David held up his hands to illustrate the point.
“Guess that means we’re not really friends,” Brendan said.
Because Sarah had been thinking of John when she heard the shout, the first thing that came, irrationally, to her mind, was that he had somehow gotten hurt in the brief moments since she had last seen him. She had ridden to the perimeter of the west wall that surrounded their little farm, but she wheeled her horse around and cantered back to the forecourt, looking frantically for the sight of her son.
What she saw, instead, was bad. All three of the men in the group were dismounted and huddled around a form on the ground. Sarah stayed mounted, the better to get a view of what had happened now that she knew it didn’t involve John. Donovan’s horse was running wildly back and forth in the open paddock, his reins streaming in front of him with each pounding step a threat to become entangled in them.
“What happened?” she yelled to the group. She could see now it was D
onovan on the ground.
He wasn’t moving.
Free Falling, Book 1 of the Irish End Games Page 23
