Renegades

by Hutson, Shaun;

  She had to get round there, help him if she could.

  Georgie turned, accidentally bumping into two men as she did.

  She looked up and apologized.

  James Maguire smiled politely and stepped to one side to let her through.

  Don’t react. Even though you know it’s him, don’t react.

  She moved past the renegade IRA man, taking up a position about ten feet to his right. Each time she glanced past him towards the match, she was able to look at his face.

  The square features. The dark hair.

  Could she be mistaken?

  Maguire stood with his hands dug deep into the pockets of his overcoat, occasionally muttering something to the man next to him, a tall man in his mid-thirties with a pale complexion and short brown hair.

  She remembered the photo of Maguire she’d seen back in London, in Donaldson’s office.

  There was no mistake, this was the man.

  But what to do? Pull down on him right here and now in the crowd and risk a shooting match?

  Her hand went almost unconsciously to the .357 tucked in the holster beneath her left arm, her fingers touching the butt for reassurance. Then she hooked her thumbs in the pockets of her jeans and stood still.

  Watch him.

  Her gaze travelled across the pitch to where the police were still flooding onto the terracing.

  The game continued, despite some bemused looks from the linesman on that side. Most of the crowd didn’t even seem to have noticed the commotion; shouts and roars greeted every pass from the Irish side as they mounted another attack.

  Maguire nudged his companion and nodded in the direction of one of the exits. They turned and made their way slowly through the crowd.

  Georgie waited a moment before following them.

  There was no way of telling Doyle what was going on; she couldn’t afford to let Maguire out of her sight now. She had little doubt that he and his companion were armed. If it came to a fight she was ready. The Sterling was full and she carried two speed-loaders as well.

  They were drawing closer to the steps which led down to the exit.

  Georgie paused at the top of the steps, glancing back at the hordes of police still flooding onto the terracing. She could see Doyle standing on the edge of the pitch looking around.

  Perhaps he was looking for her, she mused.

  With that last thought she hurried down the steps after Maguire.

  Others were leaving, too, so her presence wasn’t noticeable as she walked briskly along twenty feet behind the Irishman. She followed both of them out into the car park and through the rows of stationary vehicles, aware that her pursuit became more obvious with every step.

  Should she try and arrest them row?

  There was a massive roar from inside the stadium and Maguire turned slightly.

  Georgie walked off to the right, away from him, and headed towards a car, digging in her pocket as if to find her keys.

  Maguire and his companion walked on. This time she circled around in a wide arc, trying to see which car they were headed for.

  There was a man behind the wheel of the blue Sierra they climbed into. A short, heavy-set, brutish individual who had not used a razor for many days.

  Georgie moved closer to the car, her eyes narrowed to read the number plate.

  There was something familiar about the car.

  Something ...

  She recognised the number plate as the one Doyle had given her over the phone the other day. This was the car she had traced.

  She undid her jacket, ready to pull the .357.

  ‘She moved closer to the vehicle, hearing the engine start up.

  If she didn’t move fast they were going to get away.

  To her right she spotted a man opening the door of his Cavalier.

  Georgie took a few steps towards him, glancing back at the Sierra. It wasn’t moving. The bloody thing was just sitting there, engine idling.

  What the hell were they playing at?

  She could see them through the back window.

  All three were checking their watches.

  Fifty-One

  They would never do it in time.

  Doyle was convinced of that. He watched countless uniformed men flooding onto the terracing, shepherding the spectators away from the bomb. He heard garbled messages over radios that an army bomb disposal unit was on its way. But he was sure that they would never clear the scene in time. In his mind’s eye he could see Maguire standing watching the pandemonium, finger poised over the button that would detonate the device.

  If you’re going to push it, push it now, you bastard.

  The crowd in that sector of the ground were moving swiftly, co-operating with the police, bewildered by what was happening but convinced that it was in their own interests to evacuate the area.

  Men ushered their children away; some carried their off-spring. The evacuation was orderly, considering the imminent danger.

  Doyle wondered why nothing had been announced over the public address system. He wondered why the game was still going on. There could be other devices in other parts of the ground. Why take chances? Evacuate the whole bloody ground!

  He scanned the faces of the spectators as they left, looking pale and frightened. The exodus from this particular part of the stadium must have been noticed by others in the ground by now, surely. Others would be asking questions, wondering what was happening.

  Some would realize.

  He saw many in the stand on the other side of the pitch out of their seats, looking across towards the area. For many the match itself was becoming something of a sideshow.

  He glanced back at the terracing behind him.

  It was almost empty.

  The police had done their work well. Doyle felt a momentary rush of expectation. Perhaps the bomb would not cause any loss of life.

  A thin smile touched his lips.

  Perhaps he’d got to the bomb before Maguire had anticipated. Thwarted him. Doyle’s smile broadened as he heard word come over a radio that the terraces were clear and cordoned off.

  ‘Fuck you, Maguire,’ he murmured. ‘Not this time.’

  He turned to look back across at the main stand, at the spectators still gazing at the now-empty terracing.

  It was then that the explosion came.

  The blast was massive, ripping through the main, stand, sending seats, pieces of concrete and plastic, metal and bodies flying into the air.

  So enormous was the explosion that, even a full pitch width away, Doyle felt the concussion blast. Felt the wave of heat which followed the gigantic eruption.

  He saw bodies flung skyward, some trailing blood like grotesque fireworks.

  A searing red and white ball of flame filled the stand, momentarily blinding Doyle. It was followed by a secondary blast and reeking clouds of black smoke which rose above the scene of devastation to form a thick noxious mushroom cloud which rose into the sky, lifted on tongues of flame which leapt a full thirty feet.

  Portions of the stand roof, blasted away by the fearful explosion, fell to the ground, huge sheets of twisted metal crashing down on those not already killed or maimed by the initial blast. As the thunderous roar of the detonation died away Doyle heard screams of pain and terror.

  He set off across the pitch, past players who stood dumb-struck, gazing at the carnage, past others who had thrown themselves to the ground. Others were running towards the tunnel, towards the terracing. Anywhere to escape the horror.

  There were bodies on the pitch, flung there by the ferocity of the discharge.

  Doyle passed a man with one leg missing, torn off at the hip, blood spouting madly from the stump.

  Another had been decapitated by the blast, his lifeless body spread-eagled on a pitch now slicked heavily with crimson.

  A hand, most of the arm still attached, lay close to the touchline. Two or three paces to the left was the body of a child, the back of the skull sheared off, the spine exposed between the
shoulder blades.

  Others still moved.

  A man with his arm torn off above the elbow tried to drag himself away from the blistering flames. A woman ran screaming from the remnants of the stand, her hair and clothes alight.

  Doyle grabbed her, singeing his hands in the process, and rolled her on the grass to extinguish the flames. She rolled onto her back, skin blackened by the incredible heat. He saw blisters actually rising on her face. Rising then bursting, spilling their sticky contents over her charred features. She coughed and smoke puffed from her mouth. As he stood up he knew she was dead.

  Debris littered the ground everywhere, some of it red hot. Doyle looked up into the blazing wreckage and saw other bodies lying across seats; unable to move, they could only wait to be devoured by the flames which still leapt and danced in the cool night air and now brought with them a new stench.

  The sickly sweet odour of burning flesh.

  Doyle turned and saw policemen and ambulancemen dashing towards the scene of devastation. They were helping the wounded, comforting the dying. Some were lifting the dead and carrying them to the edge of the pitch.

  A young boy, his face a mask of blood, stood over his dead father, crying softly as he looked down at the eviscerated corpse. An ambulanceman tried to usher him away but the boy wouldn’t go.

  ‘Jesus Christ,’ muttered Doyle through clenched teeth. He could feel the sweat on his body, could feel the heat as he stood looking into the flames which still blossomed from the stand. His ears were filled with screams and moans, his hearing still slightly impaired by the aftermath of the massive blast. He fixed his eyes on the crying child, its sobs echoing inside his head.

  Doyle wished he’d been completely deafened.

  He spun round to look back across the field at the section of terracing which had been cleared.

  Cleared so effectively, people ushered away so efficiently from what was now, he realized, merely a decoy. The package had been placed there in order to be found.

  He kicked at the, ground angrily, his frustration spilling over into rage.

  Behind him the stand continued to burn.

  The wounded continued to moan in pain.

  The child continued to cry.

  Fifty-Two

  The Sierra pulled away as the explosion ripped through the stand.

  Georgie spun round, ducking down instinctively as she heard the thunderous roar, saw the screaming funnel of fire rocket into the air. She didn’t wait to watch the mournful black smoke rising like a vast shroud over the scene of devastation. She turned in time to see the blue car pulling smoothly out of its parking space. No speed, no haste. They had no reason to hurry now, their job was done. They’d be clear of the stadium before the first ambulance even arrived.

  The owner of the Cavalier was still sitting behind the wheel, rear-view mirror tilted towards him as he combed his hair. That simple act, however, had also been interrupted by the explosion. All eyes in the car park had turned towards the source of the blast and now looked on in horror and awe as the flames took hold.

  It seemed the only ones not looking at the aftermath of the blast were the three men in the blue Sierra and Georgie who, by now, had reached the Cavalier.

  She pulled open the driver’s side door with one hand, reaching for the Sterling with the other.

  ‘What the hell are you doing?’ the driver snapped angrily, but the annoyance soon faded, transformed to fear as he saw the .357 drawn from its holster.

  ‘Get out,’ Georgie said, pushing the weapon into his face, motioning with her head.

  He didn’t need telling twice.

  He raised his hands in surrender and slid from behind the wheel, his bowels loose. Helpless, afraid he was going to fill his pants, he watched as Georgie got into the car, stuffed the .357 back into its holster and started the engine. She pulled away smoothly, eyes searching for the blue Sierra.

  It was about thirty yards ahead of her, turning out of the main entrance to the car park. The security guards and police who had been manning the entrance were running towards the stadium, presumably thinking that their duties now lay within. The IRA men slipped out unchallenged.

  Georgie followed, shifting her position in the driving seat, angry when she found that the chair was uncomfortably far from the pedals. Still, no time to stop now, she’d have to manage.

  As she pulled out into traffic behind the Sierra she heard the first wail of sirens, saw the first of the emergency vehicles come screeching around a corner and hurtle towards the stadium. Red and blue lights filled her eyes but she blinked the glare away, more intent on not losing sight of her quarry.

  The Sierra was approaching a set of traffic lights.

  Georgie kept a reasonable distance between herself and the other car, glancing down at the Cavalier’s fuel gauge, relieved to see that the needle was hovering on a mark just below full. She had no idea how long this was going to take.

  What was she hoping for?

  That they would lead her to their hideout?

  Perhaps to the man who hired them in the first place?

  Another police car went flashing past, sirens screaming.

  The Sierra crossed the junction with the lights on amber.

  ‘Shit,’ Georgie said, knowing what she must do.

  They were going to spot her sooner or later anyway.

  Hold tight.

  She put her foot down and the Cavalier sped through the red lights. A car coming the other way swerved, narrowly avoiding her, the driver slamming hard on his brakes, hitting his horn at the same time.

  In the Sierra, the driver, the thick-set man with a heavy growth of whiskers, looked back and glimpsed the Cavalier in the rear view mirror.

  ‘I think we’ve got company,’ he said quietly.

  Maguire turned and looked out of the back window.

  ‘Police?’ asked Paul Maconnell, swinging the car around a corner.

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Maguire, squinting through the window to get a better look at their pursuer. ‘Lose them.’

  Maconnell nodded and put his foot down.

  The Sierra shot forward as if fired from a cannon.

  Georgie knew now that they’d spotted her. At least now she knew what to do.

  She stepped hard on the accelerator, the needle on the speedo nudging seventy.

  Ahead of her the Sierra took a corner doing nearly seventy-five, the tyres squealing as they struggled to grip the road. The car skidded, spun then shot off once more, leaving tread marks for at least ten feet behind it. She smelt the burning rubber as she hurtled after it, the wind rushing through her open side window.

  More traffic lights ahead.

  Red.

  Fuck it. Both cars roared straight through, Georgie forced to guide her car up on to the pavement to avoid a Metro which had stalled ahead of her. She felt the Cavalier bounce up onto the kerb, the jolt throwing her against the door, almost knocking the wind from her.

  Another corner and the Sierra took it approaching eighty.

  Georgie tried to coax more speed from the Cavalier, gripping the wheel tight as she wrenched it hard to guide the car around the comer. The street she came into was narrow and she saw the Sierra directly ahead. It scraped the side of a parked car, sparks flying from the chassis. Maconnell controlled the vehicle, though, swinging it away from the parked car, allowing it to screech across a corner of the pavement. It hit the kerb and rose a couple of feet, slamming down again, skidding violently. But the Irishman regained control and drove on.

  Georgie also took the short cut across the pavement, the wheels thumping the kerb so hard she thought for one terrible second she’d had a blow-out, but the Cavalier continued on and she leant forward, as if to put more pressure on the accelerator.

  Ahead of her on the left was a supermarket, shoppers filling parked cars from trolleys.

  The Sierra managed to swerve in time to avoid the trolley which rolled in front of it.

  Georgie tried but couldn’t.
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  The wheeled basket was catapulted into the air by the collision, twisted into scrap by the impact. It skidded off the roof and fell back into the street.

  Georgie kept her foot on the gas pedal, her palms moist now on the wheel.

  More sirens, behind her this time. She glanced into the rear-view mirror and saw a police car.

  Maconnell saw it too.

  ‘The fucking law,’ he said, twisting the wheel violently as he took another corner.

  ‘Fuck the law,’ said. Mick Black from the back seat. Who’s this comedian that’s chasing us?’

  Maguire said nothing; he merely glanced again at the oncoming Cavalier. He reached into the glove compartment and took out a gleaming object’.

  A loud metallic click filled the car as he slammed in the magazine of the Skorpion machine pistol. Then, as quickly as he could, he slid over the passenger seat and into the back with Black.

  ‘Slow down, Paul,’ said Maguire, winding down one of the rear windows. ‘Let the bastard get a bit closer.’

  Maconnell nodded and did as he was instructed.

  Cold air rushed into the car as Maguire wound down the window, steadying himself on the back seat.

  Georgie saw the sub-machine gun a fraction of a second before it was fired.

  She hit her brakes, the Cavalier skidding madly.

  Maguire opened up.

  The staccato rattle of automatic fire filled the evening and bright flames spewed from the barrel of the Skorpion as it spat out its deadly load. The single burst of 9mm ammunition spattered the front of the Cavalier.

  Bullets screamed off the bonnet, tearing off a wing mirror. Three or four hit the windscreen.

  Georgie was lucky. The fact that the Cavalier had spun to one side ensured that the high velocity slugs didn’t hit directly. Two merely whined off the glass but the others shattered it. The windscreen spider-webbed. It was like looking through ice.

  She eased her foot slightly on the accelerator, slowing down a little as she struck at the shattered glass, managing to punch a hole in it. Wind rushed in, blasting into her face, but she kept punching until all the windscreen seemed to fold in upon itself. Some fragments merely collapsed and were blown off the bonnet of the car as they fell outwards. Others, blown by the wind, were flung back into the car.