Renegades

by Hutson, Shaun;

  The head turned and smiled at her.

  She screamed.

  Screamed and woke up.

  Cath struggled from the bed, her body covered in perspiration. She almost fell as she hurried to get out. She ran to the door, then pressed her back against it and stared at the bed.

  It was empty. No mutilated corpse. No grinning head.

  She swallowed hard, feeling sick. She crossed to the bathroom, snapped on the light and spun the cold tap, scooping water into her hand. She drank then wiped the remaining moisture over her face and chest, trying to slow her breathing. Her heart was hammering against her ribs. She took a couple of deep breaths and gradually felt the calmness returning. Even so, she couldn’t resist a glance back at the bed to check that it was unoccupied.

  There was nothing there, just sweat-sodden sheets.

  She knew she wouldn’t be able to sleep again that night. Pulling a bathrobe around her she sat down at the dressing table with her notes. She picked up a pen and began writing.

  It was 3.36 a.m.

  Laura Callahan sat bolt upright in bed, her eyes bulging, the scream still locked in her throat.

  It took her a moment or two to realize where she was.

  Home. Safe in bed.

  In bed.

  She looked across to the side where her husband usually lay, but he wasn’t there. She hauled herself naked from the bed. She had to tell him about the nightmare. About how she had seen Catherine Roberts pull back the sheet to find Mark Channing’s mutilated body, and how the body had been twisted in half at the waist, lacerated on every inch of skin.

  As she left the bedroom she glanced at her watch.

  2.36 a.m.

  She wondered why the name Baron had suddenly entered her mind.

  Sixty-Nine

  She didn’t know the men. She didn’t know where Callahan had found them. She didn’t really care.

  Catherine Roberts watched in silence as the four men gathered around the window in the church of Machecoul. It was secured firmly inside a large packing crate, protected inside by another smaller box and wedges of padding. Each panel had been covered with transparent tape then blocked with Styrofoam. The men had arrived with all the equipment. They had been at the church before her that evening. They had said little as she pulled up in the Peugeot, one had watched her a little too intently as she climbed out of the car, her skirt riding up around her thighs. He had looked at her but he hadn’t smiled.

  She had given them their instructions about moving the window, about taking care with it. If they had been listening then they certainly gave no indication that they were. All of them had been too preoccupied with looking at the window. When the time came to begin preparing it for its journey from Machecoul, the men had worked quickly. As if they were anxious to be rid of the window, away from its presence.

  Cath leant against the door of the chancel, watching the men. Her eyelids felt heavy, swollen through lack of sleep. She rubbed her face every few minutes, flexing her shoulders every so often to try and relieve the ache.

  Outside the trunk which would carry the window had already arrived. The driver sat in the cab smoking, waiting for his colleagues to emerge from the church. Even from inside the church Cath could hear the steady drone of the engine.

  She watched now as the four men prepared to lift the window, each one getting a grip on a corner of the crate. They were talking amongst themselves and she feared that her pleas to them to be careful were in vain. She watched as they lifted the crate.

  One of them shouted something Cath didn’t understand and they hurriedly lowered the crate again, stepping back away from it.

  She asked what was wrong and walked across to the box.

  The oldest man muttered something under his breath and held out a hand.

  On the palm was a bum about the size of a large coin. The skin was red and a blister was already forming, rising up from the mottled flesh.

  Cath frowned and reached out to touch the box.

  It was freezing cold, like touching a lump of ice.

  The oldest man wrapped a cloth around his hand and then he and his companions began lifting again. Cath watched as they manoeuvred it towards the chancel door.

  She was aware of a chill filling the room, growing in intensity.

  They edged the crate through, careful not to trap their hands against the door frame in the process. Cath blinked hard and stared at the box.

  There was a dark patch on one side of it, like a burn. As if some source of heat inside were being pressed against the wood. The mark was growing larger by the second.

  She rubbed her eyes.

  The mark was gone.

  Get a grip on yourself, she thought angrily. It was only a shadow on the crate.

  She waited a moment until the men had moved the crate through into the nave then she followed them out. The acrid smell filled her nostrils as she passed through the chancel door.

  A smell which reminded her of scorched wood.

  They loaded the crate onto the lorry without difficulty, then three of the men climbed into the back of the vehicle with the box while the fourth joined the driver up in the cab. The driver finished another cigarette, tossed the butt out of the window and prepared to start the engine.

  Inside the church Cath took one final look around the chancel, shuddering as she glanced at the place where she had found Mark Channing’s body. But she pushed the thought from her mind. The dust was thick on the ground except for the place where the window had stood. The silence was oppressive and Cath turned and headed out of the chancel, out of the church to the waiting truck. She checked with the driver that he had his instructions right. He would drive, she would follow in her car and, when they arrived, the crate would be loaded aboard the aircraft Callahan had chartered. The instructions were understood. The driver started the engine and pulled away. Cath watched the truck move slowly away up the narrow track towards the road then she slid behind the wheel of the Peugeot and twisted the key in the ignition.

  She glanced in the rear-view mirror, catching sight of her haggard reflection. She reached into her handbag and pulled out her sunglasses, anxious not to look at her own red-rimmed eyes. She slipped on the glasses and looked at herself again.

  The visage which stared back at her was that of Baron.

  Reflected in the rear-view mirror was the face of the creature on the window.

  In place of her own dark, shrouded eyes, the eyes of boiling blood glared back at her. The mouth was open, leering, the long tongue lolling wolfishly from the gaping maw.

  Cath only just managed to stifle a scream.

  As she pushed herself back in her seat she closed her eyes, feeling cold pressure at the back of her neck.

  When she looked in the mirror again she saw only her own face.

  What was happening to her?

  Not enough sleep. When she reached Ireland she would rest. She promised herself she would sleep. It was the pressure of the past few days, the lack of rest, what had happened to Charing. There was a logical explanation to it all. She nodded and started the car, winding down her window, allowing fresh air to blow in, hoping it would clear her mind.

  She glanced at the rear view mirror again and saw only her own reflection.

  She frowned and reached up to touch the mirror. The breath caught in her throat.

  From one side of the mirror to the other was a crack. Right across her eyeline.

  Seventy

  She heard the bang.

  Gunshot loud, it startled her badly. The next thing she knew the car was skidding across the road.

  Cath struggled to keep control of the vehicle, slamming on the brakes and finally bringing it to a halt at the roadside. She sucked in a deep breath, relieved that there had been no traffic coming in the opposite direction. She pushed open her door and walked around the car. The front offside wheel was holed, punctured by a piece of sharp stone. She stood with her hands on her hips for a moment, surveying the damage, then glanced u
p the road to where the lorry carrying the window had stopped. They had obviously seen what happened. Even as she watched one of the men jumped down from the cab and ran back towards her.

  He offered to help her change her wheel, saying that they would wait for her, but Cath shook her head and told him that the lorry must continue. The window must reach its destination at the appointed time so that it could be loaded aboard the plane which was waiting for it. The window was the important thing, she told him. She could manage the tyre on her own. The man looked at her, then at the wheel, and nodded, running back to the waiting lorry which pulled away.

  ‘Damn,’ snarled Cath and angrily kicked at the tyre.

  She watched the lorry disappear around a bend in the road. Then she walked to the boot of the car and opened it, checking the spare tyre.

  There was no way now that she would reach the plane in time to travel with the window. She would have to catch a commercial flight.

  A car drove past, the occupants giving her a cursory glance as she removed the jack and the spare wheel from the boot. She wondered how long it would take her to change the tyre. Perhaps she should have allowed the man to stay and help her, she thought as she pulled her hair back and tied it up, ready to begin her task.

  She would ring Callahan when she reached the airport.

  The plane was a Cessna 560, over forty-eight feet in length and with a wing span of fifty-two feet. It stood motionless, the pilot glancing out of his window as the lorry carrying the crate drew up alongside.

  The cabin, which usually held seven passengers, had been modified, the three aft-facing seats removed to increase the capacity of the hold.

  It was into this hold that the crate containing the window was carefully placed then secured by the three-man crew of the plane with the help of the men from the truck who, once the task was completed, clambered back into their vehicle and drove off.

  ‘I thought we were supposed to have a passenger too,’ said the pilot. ‘A woman.’ John Martin stroked his chin thoughtfully and shrugged.

  ‘Looks like we’re out of luck,’ Nick Cairns said, smiling. ‘Just the box.’

  Martin nodded again.

  ‘What’s in it, anyway?’ asked the third member of the team, a tall Scot called Gareth James.

  Martin shook his head.

  ‘I didn’t even think to ask,’ he said. ‘But it’s supposed to be valuable, whatever it is.’

  Cairns raised his eyebrows quizzically. They were used to a diversity of cargo, human and otherwise. They owned the plane jointly and had done for the last year. Martin had been a civil pilot for more than five years prior to going into business with his two colleagues, both of who had been engineers. Cairns had experienced a short spell in the R.A.F. ten years before. He was the eldest of the trio.

  Their business was smuggling.

  The hold had been converted for that reason, to carry more contraband. They had carried most things in their time, from drugs, to clothes, to guns. People were their cargo too, if necessary. They had taken criminals to countries where they could not be traced. Flown men out of places where they’d been sprung from prison. As long as the money was right they would do the job.

  The money had certainly been right for this job.

  Martin could not think what could make the contents of one box worth £250,000 to the man who had chartered the plane, but wondering wasn’t his business. Flying was.

  Cairns checked the instrument panel as Martin seated himself.

  The pilot glanced at his watch and stifled a yawn. They should be at the drop-off point in about three hours.

  The final checks were completed and he allowed the plane to taxi for a moment, bringing it into take-off position. Then, when he was ready, the twin Pratt and Whitney engines began to roar and the Cessna sped off.

  The sound of the turbo-fans grew to a crescendo as the plane finally left the ground, climbing at a rate of 3,650 feet a minute. In fifteen minutes they were at 35,000 feet. Only when he drew close to the Irish coast would he bring the plane down low enough to elude radar, enabling them to reach their drop point undetected. For now he settled back in his seat and gazed out at the clear night sky. They were promised good weather all the way, even over the Irish sea. But for a little cloud cover it was a pleasant, humid night.

  Odd, then, that it should feel so cold inside the plane.

  Seventy-One

  COUNTY CORK, THE REPUBLIC OF IRELAND:

  Doyle guided the car through the massive open gates that led onto David Callahan’s estate. He slowed down, looking around him at the sprawling, green land, the thickets of trees. The long driveway snaked through the grounds for a good two miles until finally it curved to the right and the house came into view.

  ‘Christ,’ murmured Georgie. ‘Look at the size of it.’

  Doyle slowed down a little more, looking with even closer scrutiny at his surroundings. To the left he noticed some movement: a horseman.

  The man rode towards them on a large bay which he reined in as he rode closer to the car. Doyle ran appraising eyes over him and noticed a large bump inside the man’s coat beneath his left arm.

  Probably armed.

  Little wonder, too. On a place this size Callahan would need security.

  The horseman guided his mount around to Doyle’s side of the car and looked down at him. The counter-terrorist slowed the car to a crawl.

  ‘Can I help you?’ asked the horseman.

  ‘We’re here to see Mr Callahan,’ Doyle told him.

  ‘Is he expecting you?’

  ‘Not really. We just want to talk to him.’

  ‘You’re not from around here.’

  ‘You’re quick,’ said Doyle, smiling thinly.

  The man caught the sarcasm in the Englishman’s voice and glared at him. Doyle held the look for a moment then pressed his foot slightly on the accelerator, revving the engine. The bay whinnied nervously and moved away, the rider struggling to keep control of the animal. Doyle pressed harder on the gas and the Datsun moved away swiftly. The horseman rode after them.

  ‘You should sue them, Doyle,’ said Georgie, shaking her head.

  He looked vague.

  ‘Your charm school,’ she said flatly.

  ‘Very funny,’ he murmured without looking at her. In his wing mirror he could see the horseman riding up alongside. By now they were at the house and Doyle brought the car to a halt outside the massive building. Both he and Georgie got out.

  ‘I’ll tell him you’re here,’ said the horseman.

  ‘No need. We can manage,’ Doyle assured him, striding towards the front door. He rang the bell and waited, looking at the horseman who was still glaring. The door opened and Doyle found himself confronted by a pretty young woman, he guessed in her early twenties. Shoulder-length brown hair, highlighted. She wore little make-up. Doyle smiled at her.

  ‘Good morning,’ he said. ‘My name is Sean Doyle and this is Georgina Willis. We’re here to see Mr Callahan.’

  ‘Do you have an appointment?’ the girl asked.

  ‘Do we need one?’ Doyle asked, still smiling.

  ‘Who are you?’ she persisted.

  ‘Is something wrong, Trisha?’

  Georgie saw Laura Callahan first. Dressed in jeans and a sweatshirt, her hair freshly washed, she was inspecting the two newcomers.

  ‘You want to see my husband?’ Laura said.

  ‘I don’t know who they are, Mrs Callahan,’ Trisha said.

  ‘British Counter-Terrorist Unit,’ Doyle said, his smile fading. ‘This is official. Where is your husband, Mrs Callahan?’

  ‘Do you have identification?’ Laura wanted to know.

  ‘No, we don’t, but you’d save everyone, your husband included, a lot of trouble if you’d let us speak to him.’

  ‘How do I know you’re who you say you are?’ Laura persisted. ‘My husband is a very rich man. You could be anyone. You might want to kill him.’

  Doyle sighed.

  ‘If
I wanted to kill him I wouldn’t have rung your fucking doorbell, would I?’ he snapped. ‘We just want to talk to him about a couple of things, then we’ll go.’

  There was an uneasy silence, then Laura finally nodded. Both she and the maid stepped aside. Doyle and Georgie entered, Georgie looking around at the huge hallway.

  ‘It’s all right, Trisha,’ said Laura Callahan. ‘You can go back to work now. I’ll take care of these people.’ The maid nodded and disappeared up the stairs. Laura led them along a carpeted corridor to her right towards the sitting room. She pushed open the door and walked in.

  David Callahan turned as they entered, his brow furrowing as he caught sight of Doyle and Georgie.

  Introductions were swift and cursory.

  ‘They’re with the police,’ said Laura.

  ‘Not quite,’ Doyle corrected her. ‘Counter-Terrorist Unit.’

  ‘Would you like a drink?’ asked Callahan, smiling.

  Georgie accepted an orange juice, Doyle a whiskey.

  ‘What can I do for you?’ Callahan wanted to know.

  ‘I won’t beat about the bush, Mr Callahan,’ Doyle told him. ‘Just under a week ago in Belfast there was an explosion. The men responsible were driving a car which was registered to you. They were members of the IRA. We wondered if you could tell us how three IRA men happened to be driving your car.’

  ‘The Sierra?’

  Doyle nodded.

  ‘It was stolen a couple of weeks ago,’ Callahan told them.

  ‘Did you report it?’

  Callahan shook his head.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘The police around here aren’t too bright, Mr Doyle.’ He smiled. ‘Besides, it’s only a car.’ Callahan looked at his watch.

  ‘You’ve lived here for two years, right?’ Doyle said.

  ‘A little less than that, actually,’ Callahan told him.

  ‘And before that?’

  ‘Here and there.’