Renegades

by Hutson, Shaun;

  A short sprint.

  She gripped the keys in one hand and the .38 in the other, her eyes constantly scanning the front of the house. She watched as one of the Garda officers clambered out of his vehicle, looked around and hurried off towards a tall bush to relieve himself.

  Ducking low, Georgie scuttled towards the BMW.

  She reached it unseen, pushed the key into the lock and eased the door open, sliding behind the steering wheel. She put the key in the ignition and twisted it.

  The engine burst into life first time and she stuck it in gear, reversing, swinging the car around so that it was facing the two Garda cars.

  She stepped on the accelerator and the car shot forward, gravel flying up behind it. The BMW sped past the other two cars before their drivers could even start their engines. She saw them fading away behind her in the rear-view mirror. The needle of the speedometer touched sixty as she sped down the long driveway, not flicking on her headlamps until she saw the gates.

  There were two cars’ parked across the exit, nose to nose.

  Georgie gripped the steering wheel tighter, hunched over it and floored the accelerator.

  She saw men struggling out of the cars as she bore down on them.

  There was an almighty crash as she smashed through the makeshift barrier. The jolt slammed her back in her seat but she kept her foot down, only easing up as she reached the road, slamming on the brake to prevent the car hurtling into the ditch on the far side. She twisted the wheel, trying to keep the wheels on the tarmac. They screamed as they tried to retain a hold, smoke rising from the back pair. For one terrible second she thought she was going to turn over but the car held and she drove on.

  No one followed.

  Twelve miles to the signal box.

  She pressed down on the gas again.

  ‘I’ve got to destroy that window,’ Catherine Roberts said.

  ‘We’ve got to get out of here first,’ Doyle reminded her. He glanced at her a moment. ‘You really believe that shit about the window? This force, or power, whatever you call it?’

  ‘It exists, Mr Doyle. It has done for hundreds, perhaps thousands of years.’

  ‘Then what makes you think you can stop it?’ he asked.

  She had no answer.

  Ninety-One

  The first prolonged burst of fire from the Uzi blasted in the glass front of the signal box.

  Shards flew into the room and bullets tore into the walls, some ricocheting wildly, screaming off the wood and concrete.

  The attacker could only be seen by the blinding muzzle-flash which came from the weapon as he fired.

  Maguire and Maconnell threw themselves down as the bullets shattered the windows and parted the air above them. Then Maguire, keeping low, headed for the other room, the Browning already free of its holster.

  ‘What the fuck is happening?’ Damien Flynn said as the staccato rattle of automatic fire filled the night.

  ‘Someone’s trying to kill us,’ Maguire shouted. ‘Cover that door,’ he told Flynn, jabbing a finger. Flynn opened it a fraction, and immediately a hail of bullets shredded the wood, one of them catching him in the thigh. He fell to the floor clutching at the wound, relieved to see that the blood flow was relatively small. The bullet had missed his femoral artery. He cursed, recovered his own Skorpion machine-pistol and fired off several short bursts in the direction of the muzzle-flash. Spent cartridge cases flew into the air and soon the room was thick with the stench of cordite.

  ‘Help Paul,’ Maguire said, pushing Dolan towards the other room. The younger man hesitated a moment, then scuttled through to join his companion who was blasting back at the attackers with an MP5. Smoke was drifting in noxious clouds across the bullet-blasted windows.

  ‘How many are there?’ asked Dolan, forced to raise his voice to make himself heard above the incessant chatter of weapons.

  Maconnell had no idea. It seemed as if there were hundreds out there. More bullets spattered the room, one catching him in the left forearm, shattering the ulna. The crack of the breaking bone was audible even above the rattle of fire. He fell back, a portion of the bone poking through the flesh. Gripping the sub-gun in one hand he stood up and fired a sustained burst, hoping to hit the one who had shot him, his anger overriding his common sense. He kept his finger tight on the trigger, the weapon bouncing in his grip as the savage recoil slammed it back against the heel of his hand. Wreathed in smoke, his face lit by the muzzle-flash, he looked like a creature from a nightmare. Then the hammer struck an empty chamber.

  In that split second a bullet caught him in the right eye.

  It drilled the socket empty, lifting him off his feet, smashing the sphenoid bone and erupting from the back of his head with a huge portion of pulverized cranium. Blood, brain and bone splattered the far wall as Maconnell went down, crashing into the wall, his face a bloody ruin, crimson gushing from the yawning hole where his eye had been. A dark stain spread rapidly across the front of his trousers as his bladder released its load and Dolan smelt the pungent odour of excrement. A soft spurt as the sphincter muscle gave out.

  He scrabbled towards Maconnell, not attempting to touch the body. Why search for signs of life? Most of the poor fucker’s head was plastered over the wall. Dolan grabbed the MP5 and slammed a fresh magazine into it, then crawled over to the shattered window, knelt up and began firing short bursts into the trees.

  A dark shape moved and he fired at it, gratified to see it stumble and remain still. He fired at it again, a longer burst this time, rewarded by a cry of pain.

  In the other room Maguire pulled Laura Callahan to her feet and pressed the gun to the side of her cheek, leaving a grease mark on her soft skin.

  ‘Who are they?’ he demanded. ‘Are they from your husband?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ she whimpered. ‘Believe me. I swear to you, I don’t know who they are.’

  Maguire nodded slowly.

  ‘You know something?’ he said softly. ‘I do believe you.’

  And he shot her in the face.

  Even Doyle felt it.

  Inside Callahan’s house it was as if the air had suddenly been charged with electricity. He felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise.

  Catherine Roberts groaned and fell against the wall, one hand pressed to her head, her eyes closed.

  Doyle spun round and saw her, aware that the air seemed to be cooling. He felt goose-pimples rising on his flesh. It was as if someone had sucked all the warmth from his body.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ he asked Cath, snaking an arm around her waist to support her.

  At first she mumbled, her eyes still closed, but then she blinked hard, as if she were emerging from a deep sleep. She looked directly at Doyle and he saw the fear flicker behind her eyes. She tried to suck in a deep breath but the chill in the room seared her throat as she inhaled.

  ‘It’s started,’ she murmured.

  Luke McCormick was dead. As he bent over his colleague, Simon Peters had no doubt of that fact. The other man was lying on his stomach, several large bullet holes in his back. One shot had caught him in the nape of the neck. That was the one which had killed him.

  Peters scuttled across to the trees where Eamonn Rice crouched, the Uzi gripped tightly in his hands. He was peering up at the signal box, watching the occasional muzzle-flashes from inside.

  ‘We’ve got to get inside,’ said Peters. ‘Where’s Joe?’

  ‘Round by the stairs,’ said Rice, nodding towards the building.

  Peters nodded.

  ‘Give me two minutes, then open up on the window. Just keep firing. They’ve no way of knowing how many of us there are. It’ll give Joe and myself a chance to get through that door.’

  ‘Two minutes,’ Rice repeated, checking his watch.

  Peters disappeared into the darkness once again.

  Georgie could hear the stutter of sub-machine guns, the crack of pistols and rifles. Their sounds carried far on the stillness of the early morning.

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nbsp; She tried to coax more speed from the car, praying that she wasn’t too late.

  As she drew closer the gunfire filled her ears more insistently.

  She reached almost unconsciously to touch the butt of her .357.

  The signal box was less than half a mile away now.

  The gunfire continued.

  Ninety-Two

  The room was getting colder.

  The chill was intensifying.

  ‘We have to get out,’ Cath said, her face as white as milk. ‘I must get to that window and destroy it. There has to be a way.’

  Doyle glanced at the door which barred their way to freedom. He crossed to it, tugged on the handle, took a step backwards and kicked hard against the white panelled barrier. The wood creaked but held firm, even when he kicked again. And again.

  He paused for a moment, perspiration beading on his forehead despite the growing cold. Then he directed his fury at the door handle itself, kicking furiously at it, cursing when it wouldn’t give. There was a large glass paper-weight on the desk to his left. He snatched it up, pulled off his sweatshirt and wrapped the weight in it.

  Cath winced as she saw the patchwork of scars on his torso, but Doyle did not see her look of distaste; he was more concerned with the door. He gripped the paper weight in both hands and brought it down on the handle with incredible ferocity. He maintained his hammer blows, the muscles in his arms and shoulders throbbing, the veins standing out.

  ‘Come on, come on,’ he said, driving the weight down with ever greater strength.

  The handle started to come away from the wood.

  Encouraged by his success Doyle struck again, his face set in an attitude of determination. He was oblivious to all around him as he battered away at the door.

  His own frantic banging masked the sound of movement on the other side of the door.

  One last blow.

  The handle came free. The door opened a fraction. Doyle grinned crookedly and tossed the paperweight to one side, pulling his sweatshirt back on. He pulled open the door and dashed out.

  He had to reach the room with the window, had to retrieve the .44 Bulldog.

  Had to find Callahan.

  Callahan was standing in the doorway of the room opposite, the Spas automatic shotgun levelled and ready.

  Doyle saw it. Saw the yawning barrel.

  Callahan fired once.

  The discharge was massive, blasting a hole almost twelve inches across in the door as Doyle threw himself frantically to one side.

  Callahan emerged from the room, working the slide, firing again.

  The second shot blasted away some plaster from a wall above Doyle’s head.

  The counter-terrorist knew he hadn’t much time. Eventually Callahan would get lucky and one of the massive blasts would strike him. He hurled himself at a door opposite and found to his relief that it was open. He crashed into it, rolling still, into the room beyond.

  In the study behind him Cath pressed herself against the wall, praying that Callahan would not step in. It seemed he was more preoccupied with killing Doyle.

  If she could find some way out ...

  Doyle ran towards the window, leaping at the glass.

  He met it as Callahan stepped inside, firing off two more blasts in quick succession.

  One struck the window at the same instant as Doyle.

  There was a deafening explosion of shattering glass as the counter-terrorist smashed through, pieces of the crystal cutting him as he landed heavily on the grass outside. He felt a searing pain in his left calf and realized that some of the shot from the Spas had hit him. As he stood up he saw blood on his jeans and a ragged hole in the material, but he gritted his teeth and scuttled along towards the window of the room at the rear of the house.

  Where his gun lay.

  Cath heard the shattering glass, heard the retorts of the shotgun and realized that Callahan must be . pursuing Doyle.

  She stepped out into the corridor.

  Callahan moved back, swinging round to face her. For interminable seconds she froze.

  Callahan was smiling.

  Even when he fired.

  The discharge hit her squarely in the chest, staving in her sternum, tearing through her lungs before portions of the lethal shot erupted from her back. She was lifted into the air by the impact and thrown several feet down the corridor as blood sprayed out from both entry and exit wounds. She landed heavily, dead even as she slumped against the wall, spilling her life fluid onto the carpet.

  Callahan ran to her and looked down into her blank eyes. He stepped over the body and headed for the hall as he heard banging on the front door.

  Someone shouted his name.

  He heard the door being forced and scuttled up the stairs, picking up the Ingram, pulling back the slide to cock it. Then he stood at the foot of the stairs and waited.

  The door burst inwards and two Garda officers careered into the hall.

  Callahan cut them down with two bursts from the sub-gun. Outside he saw a third man turn and run back towards his car. The millionaire fired again, the weapon bucking in his hand, cartridge cases spraying from it. His burst was accurate. The Garda officer was hit in the back, pitching forward onto the gravel drive, where he lay still.

  Doyle heard the shots too, but he paused for only a second before using a stone to smash his way into the room where the window lay. It was not, however, the ancient artefact which interested the counter terrorist, but the Charter Arms Bulldog that lay close to it. He snatched up the weapon, smiling as he felt its weight in his fist. He flipped open the cylinder and smiled as he saw that the chambers were full.

  Glancing down at his injured leg he gritted his teeth.

  ‘Now, Callahan,’ he hissed under his breath, ‘it’s Parry time.’

  The Garda sergeant had seen his men shot down. The sight had shaken him badly but he snatched up his radio and flicked it on.

  ‘I need reinforcements, quick,’ he barked into the two-way. ‘The Callahan house. Tell them to bring guns.

  Ninety-Three

  Ten seconds.

  Eamonn Rice checked the second hand on his watch, counting off the moments, steadying himself.

  Eight seconds.

  He checked that he had enough spare clips of ammunition.

  Six seconds.

  The firing from inside the signal box had all but ceased now; there was just the odd single shot every now and then. Both sides, it seemed, were waiting.

  Four seconds.

  He raised himself up slightly, ready to fire.

  Three.

  He hoped that Hagen and Peters were in position.

  Two. One.

  He opened up, bullets drilling a path across the front of the signal box, blasting in yet more pieces of glass that had somehow stayed untouched.

  On the other side of the box Simon Peters made a dash for the bottom of the wooden stairs which led up to the first level. He could see the shape behind the door; he swung the Uzi up and fired off a long burst. Bullets struck the door and the frame.

  He heard a scream from inside, knew that the man who’d been guarding the door had been hit.

  He motioned Hagen forward and the other man scuttled up the steps, pausing at the top, the MP5 levelled at the door.

  Inside, James Maguire stood looking down at the body of Damien Flynn. Two bullets had penetrated his chest and the third had punched a hole in his throat, shattering his larynx. There was surprisingly little blood. Flynn lay on his back, his eyes still open, flecks of dust settling on the blank orbs. Maguire gripped his own pistol in one hand, the Skorpion machine pistol in the other. He waited.

  ‘Come on, you bastards,’ he shouted, raising his voice to make himself heard above the chatter of sub-gun fire behind him. Billy Dolan fell into the room, his face sheathed in sweat, the sub-gun empty in his hand.

  ‘They’re moving in, Jim,’ he gasped.

  Maguire didn’t answer; he had his eyes fixed on the door.

 
It burst open.

  There was a deafening explosion of fire as bullets from automatic weapons tore back and forth in the small room. Cartridge cases clattered onto the floor, the smell of cordite filled the air and a reeking bluish-grey haze of fumes billowed upwards as the firing continued.

  Dolan was hit in the chest and shoulder.

  Maguire took one in the stomach but remained upright, oblivious to the pain spreading through his lower body. Blood ran down his shirt and the front of his trousers.

  As Hagen crashed through the door the bullet from a 9mm pistol hit him in the cheek, ripped through and exited on the other side, carrying several teeth with it. He went down firing, raking the inside of the signal box, putting two more shots into Dolan. One of which caved in the left side of his head.

  Simon Peters was hit in the leg, his knee shattered by the impact. He fell forward, his finger still on the trigger. He saw bullets strike Maguire in the chest and upper arm, saw him stagger back as another smashed his right collar-bone. Blood was gushing from the wounds. He felt his own lung collapse as a bullet pierced it, erupting from his back with pink gobbets of lung tissue. It was as if someone had applied a very tight tourniquet to his chest. He found it difficult to breathe.

  Dolan was lying on his side, twitching madly, a purple foam dribbling over his lips as more bullets hit him. He finally rolled onto his back, slops of brain spilling from the massive holes in his skull.

  Maguire managed to move into the other room, trailing blood and urine behind him. He could scarcely breathe and it felt as if his upper body was on fire, but he slammed a fresh magazine into the Skorpian and waited. Framed against the blown-out windows of the signal box, his silhouette quite visible, he didn’t even see Eamonn Rice drawing a bead on him.

  ‘Come on, Peters,’ he gasped,’ waiting for his foe. ‘We’ll fucking go together.’ He chuckled, blood spilling over his lips.

  Rice opened up.

  Half a dozen bullets from the burst hit Maguire, catapulting him across the room and slamming him into the far wall, where he seemed to remain standing for long moments before sliding down leaving a huge crimson smear.