The Skorpion was still in his hand.
Peters dragged himself into the other room, past the bodies of Laura Callahan and Billy Dolan. He saw Maguire lying there and nodded slowly.
Behind him Hagen coughed, his mouth hanging open slackly, blood from his punctured cheeks and shattered jaw running in a steady torrent from his mouth. Peters tried to suck in a breath and felt cold air hiss through the lung wound. He winced and clapped one hand to it, gritting his teeth against the pain, raising himself up with great difficulty. He looked down at the corpse of his adversary, then back at Laura. Peters shook his head and dug the toe of his shoe into Maguire.
‘Animal,’ he murmured, then closed his eyes as a wave of pain swept through him. For a second he thought he was going to collapse but the feeling passed. He turned to look at Hagen.
He was unconscious.
‘Eamonn Peters called, the effort making him wince. ‘It’s finished.’
Outside, Eamonn Rice lowered the Uzi and took a step forward.
All he heard was the click of a hammer being pulled back as a gun was pressed to the back of his head.
‘Drop the gun,’ Georgie told him.
He did as he was told.
‘Who the fuck are you?’ Rice asked, puzzled that the voice was not only English but also female.
‘British agent,’ she told him. ‘Was that Maguire and his men in there?’
‘It was,’ said Rice.
‘Go on,’ Georgie said, pushing him before her. He led the way to the stairs and ascended slowly, the agent behind him.
‘Company, Simon,’ he called as they reached the door.
Georgie pushed him inside and looked in at the carnage. She saw Laura Callahan immediately, her face blasted away by the close range discharge which had ended her life.
‘We knew you were coming,’ said Peters quietly.
‘Who killed the woman?’ Georgie asked.
‘She was dead when we got here,’ wheezed Peters. ‘You wanted Maguire, didn’t you?’
She nodded.
He smiled thinly, a ribbon of blood running from the comer of his mouth.
‘It was none of your business.’ he told her. ‘Never was. We take care of our own.’
‘So I see,’ she said quietly.
‘It’s over,’ Peters told her.
Georgie looked at the wounded IRA man, at the bodies.
At Laura Callahan.
Over? As she ran back to her car she had but one thought.
She had the most terrible feeling it had barely started.
Thirty of them.
All armed with AR-180 Sterling semi-automatic rifles.
Ten in each van.
The Garda men were briefed as they drew closer to David Callahan’s house.
No one was to enter. No one was to leave. Several armed and dangerous suspects were believed to be inside the house. If they couldn’t be taken alive they were to be shot dead.
Ninety-Four
The room looked as though it were full of smoke. Great thick bands of it swirled around the window, writhing along the ground like ethereal tendrils, poking beneath the door and reaching towards the window, stirred by the breeze that swept into the room.
Yet through that grey mist there was a radiance, a glow which seemed to build in intensity until the window itself shone. The room was dark; the glass of the window might have been sucking in the light, digesting it like some living thing then disgorging its feast in the form of brilliant-coloured hues.
The trestles that held it in place creaked and groaned, as if the weight of the window had suddenly become too much for them. The wood bowed and split, threatened to collapse.
And still the greyish-white vapour poured out of the very glass itself.
The colours grew more vivid within the heart of the cloud.
A low rumble began, growing in volume.
A chill so intense it left frost on the walls shivered through the entire house.
Then came another sound.
Like that of cracking glass.
Doyle moved from room to room, the .44 held before him, his ears and eyes alert for the slightest sound or movement.
Just step out in front of me, you fucker.
He reached the door which led through to the hallway.
Lying up against it, a gaping hole in her chest, was Catherine Roberts. Doyle gritted his teeth and looked around quickly, checking that Callahan wasn’t skulking in either of the rooms to his left or right. Satisfied that it was safe he knelt beside Cath, resisting the temptation to feel for a pulse. The Spas had been lethally effective. The portions of her lungs and spine that still stuck to the wall testified to that fact.
He moved closer to the door, peering through a crack up towards the landing.
There was no sign of Callahan.
Just because you can’t see him doesn’t mean he’s not there.
The counter-terrorist opened the door a fraction, his thumb on the hammer of the Bulldog, ready to cock it. With a fourteen-pound pull on the double-action trigger he couldn’t risk the massive recoil, couldn’t risk missing Callahan.
He might only get one chance.
Still, he comforted himself, one was all he’d need. If he hit Callahan with one of the Glaser safety slugs there was no fear of him getting up.
He edged forward a little, ducking low, seeing that he had a distance of about twenty feet to cross before he reached the door on the opposite side of the hallway.
As he looked across he saw the bodies of the two Garda officers leaking blood onto the expensive carpet.
Why the fuck had Callahan killed them, too?
Doyle shuddered involuntarily, aware of -the biting cold now. He had to cross the hall, had to search the rest of the house in order to find Callahan. But the place was huge. It could take an age.
Unless he finds you first.
Doyle glanced up at the landing again and down at his own injured leg. The wound was throbbing but it didn’t hamper his movement. He sucked in a deep breath and pushed the door a little more.
Come on, you can’t stand here till daylight.
He ran as fast as his injured leg would allow across the hall, hurdling one of the dead Garda officers.
No shots were fired.
There was no sign of Callahan.
Doyle pushed open the door and stepped back, waiting for the blast of gunfire; it never came. The corridor beyond was in darkness. How many rooms lay hidden in that darkness he could only guess at.
Only one way to find out.
He pressed on, aware now that the cold was becoming almost unbearable.
Callahan had watched the counter-terrorist rush across the hall.
He’d had him in the sights of the HK33 the entire time. How tempting it would have been to have pulled the trigger, but a moving target was always more difficult and Doyle was a dangerous man. A head shot would have been preferable but difficult. Better to let him pass. He waited a moment, then picked up the assault rifle and began to make his way down the stairs, slowly and cautiously.
When he reached the bottom he raised the rifle to his shoulder and sighted it on the door through which Doyle had disappeared. The counter-terrorist didn’t appear and Callahan moved stealthily across the hall.
He smiled to himself.
By the time Doyle found him it would be too late.
Much too late.
He also felt the numbing cold but he, unlike Doyle, welcomed it. He knew what it signified.
Ninety-Five
She guessed she was less than three miles from the house now.
Georgie kept her foot on the accelerator, her eyes fixed on the road. Another few minutes and she would be at Callahan’s place again. She felt a shiver run up her spine. What would she find when she returned? She tried to push the thought from her mind, suddenly overcome with a feeling of great sadness as she thought of Laura Callahan lying back there, half her head blown away. Georgie felt a crushing weariness; there suddenly se
emed to be a ridiculous futility to everything. To her mission with Doyle; to this whole business. It seemed there was only one way for it to end and that was in death.
She sucked in a deep breath, clutching the wheel more tightly, feeling the .357 in its shoulder holster against her ribs.
How many more deaths before this affair was concluded?
She swung the car round a corner and onto the road which led to the main entrance of Callahan’s estate.
As she rounded the comer she saw the large black transit vans parked close to the gates. There were men clambering out of them.
She saw that they carried rifles.
For one fleeting second her thoughts turned to Doyle.
Let him be alive.
The thought passed as quickly as it had come. Her attention was re-focused on the men who climbed from the vans. There were three of them parked outside the entrance, but as she watched two drove on and into the grounds, heading for the house.
What the hell was happening in there?
She had to know.
First she had to get past the riflemen.
The leading van hurtled up the long drive towards David Callahan’s house, its occupants sitting quietly in the back, automatic rifles clutched across their laps. One or two were checking that the magazines were full, the others waited patiently until the vans came to a halt and they were ordered out. The chill night air met them like a cold wall.
It was unnaturally cold, a deep biting crispness that caused the hairs on their flesh to rise.
They were deployed in the bushes around the house, behind the cars. Anywhere that offered adequate cover.
The marksmen waited for orders.
The house was in darkness except for the porch light. It glowed feebly, the dull glow illuminating the body of their dead colleague sprawled on the gravel in front of the building.
When the time came, if necessary, they would storm the house. All they needed now was the order.
They waited.
A door up ahead.
Doyle pressed his back to the wall and moved towards it, treading as softly as he could, his eyes constantly darting to and fro in the blackness. He held the .44 in his right hand and reached for the handle with his left. He turned it and pushed. The door swung open. He ducked low and stepped across the threshold.
The kitchen.
He glanced around but there was no sign of Callahan. No sign that he’d been in here recently, either. Doyle backed out of the room, shivering now from the intense cold. He blew on his hands, transferred the Bulldog to his left hand and rubbed the palm of his right against his thigh in an effort to restore circulation. Christ, it was cold. He moved across the corridor to another door, paused and then pushed that one open too.
Again the room beyond was empty, but as Doyle moved into it he glanced out of the large picture window and saw movement outside. Keeping low, he scuttled across the room towards the window and looked out.
Two Garda officers were taking up firing positions in the shelter of some trees about two hundred yards from the house.
Glancing round he saw more of them, all with rifles trained on the house.
‘Shit,’ he murmured under his breath and moved away from the window, edging back into the corridor, making his way back towards the hall.
He would have to search for Callahan upstairs. As he paused at the hall door he saw the risks. To ascend that staircase was to invite death. There was no cover, should Callahan be waiting at the top. If he opened fire there was nowhere to hide. And yet how else could he reach the first floor?
Doyle-pushed open the door a fraction, peering up at the gloom of the landing. Even if Callahan was up there now he was invisible in the darkness.
Garda outside, Callahan inside.
This was going to be one hell of a fucking party.
Doyle edged out into the hall, not even looking at the dead Garda officers. He moved to the foot of the stairs, the Bulldog held before him in readiness. No sounds from above.
He began to ascend.
Callahan stood mesmerised, the vapour swirling around him. He held the HK-33 at his side, his attention focused on the stained-glass window, on the brilliant radiance that emanated from it. The walls of the room were thick with ice now, layers of it gathering and clinging as the vapour continued to roll across the floor like fog. There was a smell which reminded Callahan of bad meat; like the cold, it was growing more intense.
He took a step towards the window, watching the tendrils of mist snaking upward towards the ceiling, watching the multi-hued effulgence swelling as if it were being pumped up, throbbing like some rainbow- coloured growth.
The crack of breaking glass was like a whiplash in the silence of the room. It made him jump; his heart thudded against his ribs.
Another crack, louder this time.
A portion of the glass seemed to fly upwards, as if from an impact beneath it. But that could not be so; the window was suspended on trestles, there was nothing beneath it. But Callahan watched the piece of glass rise into the air in slow motion, twist in the mist and fall to the ground, where it lay in small fragments.
A series of cracks. Low rumbling.
Callahan’s teeth were chattering, so intense was the cold. He kept his eyes fixed on the window, eyes which were bulging not only in wonder and exhilaration but in fear.
Ninety-Six
She saw the two officers waving for her to stop.
Two of the marksmen were close by, rifles held across their chests, ready to swing them up into a firing position if necessary.
Take it easy.
A hundred yards from the main entrance Georgie slowed down. She could feel her own heart beating hard as she drew closer, could hear her own breathing, rapid and harsh.
Drive through them.
She tapped her fingers on the wheel as she guided the car nearer.
Get closer.
Fifty yards now. She had slowed to a crawl but her foot was poised over the gas pedal. It was just a matter of timing. She had to get through. Had to reach the house. The first Garda officer was still motioning for her to slow down, to stop now. Get out of the car.
Twenty yards.
The gap between the vehicles parked across the entrance was just about wide enough.
Georgie gripped the wheel tightly and glanced at the marksmen. The officer called to her to stop the car and get out.
Ten yards.
She sucked in a deep breath and held it, teeth gritted.
She pressed down hard on the accelerator and the car hurtled forward, dirt spinning up behind it. It slammed into the Garda officer, catapulting him into the air. His colleague dived to one side as she sped towards the cars which blocked the entrance to Callahan’s estate. She crashed through them, the impact throwing her back in her seat. The BMW skidded but she gained control of the wheel, glancing in the rear-view mirror. She saw three of the marksmen taking aim. Seconds later bullets began to hit the car.
Georgie put her foot down as the first of them blasted off a wing mirror.
The second punched a hole through the rear windscreen, glass showering the back seat. More 7.62mm slugs tore into the fleeing vehicle, one blasting a hole in the dashboard, destroying the speedometer. Another took out part of the windscreen.
Georgie drove faster, anxious to escape the deadly salvo but it continued unabated, bullets striking the car, others ricocheting around it, blasting up small geysers of earth when they struck the ground.
She felt an incredible impact in her back, just below the right scapula. It was as if someone had struck her with a massive red-hot hammer. The contact slammed her forward against the steering wheel. For a second she let go of it, one hand clapped to the huge exit wound in her chest. The bullet had punctured a lung and shattered several ribs before blasting its way out through her right breast. Portions of flesh and slicks of blood spattered the wheel. She gasped in pain.
Another thunderous impact, this time in the small of her back.
>
She saw dark blood spurting onto the seat, realized that the shot had destroyed part of her liver. Georgie tasted blood in her mouth. It felt as if the lower part of her body was on fire. She gripped the wheel as tightly as she could, foot still pressed down hard on the accelerator. The house was coming into view and so too were the other Garda officers. Red-hot pain filled her body, as if someone had pumped molten metal into her veins. She found it hard to breathe now. Her eyes clouded alarmingly and she blinked hard to clear her vision.
Ahead of her were more men with rifles.
The house was coming up fast.
Blood ran from her wounds, pain fitted her body.
Several shots struck the front of the car, one smashing in the radiator grille. Another blew out a headlamp. More smashed the windscreen. Georgie felt one nick her left ear, slicing off the lobe. More blood. She felt it splash her cheek.
She guided the car towards the windows of the sitting-room and clung on, cold air blasting through the remains of the windscreen keeping her conscious, although it was a battle she knew she must lose.
The harsh crack of more rifles filled the air.
She was hit again. In the shoulder. In the chest.
With a despairing wail she let go of the wheel, slumping forward as the car sped towards the house, her foot now jammed on the accelerator.
Her last thought was of Doyle.
Then the car hit the side of the house.
Georgie was flung through the remains of the windscreen, through the window of the sitting-room as the BMW simply folded up against the wall, the metal buckling and bending until the impact ignited the petrol tank. There was a thunderous blast as the car went up in a blinding white ball of flame, the heat sending a rolling blanket fully fifty feet back, making the Garda men shelter momentarily as the wreckage flamed and great clouds of black smoke belched from the ruins. They stood back and watched as the twisted chassis turned white hot beneath the searing flames.
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