by Jack Elgos
All was calm on the street with just a few women who, as usual, were standing around gossiping with friends and neighbours. There was also the obligatory gang of kids playing on their bikes, fighting and generally looking for mischief. A quick glance at his watch confirmed that he still had around seven minutes left to wait, so he leaned on the cold and damp bedroom wall and lit a Capstan full strength cigarette, inhaling deeply. Sitting, smoking and waiting, he began to calm himself, caressing his crucifix and, as was his ritual, saying a few prayers too. He was pretty sure God was on their side, and now seemed a good enough time to pray.
He stubbed out his cigarette and reached across to the loose floorboard. It gave way easily. A moment later he pulled out a long, thin package that had been wrapped in a sheet of old Hessian sacking. Unwrapping the cloth from the Widowmaker, the Provos nickname given to the Armalite AR-18 assault rifle, his next few moments were spent cleaning and checking out the weapon’s action and its twenty-round mag. He smiled to himself as he found it had been well cleaned and oiled recently. It was absolutely perfect, as was the scope and its mount.
He started to recite yet another prayer, but this one was not for him. It was for the thousands and thousands of Americans who, it seemed, worked all week long and then quite happily threw many of their hard earned Dollars into the buckets, which were passed around bars and pubs on a weekly basis. They gave quite readily to “the cause”. This brand new, but not very shiny, Armalite AR-18 assault rifle had, of course, been sourced, bought, shipped and distributed by the all-important Yankee Dollar.
Prayers now done and finished, he pulled on his black woollen ski mask to cover every part of his head and face, with the exception of three holes, two for his eyes and one for his mouth. Adjusting the fit of the mask, then checking the rifle once more, he was ready. Quickly, he risked another peek through the broken windowpane. Nothing new was happening: the street was still quiet. Checking his watch again he muttered angrily, ‘Shit, they’re late, where the fuck are they?’
A few moments later, he clearly heard someone shouting. ‘My name is Colonel McGuire, I am the acting commander of the 14th regiment of the Provisional I.R.A. Falls Road, Belfast.’
As Darren watched, five men came into his view. The bare-faced leader, he assumed, was the self-proclaimed Colonel McGuire while the other four Provos were typically dressed in camouflage uniforms and wearing the same woolly ski masks as Darren. Three of them were also carrying the evergreen Kalashnikov AK 47 assault rifles. Though these weapons had been adopted into service by the Soviet military as far back as 1949, they were still the weapon of choice by terrorist units worldwide, including the Provisional I.R.A. The AK’s were proudly carried, and could be clearly seen by everyone there, as the group of men marched out into the middle of the street. Two of the Provos were dragging behind them another man; this man was not in uniform. He was kicking and screaming in protest, but he was dragged along nonetheless.
As the group gathered in the middle of the road the man who was dressed in “civvies” was forced to his knees, weeping and wailing all the time as he was pushed down. The Colonel made another announcement. ‘Declan O’Brien, you have been found guilty of collaborating with the enemy. As an informer you have received the sentence of death with a public execution. Have you anything to say?’
The poor guy couldn’t say a word; the only sounds heard were ones of weeping and heartbreak. A large crowd of men, women and kids had gathered by now. They were watching the execution squad with mounting interest and excitement. Darren could hear the constant chanting as it grew louder and louder. “Kill the traitor”. “Shoot the bastard”.
McGuire walked slowly and deliberately behind Declan. He reached down to his holster and unfastened the flap. Sliding out a black Colt .45 automatic pistol he chambered a round and placed the muzzle against the back of Declan’s head.
‘May God have mercy on your soul,’ he intoned, then added in a whisper, ‘you treacherous bastard,’ as he pulled the trigger.
A loud crack was heard as the pistol fired. It echoed through the streets as Declan’s head and face exploded with blood, brains and pieces of shattered skull flying in all directions. Cheers went up from the crowd. Gangs of women were laughing out loud as they walked closer, hurling insults and spitting on his still twitching body. Small kids were pushed forward and made to watch the gory scene. As usual they were told, ‘this is what happens to informers. Don’t forget what you’ve seen today kids. Now off you go and play like good boys and girls.’
Darren sat watching and smiled to himself. ‘Serves the fucking idiot right,’ he whispered as he pulled out another fag. Just as he was about to light it he heard the sound of approaching sirens. Placing the un-lit cigarette back into the pack, he waited. The crowd scattered and ran for shelter as the British Army Land Rover screeched to a halt, sirens still blazing, parking directly in front of the deceased, and now quite still, body of one Declan O’Brien. The next instant, doors flew open and the soldiers spewed out. They were instantly spread, down on one knee, with their rifles aimed in all directions.
One of the soldiers crept slowly up to the body to check for any sign of life. Feeling for a pulse and finding none, he looked back towards his unit. ‘He’s a dead un, sir,’ the soldier shouted.
As the corpse was being checked, Darren was watching, carefully picking out his target. He’d quickly settled on the Sergeant. ‘Fuckin’ perfect, you’ll do nicely you British bastard,’ he grinned as he lifted the Armalite, taking aim at the soldier's stomach. It was always far better to shoot them in the guts. They would die eventually, but their prolonged screams of agony seemed to really unsettle the rest of the squad.
Still smiling, as he looked through the telescopic sights, Darren closely examined his target’s face. He seemed to be around thirty-five years old and, even though he had one of those stupid British handlebar type moustaches, it was a hard face, the face of experience. A killer’s face for sure, if ever he’d seen one. ‘I wonder how many of our boys you’ve shot down in your time, you old bastard.’ He slowly started to squeeze the trigger. Then he stopped dead, his finger coming away from the trigger as though it were electrified.
Victor was about as excited as any new squaddie could possibly be. It was only the second week of his first tour here in Ulster, and already he was on an active patrol. He’d been impatiently waiting for just this moment ever since he’d joined up. ‘Just wait until I’m back home on leave,’ he grinned. ‘I’ll be a fucking hero. The fucking birds’ll love me to bits.’ He was quietly laughing to himself as he jumped out of the Land Rover.
‘Oh no, no, no, not you, you old bastard,’ Darren silently informed the Sergeant to whom he’d just granted the gift of life. With a wicked smirk crossing his face, Darren’s mind raced as he focused on his new, far better, target. This one looked like a kid. ‘A fuckin’ boy soldier,’ he smiled, as he retargeted. ‘Bet you haven’t even started shaving yet you little shit, have you?’
He zeroed in, inspecting the youth’s happy looking face. ‘I bet all these fuckers look after you, think of you as a son, the baby of the outfit, eh?’ With that thought he lowered his aim down from the face and towards the young soldier's belly, whispering a final prayer. ‘Forgive me Father, for I am about to sin. Please have mercy on his soul.’
The single shot rang out. As the young soldier fell backwards, a dark red circle replaced the random greens and browns of his camouflage jacket and he looked down in fascinated horror as it spread rapidly across his mid-section. He lay screaming in shock and pain, his hands instinctively reaching down, pressing on the wound. The pressure produced a plume of bright red blood, squirting upwards like a fountain, spraying the life-blood from his torn and ruptured young stomach.
***
At the very moment Darren pulled the trigger a foghorn sounded, but this haunting wail was not heard in Ireland. It was far away on a waterfront,
in the great city of New York. It echoed around the ships and superstructures and wharf-sides, continuing off well into the distance. Jeff looked up from his desk, momentarily ignoring the immense pile of Dollar bills in front of him. A ship was entering port. He sat and watched it.
‘C’mon buddy, we’ve work to do, and it won’t get done with you staring out of the god damn window,’ Ryan snapped.
‘OK, OK, relax will ya. I was only taking a minute,’ Jeff replied as he turned again to his pile.
Pushing a button he watched as another neat stack of bills was shrink-wrapped and automatically labelled. Placing this batch on top of the rest gave him a full pallet. He hit a different button, which now shrink-wrapped the entire pallet and its contents to form one thick, giant black plastic parcel. Jeff pressed the button on his mike. ‘Another’s ready,’ he said in a bored, flat tone.
He yawned and stretched, lazily watching as the forklift driver collected the parcel and took it away towards the loading ramp. ‘Holy shit, this is never ending,’ he mumbled, yawning yet again. He still had another three hours left to go, counting and wrapping money, oiling and sealing pistols and rifles at the New York office of the infamous registered charity NORAID. Ryan McKee was in control of this, the Manhattan branch. An American by birth, but an Irishman at heart, McKee was a hard-line I.R.A. supporter.
***
Back in Belfast someone screamed out, ‘Fuckin’ ‘ell, Stan. Stan, it’s Vic. They got him. They got the kid in the fuckin’ guts.’
The street had turned to complete chaos as Vic lay sprawled out on his back. His screams were an awful sound to hear as he cried, bled and very slowly died, right in front of his mates. They could do nothing but hunt and find the murdering Paddy bastard who’d shot him.
Darren moved fast, quickly fingering the selector switch. The instant he found “auto”, he emptied the mag completely. Hot shell casings flew everywhere as he sprayed the street below with automatic gunfire. The sound of ricocheting bullets still echoing in his ears, he hurriedly rewrapped the sacking around the hot rifle and, after sliding it back under the floorboards, he quickly wiped dust around the area to cover the hiding place. Stopping only to pocket his fags and pull out his pistol he ran, gun in hand, downstairs, through the old door and into the street. A quick glance confirmed he was alone; there was no movement at all - until the front door of the house opposite swung slowly open.
An old lady stood in the doorway of her terrace house. Frowning in his direction she slowly shook her head, subconsciously stroking her blindingly white hair as she gave him the negative signal. Then, after taking another quick look to her left and right, her frown was replaced with a warm and gummy smile. She beckoned him towards her using her crooked, arthritic old finger in a “come here” manner. Smiling even more now, she blessed him as he left his doorway and shot through hers. As the door slammed shut with a bang, she shouted, ‘God bless you son,’ as he ran past her and straight through her house.
He continued on, running into the next home and the next. Three houses later he found he was alone in a small, cobble-stoned back alley. Turning to his left he could plainly hear the distinctive popping sound of several AK’s as they fired repeatedly. He began running once more in the direction of the Kalashnikov rifles and the boys who were firing them. Though now out of breath, he struggled onward, down towards the main road and the friendly sound of the automatic gunfire.
Edward “Eddie” McQuillan was an intelligent man. A graduate of the Queen's University here in Belfast, and also of the University of Ulster, he had risen quickly through the ranks under the Accelerated Promotion System. He also proudly held the RUC Service Medal and had been commended on a number of occasions for the performance of his duty. Having served in most parts of Northern Ireland, including south Londonderry, Portadown, Crossmaglen, West Belfast, Holywood and Musgrave Street in Belfast city centre, he was no stranger to violence. He’d seen it all. He also hated the I.R.A. and its members with a vengeance.
When Sergeant McQuillan heard the pattern of fire – pistol shot, rifle shot, automatic rounds – an immediate scene formed in his head and he knew there was a sniper at work. He ran in the opposite direction from the noise. He was far too long in the tooth to run towards it. He knew from long experience that the instant a gunman had finished his work he would run like hell away from the area. After all, a sniper who stayed around to admire his work was, or would shortly be, a very dead sniper. McQuillan ran for around half a mile, then slowed. Carefully he looked down the small back streets, one at a time, which led towards the hot area. He saw nothing. Street after street he checked without results. Then, as he was about to give up and return to the hot spot, he heard hurried footsteps coming in his direction. He tapped his service weapon three times before removing it from his belt, he liked threes, then he stood patiently at the junction of a small back street and the main road, waiting and holding his breath. Judging his moment carefully, he jumped out with the intention of blocking the runner’s path, but he mistimed his appearance slightly. The runner was actually on top of him instead of the few feet away that he'd anticipated. The running man crashed heavily into him and the collision knocked the pair of them to the ground.
The point of impact was so hard and unexpected that Darren’s pistol flew from his hand, while McQuillan landed heavily on a grate and his own weapon disappeared into the sewer system. The crash stunned the pair of them. Both dazed and winded they rolled about, gasping for breath, on the cobbled floor. McQuillan’s eyes eventually began to refocus and he noticed the pistol lying about five feet away from him. Turning to face the runner a quick look of recognition flashed across his face. ‘McCann, you murdering Catholic bastard,’ he yelled, reacting instinctively and reaching inside his raincoat, desperately grasping for the Beretta, his secondary piece.
Still shocked by the savage impact, Darren was on his knees, a look of horror spreading across his face. ‘Oh, Christ, not you, you bastard,’ he shouted, staring at the Sergeant’s face. Seeing the policeman’s hand sliding under the coat, Darren knew he was going for a gun. He also realised he had no time to reach his own pistol. Using every ounce of his strength, he pulled up his head and sent it crashing down, directly into the stunned policeman’s face.
The cop’s eyes rolled upward as McCann’s forehead smashed into his nose. Quickly Darren head-butted him again and again until the cop was obviously down and out. Rising quickly to his feet he stared for a second at the prostrate form of this much hated RUC man. Then, with a quick and violent swing of his boot, he kicked him with all the force he could muster, aiming straight into his face. As Darren’s boot made contact, the cop’s left eye socket smashed leaving the area around his eyebrow concave, his face changed forever to a bizarre appearance. The savage impact of the kick had forced his eyeball from its socket. It hung, crushed into a bloody pulp, as a mixture of blood and dark red jelly slowly oozed down his cheek.
Darren reached once more for his pistol, grabbed it and, hearing small arms fire coming from Brit guns, he knew they were very close by. He had no time to finish the man off now, so he turned and started running again. Within five minutes he was inside the safe house. Quickly he closed the door behind him, breathing deeply as he locked it. He sat and waited.
As day turned into night the eerie shadows began to creep across the dusty floorboards towards him. Though he knew they were cast by the street lamp opposite, an involuntary shiver ran down Darren’s spine as he watched. Sitting silently, the wait continued. He had nothing to eat and only water from the old decaying tap to drink. Still not daring to set foot outside, he had little option but to sit patiently and wait some more. Two days after the shooting, Darren was still sitting in the same spot, leaning against the cold, cracked tiles of the old fireplace. His eyes were starting to droop once more as he was at the point of drifting off to sleep again, but he jumped as he heard a noise. Forcing himself awake he opened his eyes wid
e. It was there again, he was sure. He could faintly hear a slight scratching - and it was coming from the door.
Darren took a deep breath and held it tightly in his chest. Trembling, he stood behind the door, straining his ears as he listened. The old worn out hinges creaked and groaned as it slowly swung wider and wider, until at last it was fully open. He could clearly hear the rain gently falling outside now as he waited, motionless, behind the open door. Slowly he began easing out his pistol. ‘Too loud,’ he realised, as he slid it back into his belt. His hand reached, inch by inch, for The Killer. Sliding it from his pocket he felt instantly reassured. That familiar feel, the mix of cold brass and warm wood, was good in his grip. It was like shaking hands with an old and trusted friend. Slitting his eyes in an attempt to gain a little better night vision, he watched as the shadow of a single figure was cast on the floor. The shadow then took a slow and deliberate footstep forwards, making it seem altogether bigger and more intimidating as it grew in the room. The next step taken caused a piece of gravel to crunch as it was flattened and crushed underfoot. Darren pushed the button at the same instant. The blade sprang out and locked into place as if it were a living thing, the snap of its action concealed perfectly by the sound of the shadowy footstep.
Though the night was cold and damp, a constant trickle of sweat dripped down his face as the shadow grew in size, the extra steps sharpening the edges to the clear silhouette of a man. Once inside, the man gingerly pushed the door behind him. It creaked as it closed and then, once more, there was nothing but silence. Darren gripped The Killer hard. Springing forward he grabbed the man from behind and held him tightly around the throat. Hand raised, he prepared for the kill; a quick thrust to the heart was swift, effective and deadly, but best of all, it was silent.
‘Butch, Butch… it’s me, Thomas… for fuck's sake… let me go… you mad cunt,’ the man croaked between gasps of much needed air. Darren slowly released his arm lock and spun the man around. He stood facing him, still with The Killer poised, but after only a second’s inspection he was convinced that the man he was about to kill really was his long time friend and comrade Thomas Mallone.
