by Sam Blake
‘How do you know? Did Jacob call again?’
‘No, the phone he’s got is the one Richard gave him. It’s an iPhone. I activated the Find My iPhone feature when he brought it home – I was really worried he’d lose it and Richard would go mad. I just remembered it. I can see them on my computer.’
‘I need to catch up with them. They can’t be going straight to the airport. Can you call the station in Dún Laoghaire, give them the new information, and get them to relay everything to Inspector Dawson O’Rourke? It’s vital he’s kept informed. I need to concentrate on driving. I’m almost at the M50, I can head up that way off the N7. It’s a much faster road. If they change direction call me back.’
*
Cathy shifted in her seat, sitting up, her full attention on the road ahead. Rebecca’s last update had put Farrell and Jacob turning left and heading for The Lamb and Manor Kilbride. The traffic had been light, and she’d flown out of town and across the Red Cow interchange, the lights in her favour all the way. That was a blessing. It was usually jammed bumper to bumper: there was a good reason that it was known as the Mad Cow. And, thank God, the N7 was empty at this time of night too.
She pressed her foot to the floor. After her last beautiful Mini had been blown up she’d taken her time choosing another one. Truth be told, she’d been worried about getting back behind the wheel, had done an advanced Garda driving course to get her confidence back. Not that she’d been actually driving when it had happened, but the trauma was all wrapped up with the car, and driving again had been a big hurdle.
When she felt she was ready she’d gone down to the Mini dealer and ordered the highest spec, most souped-up car Mini produced. Now she was glad for all of that, of the driving course and that her car was as fast as anything on the racing circuit. Heading down the unlit winding roads that crossed the Wicklow hills, her headlights on full beam, the Mini was earning the two black stripes that bisected its metallic paintwork.
Cathy hit dial on her phone.
Rebecca answered immediately. ‘Where are they now?’
‘It looks like they’ve stopped, just over the bridge after Blessington. The blip has been there for a few minutes.’
‘I know it. Almost there.’
Cathy’s mind worked fast. Blessington, a country town high up in the Wicklow hills, was one of the places she’d gone to run after the accident. Boxing had been out of the question while her ribs healed; instead she’d gradually got her fitness back pounding the damp sand around the Blessington lakes with only the moorhens and herons to hear her cries of anguish. Often blinded by tears, she’d kept running until she felt every muscle burning, until she’d got back on top physically and emotionally.
The lakes were a beautiful place to train – a bird sanctuary, the reservoir had been formed when a valley was flooded, a village submerged. It was lonely and unpopulated. And just over the bridge Rebecca was talking about, there was a car park overlooking the water. Cathy knew exactly where Farrell had stopped. But why there? Was he meeting someone?
‘Can you contact Dún Laoghaire Station again? They’ll let Detective Inspector O’Rourke know, and they’ll notify Blessington Station – it’s the nearest. I’m almost there. They need to know Jacob is there and it’s a possible hostage situation.’
Rebecca’s voice was strained as she replied, ‘Thank you, Cathy.’
Why was everyone thanking her today? She hadn’t done anything yet.
41
It was pitch dark as Cathy headed along the winding road into Blessington. With only the glowing cat’s eyes to guide her this far, as she entered the town the lights of the broad main street that ran straight through the middle glowed bright. Shops lined each side of the road, deserted at this time of night.
Suddenly her phone lit up – Rebecca Ryan.
‘Are you near them?’
Cathy could hear the strain in Rebecca’s voice, kept her own deliberately level, ‘I’m almost there.’
‘Jacob just texted me.’ Rebecca took a breath like she was trying to steady her voice; she was wavering on the edge of panic, ‘He heard his dad on the phone. He’s meeting someone called David Givens. Richard said he was in the army, like Action Man. I think he could be the man Jacob saw before, the man who met your friend.’
‘Irish army?’ Cathy could hear the confusion in her own voice. The Irish army was a small force of peacekeepers.
‘No, Jacob says English. I’m not sure, his spelling isn’t very good and he’s very confused.’
British army . . . OK, that was different. Very different. ‘Why are they meeting?’
‘I don’t know, but what if he’s armed? And Jacob . . .’ She sounded distraught.
‘Don’t worry, I’m almost there. I’m going to turn my phone to silent, though, so if I don’t answer, don’t worry. I’ll call as soon as I have Jacob safe.’
Cathy clicked off the phone, her mind racing. British army? Why was Farrell meeting someone from the British army? What could he be doing here in the Republic? It didn’t make sense, but she knew someone who might be able to help.
McIntyre picked up after one ring. ‘Boss?’
‘What’s up, girl?’
‘Name David Givens mean anything to you, British army?’
There was a split-second pause. ‘Dave Givens? Christ, girl, where did his name come up? I trained him. Ex-special forces head. I heard on the grapevine that he went rogue and now he’s for hire. He’s normally based in the Middle East but I heard a rumour he was over here, had business in the North of Ireland.’ McIntyre paused, ‘He specialises in making people disappear. He’s well known in army circles, Cat, and he’s dangerous. What’s going on?’
Cathy took a breath, focusing on explaining clearly in the shortest possible time. ‘The Rookery, the restaurant where Sarah Jane worked, is owned by a guy called Richard Farrell. He was dating a girl who worked there too, and we think it’s her body that was found in the mountains. He also owns The Paradise Club that we raided tonight – they’ve been trafficking women from all over the world into Ireland. Now Farrell’s running, and he’s got his son with him. I think he’s meeting Givens.’
‘Christ. He’d only be meeting Givens if he’s contracted him for a job – maybe he’s paying him?’ McIntyre only paused for a split second as he absorbed what Cathy had said, ‘But Givens definitely didn’t kill that girl in the mountains – much too messy.’ Then, ‘Where are you?’
‘Coming into Blessington. Farrell’s ex-wife is tracking her son’s iPhone signal. He’s stopped by the reservoir.’
McIntyre didn’t hesitate, ‘That’s an ambush. Dark lonely spot beside the water? Perfect location. I don’t know what’s going on, but Givens wouldn’t work with traffickers – not his style. If he’s found out what’s happening he could be after Farrell. Luring him to a quiet location for whatever reason is a whole lot easier than trying to find him. You need to get there, girl. Whatever’s going on, if Givens is planning to take out Farrell, that boy’s in danger too.’ McIntyre paused, ‘Listen to me and listen good, Givens’s unit was hit by a car bomb in Sierra Leone and he lost two of his team. He had to leave the army because the blast left him partially deaf in his right ear. His sight was affected too, maybe only his peripheral vision, but his right eye is the weak one. He’s highly trained, but he must be in his fifties now and he’s got a weak spot – that’s it.’
‘Got it. Call O’Rourke and fill him in? I’m almost there.’ Her voice was steely.
‘Keep safe, girl.’
Seconds later Cathy reached the other side of town and accelerated again. There was a short winding stretch of country road before the bridge that crossed the lake.
It was pitch black here, blacker after the lights of the town. There was no room for mistakes.
McIntyre’s words ran through her head and she suddenly slowed. McIntyre was right: it was the perfect location for an ambush. And if they were in the car park, Cathy knew they’d see her car crossing
the bridge. Granted they might think she was some boy racer, but she didn’t want to spook them. She needed to take it slow like she was a local heading home from the pub. If Givens was intending to kill Farrell, he wouldn’t hesitate to take her out if she blundered into the middle of it all. At least she was armed. She could feel her SIG hard against her side.
Jacob would be sitting in his dad’s car, sleepy and frightened and wondering what the hell was going on. Maybe he’d fallen asleep on the back seat and Givens didn’t know he was there. Maybe he was hiding like the night she and J.P. had gone to question him, curled up in the footwell in the back seat too terrified to come out. Maybe, maybe . . . Was there a saint of maybe she could pray to? In her head Cathy was with a small frightened boy in a car in a cold car park in the middle of nowhere without his mum. And right now, she was prepared to sell her soul to keep that little boy safe.
It took every part of her being to slow down, but her reduced speed gave her time to fully evaluate the scene. As she cruised across the bridge she could clearly see lights in the car park off to the left below her: two cars. The glow of one set of headlights.
She’d found them.
She would have punched the air if the circumstances had been different; instead she felt a surge of adrenaline that made her want to punch Richard Farrell so hard he never woke up.
The car park was set into the hillside beside the lake, the two vehicles parked opposite each other, parallel to the water. A Range Rover and a sports car.
The Range Rover had backed snug into the hillside, low scrub rising behind it to meet the fields. It was facing the entrance to the car park. A good tactical position, it had military written all over it.
The other vehicle, parked a few yards away, was sleek and low slung: Farrell’s Aston Martin. The Range Rover was in darkness, lit by the Aston Martin’s headlights which formed the only pool of light on the full length of the shore. The Aston Martin’s driver’s door was slung open, the interior light on. Was Jacob in the car?
Cathy only had a second to assess the rest of the picture as she crossed the bridge. Two figures, standing beside the cars, were facing each other. From his posture it looked like the larger of the two men, the one standing in front of the Range Rover, was holding a handgun. How much time did she have? From everything she’d heard about him, if Farrell had realised that the gun wasn’t just for decoration he’d be trying to talk his way out of it. Which might buy her a few precious minutes.
Swinging past the entrance to the car park, Cathy hit the accelerator and headed up the hill. They’d be able to hear the Mini’s engine; sound travelled remarkably clearly here over the water, but they wouldn’t be able to see her, and she knew exactly where she could stop. Seconds later she flung the Mini into a driveway on her right. She’d driven past it a million times. It led to high entrance gates to what was probably a fabulous house set well back off the road. But this wasn’t a house call.
Hauling on the handbrake, Cathy was out of the car in a second, her Nikes silent as she crossed the narrow country road. There was a two-bar fence bordering the field that ran down to the lake. The wood was rough under her hand, the ground sloping down steeply on the other side, but she didn’t hesitate, vaulting the fence, dropping like a gymnast into the field. It was pitch dark but she headed fast diagonally downhill across the grassy field, praying no one had decided to move a herd of cows into it. She could feel herself gathering speed as she ran, her breath loud in the silence of the night. Short sharp bursts of intense activity were what she was trained for, and as she reached the corner of the field she vaulted the fence again effortlessly and landed in the scrub that edged the lake.
From here, she knew she could get to the sandy shore and head around the lake edge to the car park, approaching it from behind.
Her heart thundering in her chest, Cathy almost stumbled in the thick scrub. But this was ground she was familiar with. Notching it up a gear, she could hear the gentle lap of the water to her right, an owl calling in the distance as she ran around the edge of the lake. Ahead she knew the beach narrowed before opening into a spit below the car park, the sand grey, shining with mica. When she reached the car park, she’d be approaching the bank that separated it from the beach very slightly up hill, but she’d have the advantage of height when she got to the top. And if she was quiet enough, surprise.
Suddenly, over the sound of her own breathing and the lapping of the waves, she could hear snatches of voices. Swinging around the edge of the spit she slowed; she didn’t want to be heard, and she wanted to hear what was going on above. Concealed by the waving couch grass and scrub, she knew she was invisible from the car park: her black hair, black hoodie and sweatpants blending with the landscape. The breeze switched direction and the men’s voices came to her clearly.
‘We were told you could do the job, Givens. You came highly recommended. How is your business going to fare if I put the word out that you can’t be trusted, that you wanted more money to finish the job?’ A south Dublin accent, arrogant, angry: Farrell.
‘Oh I can be trusted, Mr Farrell, but I don’t think loyalty is something you understand.’ The other voice was educated, British army officer class.
There was a pause. ‘Don’t talk crap, you couldn’t kill her because she’s a woman. Just fucking admit it.’
‘I get the job done – anyone, anywhere. But not this time.’ Givens paused, his voice lowering, ‘You’re not here because I need more cash, you’re here because you’re a fucking idiot. You’re here because I wanted you here.’ Givens paused, ‘You’re a lowlife scum who doesn’t understand the rules. You think you can buy my services? I work for governments, Mr Farrell, I specialise in removing parasites like you. I do odd jobs on the side, granted – I got a call from an old friend to solve a problem and it sounded clean, but you, Mr Farrell, you aren’t clean, are you?’
Cathy hardly dared breathe as Givens paused. ‘Two members of my unit owe their lives to a CNN journalist called Ted Hansen. He put his life on the line to help my boys get clear of enemy fire. He didn’t have to, he didn’t know them – he saw something going down and he acted. We have a code of honour in the army. His daughter has done nothing to you.’
‘His daughter is threatening to wreck a big business, a business that is run by players who would give you nightmares.’
‘Oh I doubt that, Farrell, I doubt that very much. I think you’re the one running scared here. And your business associates aren’t impressed. You fucked up once and they couldn’t afford for you to fuck up again so they called me. I don’t make mistakes, Richard, and I don’t take risks.’
There was a pause, and Givens’s tone went down a gear, deadly serious, ‘So now my brief has changed. I was coming for you, but you have very conveniently come to me.’
From Farrell’s silence, Cathy gathered he wasn’t getting it. Givens must have realised too. He laughed, his tone of voice changing again. ‘Christ, you’re even more stupid than you look. You’re a liability, Farrell. The people you work with have had enough, and so have I.’
This was ramping up. Givens was going to take Farrell out. She needed to make her move or Jacob would be at risk. If Jacob was hiding and Givens fired, Jacob was bound to react and show himself.
Jogging around to get a good position, Cathy eased out her gun. The SIG didn’t have a safety catch, instead used double-action trigger pressure. It had been drilled into them from her first day on the range that you only fired if you warned the suspect first, or were in fear for your life. But she wasn’t about to start yelling ‘Armed Gardaí’ into the night and make herself a sitting target. One thing she could be sure of was that Givens’s reactions would be fast. He was combat trained. She’d been shot before, and it wasn’t an experience she wanted to repeat.
But there was another way.
She needed to disable Givens before he got a shot off.
And to do that she needed as much power as she could to get over the bank. Her heart rate increased
as she mentally calculated the distances.
Approaching this way, she’d be attacking from Givens’s right, and, if McIntyre was correct, that was his blind side.
Givens started speaking again, and in that instant she knew she had to go, there was no time to be arsing about. Givens’s voice was clear on the still night air.
‘You don’t understand how this works, do you? Sarah Jane has seen exactly who is involved in your little operation, and she’s a bright girl, she’s got it all worked out. She’s going to spill your story, and both of us know you won’t like that, so now you really need to take her out.’ As he paused, Cathy took off, her toes digging hard into the soft sand, giving her the purchase she needed. ‘And I can’t let that happen. I don’t take orders from people-trafficking scum like you.’
A shot exploded into the night as Cathy hit the top of the bank surrounding the car park. The flash from the muzzle was minimal, but enough in a split second to give her a clear location on the gun. As Farrell fell to the ground, his cry of anguish ripping through the still night air, Givens was taking aim to let off a second shot. But Cathy was already in the air, landing on the rough tarmac a few feet from Givens, Farrell’s cries masking the sound. Givens was a big guy but using the powerful momentum she’d gained from her jump, twisting, she sprang into an axe kick. Even at this distance, moving, she could miss with the gun, but there was no chance she’d miss him with a kick.
His right side is the weak one. God Bless McIntyre.
As her right foot connected with the back of Givens’s head he staggered and fired again, the shot going wide. She was used to fighting barefoot; wearing Nikes her kick would have knocked most people out for a week. Buckling under its force, Givens’s knees hit the ground, and Cathy heard his gun, metal on tarmac, spinning away out of his hand to the edge of the pool of light cast by the Aston Martin’s headlights.
Recovering from the kick in one movement, just like in the ring, she sprang in the direction of the sound and had kicked his gun into the scrub before Givens even knew what had hit him. In a fight, reaction was as essential to success as attack, avoiding the next punch crucial to winning. McIntyre had her well trained.
