All Fall Down

by James Brabazon

  Chasing his memory at Doc Levy’s—or mooning over Doc’s daughter—wasn’t going to bring him back. I sat on the bed and closed my eyes. She’tamut. I could choose to celebrate my death, or to regret it—but, either way, the last threads of my past were at breaking point.

  Downstairs the front door banged to. The noise brought me to my senses. I turned the oil lamp down low and moved to the window. The curtains were open enough that I could see the driveway without disturbing them. A figure darted across the gravel below, face hidden by a hood. Five-eleven, a hundred and fifty pounds. He stopped for a moment and turned toward me, looking up. I couldn’t see him clearly. I stepped back into the room and made for the stairs. But I was too slow. I opened the front door of the house onto the red glow of his taillights, disappearing on the road to Rathduff Church. A breeze picked up, carrying with it the high-pitched hum of fast tires on tarmac. I stared hard into the night and saw above the rise of the fields the juddering flash of halogen headlights.

  I closed and locked the door and turned back into the hallway. No movement in the house. I twisted the handle to the drawing room and stepped inside. Doc’s chair was pulled up by the fireplace, back toward me. The smell of peat and whisky mingled with the smell of iron. I skirted the chair, eyes fixed on the floor, heart banging in my chest.

  Face it, damn you. Face him.

  I looked up and into Doc’s eyes. He’d been shot. A single silenced bullet to the heart. I reached out to him and my phone rang. I knew who it was. Only Frank had that number. It wasn’t until I went to answer him that I realized I was still holding the Browning and my breath. I put the phone to my ear. The line clicked and buzzed. And then a voice distorted by the failing signal said simply:

  “Run.”

  4

  The first car arrived as I pulled my boots on.

  I’d taken the stairs two at a time, the tear in my thigh burning with the effort. I stood at the bedroom window. Half a dozen more sets of tires bit into the gravel below—unmarked, armored BMW X5s of the Garda Emergency Response Unit. An ambulance followed them in, too close. Above, the fast chop-chop-chop of an inbound helicopter reverberated around the old pile—carrying a Special Forces sniper looking for runners. A runner. I watched the police debus. Twenty-four operators in full black battledress, assault rifles up, respirators on, combing the front of Doc’s country house. Within seconds a shotgun was taking the front door off its hinges. Classic fortress assault. Capture or kill: I wasn’t planning on finding out which.

  In any combat situation there are only two choices: do something, or do nothing. I didn’t want to start shooting cops. But convincing them we were on the same side before they shot me looked unlikely. And if I broke cover or got onto the roof while a sniper was airborne, I was a dead man. The house was laid out like a wide gray horseshoe: the front of the main building ran north–south, with the front door opening east; there was a converted stable block at the north end; and, to the south, a newer wing—and my bedroom. The buildings enclosed the wide expanse of the driveway and lawn on three sides. There was no vehicular access to the back of the house, and the entire demesne was encompassed by a high stone wall.

  There was only one way out, and that was the way we’d all come in: the front gate. And once I was out, I didn’t want anyone following—wherever I ended up. As for Frank, it looked like he knew where I was, all right—and we both knew that, as far as the British government was concerned, Max McLean didn’t exist. The cavalry wasn’t coming to rescue me: it was coming to ride me down.

  I was on my own. As usual.

  I brightened the oil lamp a fraction, rechecked the Browning and scanned the room. Doc’s Martini–Henry drew a flat, dark smile over the fireplace. I tucked the pistol into the back of my jeans and took the antique rifle down and turned it over in my hands. The weight was reassuring, an ancient anchor steadying me against the gathering storm. I lowered the cocking lever. The wood might have been scarred, but, like the pistol, the working parts were clean and oiled. Spread out along the mantel a row of Kynoch drawn-brass cartridges rested in the leather pouches of an outstretched bandolier. I slung the wide belt over my bandaged shoulder and extracted one of the monster Victorian bullets. Doc and his obsessions. He’d always taken them too far. I slid the cartridge into the breech, clicked the lever home and slipped the sights to a hundred yards.

  By the sound of it they’d been clearing each room downstairs as they went, prepping them with stun grenades. Now the men coming for me fell silent. Most likely they’d discovered Doc’s dead body.

  Doc’s dead body. The adrenaline dissipated. In my mind’s eye I saw the old man shot in his chair, and for an instant the world shrunk to the horror of what I had done, had caused. My throat tightened. And then a blast from downstairs brought me back to my senses. I moved to the window. The assault team’s BMWs were drawn up in a semicircle on the drive. The ambulance that had followed them in had stopped behind them, just in front of the gates that formed the only break in the old boundary wall. The crew were civilians, drafted in at the last moment, I supposed, and certainly not briefed on how best to park up. The driver and paramedic crouched behind their ride, nervously looking up and down as the chopper came in, as if watching a game of vertical tennis.

  I stepped three feet back from the curtains and rolled my shoulder forward to compensate for the old infantry rifle’s short stock. Through the open crack of the bedroom window I could see the ambulance lit up clearly enough by the flickering light of the porch lamp. I drew a bead on the crook of the backward L stenciled on the bonnet and fired. The butt bit into my shoulder, my ears rang with the big, bold bang of the shot and the room was engulfed in gunpowder smoke. The crew flattened themselves. Whatever the Gardaí had been expecting, it wasn’t an ounce of Victorian lead. The round smashed through the front panel and into the engine block. Oil spurted from the gash it tore and spread out under the ambulance, seeping onto the pea gravel beneath in a wide, dirty slick.

  If I was trapped, so were they.

  I worked the lever. Pain flared down my arm. The spent brass tumbled out of the breech. I loaded another of the soft lead rounds from the bandolier, snapped the lever home and listened. Boots on the stairs. I put down the rifle and stripped a pillowcase off the bed. I dropped half a dozen of the rifle rounds into it and then wrapped the improvised cotton cartridge bag around the fat etched-glass font of the oil lamp. God bless Doc Levy and his fetish for Victoriana.

  Crouching down to the side of the bedroom door, I listened again. They were still on the stairs. Stun grenades and smoke would follow. Tear gas maybe. And then a lot of modern, accurate, high-velocity lead and copper. I had seconds left. I turned the lamp flame up as high as it would go and opened the door, lobbing the makeshift bomb into the air over the stairwell. It came down hard with a satisfying crack. The oil splashed and caught, igniting a thick tapestry hanging on the far wall. Shouting erupted from the unseen policemen. Lamp oil burns hot. The old wooden stairs would go up in no time. The house had survived the War of Independence. But it wouldn’t outlast the night. If I was lucky, the rounds would start to cook off. Anything to buy time.

  The bedroom was in almost complete darkness now—the only light from the fingers of flame licking up the banister. I stayed at a crouch and watched the glowing stairs. Two Guards emerged onto the landing, burning. They’d been above the strike point, and both were alight. They dropped and rolled and beat the flames on their fatigues with gloved palms, and then together they recovered themselves, inching their way toward me—assault rifles up, the beams of the LED torches under their barrels cutting through the smoke like bright white lasers. They should have waited for the rest of their stick before clearing any more rooms. But everyone wants to be a hero. Once.

  I moved fast. One foot up on the door handle, hauling myself up onto the top of the tallboy. As the door flung open and their searchlights cut through the gloom of the bedroom, the
corridor echoed with the pop-pop-pop of exploding Martini–Henry rounds. The lead Guard had stepped across the threshold and pulled the pin on a stun grenade, but hesitated as the cartridges behind banged and whistled. His comrade turned fully, Heckler & Koch in his shoulder, firing into the smoke.

  Blink and you miss.

  I came down hard, boots into the leader’s back. He sprawled beneath me; the stun grenade fell free. I recovered in time to shield my ears and eyes. The metal cylinder bounced off the skirting board and exploded in a blinding white flash. I reeled from the blast, eardrums singing. The fallen Guard stayed on the floor—down, but not dead. I turned to face the second Guard. The barrel of his Heckler & Koch caught on the doorjamb. Elbow in. Right shoulder low. I struck below his left ear, clear of the helmet. My knuckle hit home. He staggered. Alternating strikes. Weapon dropped, hanging from its sling. He lurched backward, recovered, and then lunged, both arms up. I blocked from the inside, arms crossed and then opening in front of him. Straight kick to the left knee, pushing forward, my leg between his. His right arm in my left hand. My right hand pushed across his face, grabbing his respirator. Pivot. My weight down, right knee on his chest, his head immobilized. Short punch below the left ear. I reached behind him and tore a set of flex-cuffs free from his webbing. One hand tied, then the other, immobilized behind his back.

  Torchlight and orders barked from below. I rolled him over and took two canisters from the front of his battledress. One stun. One CS. No frag. Over the stairs they went.

  Bang. Pop. Hiss.

  I dragged him into the room, pursued by the assault team who’d made it onto the landing. The old oak door would stop a few dozen rounds of 5.56, but they wouldn’t risk hitting their own men. I pulled the tallboy down in front of it and breathed out hard. The room was illuminated with a single beam of light from the fallen leader’s rifle LED. I unhooked the tactical sling from his shoulder and gave him the once-over. He was out for the count but still breathing. His trussed-up companion thrashed around on the floor.

  “Téigh in ainm an diabhail!” he swore at me.

  Fair enough. Fucking off with the devil was pretty much what I had in mind, anyway. I pointed the recovered Heckler & Koch at him.

  “You shout, you die. OK?” I took the body cams off his ballistic vest and the leader’s and crushed them both under my bootheel. Next I threw a blanket from the bed over his head; like a black canary, he stopped cursing. Outside, his team would be lining up for a fresh assault, assessing whether I’d taken hostages. If they stormed the bedroom, the oak door and the tallboy would hold them only so long once they got that Benelli 12-gauge working on the hinges.

  It was time to play chicken.

  I stripped the vest off the team leader still sprawled on the floor and strapped it across my own chest, covering it with my shirt, before rolling him into the recovery position. Then I plucked the radio headset from his ear.

  “Man down! Man down!” I bellowed into the transmitter. “Target exiting upper-floor window. Weapons free. Repeat, weapons free.” And then for good measure in Irish: “Leag é!” Take him down!

  I picked up the old rifle from the bed. Then, as thick shotgun slugs ripped into the doorframe, I drew the curtains back and flung open the window. The rush of winter air sharpened my senses, brought me back into contact with the world outside. The police Eurocopter flared into the night breeze, coming in low and loud above the roof of the north wing. A searchlight swept the upstairs windows and rested on mine, bleaching the room white. Two hundred meters away the two-tone hull of the little chopper swung starboard, drifting toward me, doors locked back.

  I couldn’t see him, but I knew he was in there, strapped in, staring at me through the scope of a .308. The bird lurched. I gambled on him doing what he’d been trained to do: aim center mass. Few professionals would risk a head shot, even at that range—myself included. I was relying on him taking his time, too. His unit was in danger. Two were already out of action. The building was on fire. He needed to knock me out. And certainty takes time. I waited, drawing a deep breath into my lungs. The pilot brought the nose farther around starboard and held the chopper as it leveled off above the driveway. The sniper on board the aircraft had to be side-on with me. He’d be on the gun, waiting for me to settle in his sights. Exhale. I put the short rifle stock into my shoulder. Inhale. From shooting up the ambulance, I knew how the bullet would fall. I half emptied my lungs. I needed the chopper to be as still as he did. My point of aim settled, just, I hoped, as the aim of the unseen shooter would be settling, too. Our fingers squeezed the trigger steels. And together we fired.

  Lighter, faster, flatter: his round hit first. The shock of it took me off my feet as my own slow, heavy shot streaked out toward the hovering bird. I let the Martini–Henry fall away and rolled clear of the window, winded. I was on my back, struggling to breathe. Everything hurt—my old wounds from the cottage, my head from the stun grenade and now my ribs from the .308. I put my right hand up and under the flak vest: thumping, bruising pain, but no blood. I sat up, gulping air back into my lungs. His bullet had struck high and left. It had been caught by the vest’s ballistic plate with an inch to spare, a neat black hole drilled through the white shirt I’d pulled over it.

  Through the impossibly bright arc of the spotlight my own bullet had hit home, too. I didn’t hear it, couldn’t see it. But the ball of soft lead once used to cut down the enemies of the British Empire now did its job for me. The arc light juddered and leaped and swept away from the window, plunging the room back into darkness. I went back to the window. I’d hit the enclosed tail rotor dead center, sending the huge rifle round directly into its pitch-control mechanism. As I knew from personal, frightening experience, once the tail rotor fails, you can’t pull power. The pilot had gone immediately into autorotation, trying desperately to get his spinning ship down onto the lawn that flanked the driveway. It was a bumpy ride. The main rotor blades clipped a branch and then the front of the house. Huge lengths of metal sheared off. The ambulance crew took to their heels. And then, just as the bird went over on its side, the bedroom door was blown off its hinges. The tallboy still covered half the entrance but immediately the beams of the assault squad’s torches combed through the room. I picked up the discarded Heckler & Koch, clicked the fire selector to semiauto and fired high and wide.

  Keep your heads down, boys.

  I emptied the magazine around the doorway. Plaster and wood vaporized under the stream of lead. In reply: CS gas. I dropped the assault rifle, touch-checked the Browning in the back of my jeans and pushed myself out of the window followed by shouts and shots. My right hand caught the limb of a wisteria branch that curled below the windowsill, but my weight snapped it as I fell. Fifteen feet down into a thick laurel hedge. I landed on my back, stunned by the fall, but cushioned enough by the evergreen not to break my spine.

  Above me, black-masked faces at the window. More shouts; first one, then a dozen rifle reports. But I was already up and running, hugging the wall of the house, sprinting east toward the old stone boundary wall and the bunged-up gateway. The wall itself was too high to vault, and a dash through the gate close to suicide if the sniper wasn’t definitely out of action. I scanned the crash site. Figures were moving in the wreckage. The medical crew had recovered themselves and were freeing a grab bag from the back of their truck. Fire poured out of the upstairs windows of the house. Reaching up into the black winter sky, the flames lit everything a deep, dirty orange. The angle of fire from the bedroom window to the end of the south wing was too oblique for a clear shot. But if anyone was at the front door I was in trouble.

  Do something or do nothing.

  Fuck it.

  I took off for the iron gates as fast as my wounded leg would let me. The ambulance crew passed on my left, the gatepost on my right. I set foot outside Doc’s threshold and then . . . nothing. I rolled into the dead ground the wall afforded. I’d sprung the t
rap. Now I needed speed, not protection.

  I ripped off my shirt and then the vest. Blue jeans and a black T-shirt were as good a nighttime camouflage as any in County Mayo. It was a half-klick straight shot to Rathduff Church, and another three to the main Ballina road beyond. Too easy. Too obvious. I’d already worked my way up from Knockmore on the way to Doc’s and knew the country better than they did. If they didn’t already have eyes in the sky, they would before I made the nearest town.

  I ran hard, head down, tight to hedges and ditches, bearing southeast toward the village of Newtown Cloghans. I’d seen cars there, and trucks. I could hot-wire an old farm banger. Or hijack a night driver. Anything was better than being in the open. My lungs heaved. My wounds burned. To my right I could hear the waves of Lough Conn slapping the shore. To my left, nothing. And then, behind me, the unmistakable barking of German shepherds. Two of them—three hundred meters and gaining. I could outrun the heavily laden ERU. But their dogs would be on me in seconds. I made it to the edge of the next field and took a stand on the far side of a low hedge.

  One hundred meters.

  I drew the Browning from the back of my jeans, dropped the safety and cocked the hammer.

  Fifty meters.

  I could hear them but not see them.

  Twenty-five meters.

  Two black shadows flitting across black turf.

  Ten meters.

  So fast now it was hard to see them at all.

  And then they were over the scrub in tandem, leaping, snarling, closing. I shot the dog on the right in the center of its rib cage and swung left. But the second dog was on me. The force of impact twisted the pistol out of my hand.