Hetman: Hard Kil (3 page)

“I rekon.”

They watched for a further quarter of an hour. The storm intensified until on cue they heard the familiar voice of O’Connor. She sounded despondent. “Bat Flight RTB.”

Fox read Snow’s mind. “Who else did you think was up there all comfy with the flyboy?”

Ten more minutes passed as the rain lashed the window in front of them before they heard Gord on the net. “Movement; coming across the field. Four X-rays.”

Snow swivelled his scope and looked towards Napp and Gord’s OP. There was an opening in the hedgerow to accommodate a metal gate. He saw figures walking towards the back of Taylor’s house. They had their heads down to shield them from the rain but something was wrong. Snow squinted. They did not seem to be armed. They stopped, turned and looked up at the OP. Then one of them waved.

“What the…”

“Cheeky sods. We’ve been rumbled.” Fox started to laugh.

Snow spoke into his mic. “X-rays are aware. Repeat. X-rays are aware.”

“Have that and confirmed.” Gord acknowledged.

Snow carried on watching the group who now turned and walked back the way they had come.

“Abort, I repeat abort.” Fox ordered. With O’Connor back at the helo base he was in command.

“So that’s it?”

Fox stood, stretched. “Aye laddie. They’ll be nothing on those four; they’ll just be local sympathisers.” Fox pressed his transmit button. “Need a taxi.”

“Understood.” Napp replied, a glint of humour in his voice. “Sending over an RUC ‘limo’.”

Fox and Snow collected their kit and left the house. Snow took a final glance out of the window and saw the blue strobes of two RUC response vehicles at the gate. The rain had started to ease off and he could make out the four men standing with their arms raised. The Det duo retraced the route across the field to their insertion point, mud clogging their boots with every step.

Snow was first at the hedgerow. He ducked down and pushed forward. As he reached the other side he came eye to eye with Jimmy McCracken and Marin Grew. They were standing in front of a dark transit van and each holding a Kalashnikov.

“Move and yer a dead man!” McCracken snarled; his AK aimed point-blank at Snow’s head.

A second later Fox appeared. “The Sass bastard’s mine!” His accent had become pure Armagh.

“And who the feck are you?”

Fox kept his gaze on McCracken, but spoke to Grew. “It’s been a long time Marty-boy.”

Grew was somewhat amazed. “Is that Paddy Fox himself?”

“You know him?” McCracken asked, incredulous.

“Used to.”

“I’m your inside man McCracken.” Fox stated. “Call Dolan, he’ll tell you.”

There was the briefest of silences as McCracken assessed Fox’s claim. “Prove it. Shoot laddie here in the head.”

“No. He’s worth more to you alive.”

“Is that right?” McCracken said calmly. “Then give me your pistol.”

“Here.” Fox opened his smock slowly, removed his SIG with his right hand and leaning forward placed it on the pavement.

As McCracken and Grew momentarily followed the SIG, Snow saw his chance and stepped sideways and forward. He kicked with his right leg at Grew’s knee. The Irishman stumbled backwards, but as Snow grabbed at the AK his own legs were violently taken from under him. He collapsed to the ground. Stars erupted in front of his eyes as his head hit the pavement. A wave of cold surged down his spine. Before Snow could register the attack Fox was pummelling him with his fists.

A wry smile spread on McCracken’s face. “Enough. You were a second away from getting one in the head Paddy Fox. Marty, help your friend get his ‘pal’ inside. Paddy, if either of youse make a wrong move then you will get a bullet in both of yer heads. Understood?”

“Aye.” Fox clambered off of Snow, then delivered a couple of swift kicks to the Englishman’s back for good measure.

Snow made no attempt to move and became dead weight. A fury burned through the pain and confusion. He’d been set up; the Det had been set up by one of its own.

As Fox lifted Snow to his feet, Grew pulled his arms behind his back and plasticuffed them. Grew took away Snow’s SIG and ripped out his comms link. They manhandled Snow into the back of the transit van. McCracken followed them in, shut the doors and the van moved off. Moments later an RUC patrol car crested the hill.

McCracken sat against the bulkhead with his AK still trained on Fox. "Throw your radio to me.”

Fox did as he was told. “Merry Christmas.”

A couple of feet away from Fox, Snow glowered. He made no attempt to hide his contempt, he had to do something but with Grew’s AK pointed at him he had nowhere to go.

“You’ve buggered me knee you Brit-shite!” Grew sneered, before using the barrel of his Kalashnikov to force Snow’s face into the floor. He then reversed the AK and hit Snow on the back of the head. Snow lost consciousness.

Fox smiled at Grew. “I’ve wanted to do that to the English eejit since I first met him.”

“Explain.” McCracken said.

“Well, England is the largest country in the United Kingdom.”

McCracken’s face became crimson. “You think I’ve time for feckin levity? Explain who you feckin are!”

“I work for Pat Dolan.”

“Whilst being a member of the East Det?”

“Yes.”

“For how long?”

“Ask him.”

McCracken was about to say something but thought better of it.

Fox looked at Grew. “Marty. It really has been a long time. How’s your ma?”

In the gloom Grew frowned. “Fine. Why?”

“No reason. Have you shown him your scar?”

“What scar?”

“Ach it’s nothing, Jimmy.” Grew snapped, defensively.

“Marty, tell me how you know this comedian.”

“Me and the big lad here used to play in the street as kids. Thick as thieves we were, he still is.”

McCracken fell silent for a moment before laying out his orders. “Here’s what we’re gonna do. We take you back with us and then if Dolan confirms your story it’s all hearts and flowers. And if he doesn’t, well I don’t suppose I need to enlighten you any further.”

***

Grew’s Kalashnikov rested across his legs and the owner of the farmhouse, an older volunteer named Kian Quinn, had a Browning hi-power handgun in his right hand. They had been instructed to guard Fox whilst McCracken had gone to call Dolan. To his annoyance however McCracken had found that the phone was out, the lines damaged by the storm. This meant that he had to get in his car and find a payphone.

“Would you believe Kian, the last time I saw this naff excuse for an Irishman it was 1979! Jesus we were both fifteen. So what happened to you?” Grew asked Fox.

“What, after me Da ran off? We stopped coming over the water, didn’t we? I got stuck in the Red Road flats.”

“Where?” Quinn asked.

“Glasgow. What a shit hole, they made the Ballybeen estate look like Butlins! But I’m back now.”

“Fighting for the cause in the belly of the beast?” Quinn said with sarcasm.

“Couldn’t have put it better myself.”

“Under Mary O’Connor.” Grew stated.

“Aye, but I’d rather be on top of her!” As the men sniggered at Fox’s words, he tried not to let his surprise show. The identity of members of the Det was classified, but Grew knew about Mary. Dolan’s real mole had access to the Det in some way.

“I’d drink to that.” Quinn said before adding to no one in particular. “God I need a drink.”

“Which one of you took care of Fannon?”

Quinn looked at Grew who answered. “The kid in the barn, call it an initiation if you will. That is one mad bastard.”

“It’s them Yank films. What was the one he was quoting the other day?”

“Ach, True Romance.” Grew stated.

“That was it. He goes on and on about the interrogation scene, you see, says he could have done it better. He carved Fannon up like a pig. A very mad bastard.”

Fox folded his arms. “Good. The man was a piece of shite.”

“You met him?” Grew asked.

“Course I did, the officers running the Det are thick as a brick wall!”

“Chomh tiubh le balla bríce!” Quinn translated the phrase into Gaelic.

Fox continued. “They had me meet Fannon and pass on his orders! I’m surprised you didn’t take him out sooner.”

“We didn’t know he was rotten.” Grew said.

Fox shrugged. “I don’t understand. I gave Dolan everything. If he didn’t tell McCracken then he must have had a reason? Or did McCracken know and not tell you?”

“I don’t know Paddy. I’ll just have to ask him.” Grew sounded confused, uncertain.

“You ask too many questions,” Quinn scowled at Fox. “For someone apparently in the know.”

As he swam back to consciousness, Snow registered the pain first and then the musty smell. He opened his eyes but the world around him remained dark. He realised that he had a hessian sack over his head. He tried to move but found that he was hog-tied.

“Yer awake. Have a drink you must be parched.”

As Snow tried to turn towards the voice, the contents of a bucket splashed over his head. The ice cold water made him gasp.

“That’s better. Your friend in the big house, ‘Mr Fox’ says that he’s one of us,” the voice was now near Snow’s ear. “I don’t care either way if he’s for the cause or not, as long as it doesn’t stop my bit of fun. You see I’ve grown up being pissed on by you Brits, but then suddenly as soon as I’m old enough to volunteer some Sinn Féin soft-touch says ‘no’, ‘stop’. Jesus feckin Christ, am I meant to accept the ceasefire just because some bearded homo with a Brit cock up his arse says so?”

Snow’s voice was raspy as he spoke. “He usually has a cock in his mouth too.”

The IRA volunteer burst out laughing. “That’s funny coming from a Sass man like yerself.”

Inside the hood Snow was now alert and calculating his options. There was a dim light filtering through the hessian and he could just make out the shadow of his captor. He could only hear the one voice but that did not eliminate the possibility of other cell members being present. He’d try the easiest solution first.

“You don’t have to do this you know. You can let me go and I’ll swear to the fact that you helped me.”

“Me to turn grass? Don’t make me laugh.” The volunteer grabbed Snow’s chin through the sack. “What’s yer name Sass man?”

Snow didn’t let his anger show. “Aidan, and you?”

“Glendon.” He released his grip on Snow’s chin. You got some Irish in you, Aidan?”

“My great grandmother.” Snow lied. His name was the result of his diplomat father’s sense of humour. ‘Aidan’ had been conceived at the British Embassy in ‘Aden’, South Yemen. “How old are you, Glendon?”

“You think I’m too young is that it?” Glendon’s voice showed annoyance. “I’m Eighteen and let me tell you I’m not listening to Sinn Féin. They can just take their deal and shove it.”

“Up their arses?” Snow started to cough but a vicious pain travelled along his spine and into the back of his head. He let out a gasp.

“That Mr Fox really did a number on you.”

“Being hit on the head with a rifle butt didn’t help much either.”

“Dear oh dear. Why don’t I lend you my Nokia so you can call your mummy?”

“That would be good, thanks.” Snow said deadpan.

“What, so you’ll press a button and it’ll turn into a speedboat?”

Snow forced himself to laugh at his captors joke. “Who do you think I am James Bond?”

“No I do not! Don’t you watch the news? Pierce Brosnan is the new Bond and he’s from County Louth!”

Inside his hood Snow remained silent. He was being held captive by a film geek.

“No phone call, but I’ll get you some water. I won’t pour it over you. Well not this time.”

Feeling light-headed Snow shuffled into a sitting position as Glendon moved away beyond his field of vision. Snow listened intently and still could hear no one else in the barn.

Returning with a plastic water bottle, Glendon crouched and lifted the sack from his prisoner’s head. Snow could now see that Glendon was flame haired, muscular and had a pistol protruding from his waistband.

Snow leaned in to the bottle, their eyes met and the inexperienced Irishman suddenly realised that he’d made a mistake.

Snow jerked his head forward. There was a sickening click from the bridge of Glendon’s nose as Snow’s forehead made contact and the cartilage flattened. Glendon let out a yell and fell backwards, dropping the bottle as blood streamed down his face.

Snow struggled forward, rolled off the youth and with supreme effort pushed his hands down as he raised his legs. The bonds cut deeply into his wrists but his arms were now in front of him. Glendon regained his senses and thrashing his legs kicked Snow hard in the kidneys. Another sharp pain tore at Snow. Glendon grabbed the pistol, which Snow now recognised as a Soviet issue Makarov and tugged it out of his jeans. Snow twisted and clamped his still bound hands around the youth’s neck. Glendon’s arms flailed, his left hitting Snow on the top of his head whilst his right tried to manoeuvre the pistol.

Snow squeezed and pulled up. There was a crunch, Glendon’s neck snapped and the Makarov fell to the floor. The volunteer was dead.

Snow shuffled backwards, and realized that he was panting like a wild animal. He stared at the boy, his first kill. One life traded for another. Since passing Selection it was a given that this day would come, but somehow he’d never thought that he’d have to kill a daft kid. Snow felt cold and hollow, but he had no time for remorse or to make sense of it.

Forcing his actions aside he searched Glendon, found a penknife and cut away his bonds. Collecting the Makarov, Snow pushed himself to his feet. He swayed, the edges of his vision greyed and he almost fell. There was an instant hammering in his head and a fire in his spine. He’d hit the pavement hard when Paddy tackled him. A possible concussion, but what about his back? Snow was no doctor but like all members of the SAS had received medical training. He heard his instructors’ voices telling him to ‘suck it up’ and get on with the mission. If he could stand and hold a weapon he could fight.