The Killer II
THE KILLER
II
:
The American Connection
Jack
Elgos
YELLOWBAY BOOKS
Published by YellowBay Books Ltd 2012
www.yellowbay.co.uk
Copyright © Jack
Elgos
2012
The right of Jack
Elgos
to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All Rights Reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced
, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by means, electronic, electrostatic, magnetic tape, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the written permission of the publishers:
YellowBay Books Ltd
ISBN
9781908530509
This is a work of fiction. Names and characters are the products of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Cover design by Emily Heaton
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Teaser
He carried out his usual security measures and, when he was confident that everything was safe, he went to examine the contents of the boot. Turner had assured him that he would be well provisioned, but his eyes widened in amazement at what he saw. ‘Fuck me, there’s a bloody arsenal in here,’ he muttered as he carried out a quick stock-check. A Colt .45 automatic; a snub nosed .38 revolver; a short stock AK 47; two fragmentation grenades; a very large and evil looking bayonet and, last but not least, an
Armalite
AR-18. ‘A
fuckin
’
Widowmaker
,’ he exclaimed as he noted each weapon strapped neatly into individual foam containers and a collection of multiple clips and associated boxes of ammo to complete the arms stash. ‘Jesus Christ
all-fucking-mighty
, what’s Turner thinking? I’m
gonna
start World War fucking Three?’
Contents
3.
America
4.
The Druids
8.
The Bronx
9.
Jimmy Mal
10.
The Airport
11.
The Debrief
13.
An Old Friend
15.
Cork: The Pub and Meeting the M...M…Man
18.
Back In The Game
19.
1983: Spain
20.
Oh, Nobody Likes Them You Know
21.
The Hunters, the Rabbit and the Sister
23.
Dreams of a Spanish Girl - Interrupted
1981: Northern Ireland
The ruthless enforcer, sniper and torturer,
Darren McCann, was dead.
Also known as The Butcher of Belfast, or Butch to his closest friends, McCann had been shot and killed during a daring escape from the infamous jail - H.M.P
.
: Maze, Northern Ireland. His brothers-in-arms of the Provisional I.R.A., many of them still incarcerated in The
H-Blocks, mourned his passing.
Butch would be missed by the
Provos
.
1
1982: The Flight
The sleek new Jaguar saloon came gliding to a halt in the V.I.P. parking area of Heathrow Airport.
A man dressed in a smart grey business suit tossed the car keys to an attendant then, briefcase in hand and overnight bag on his shoulder, he swiftly made his way towards the departures lounge.
His fashionably long ponytail blew behind him in the cool, gentle breeze.
Once inside the lounge he ignored the complimentary food and drinks on offer.
Instead, he cautiously scanned the face of every single person in the room.
There was no obvious danger and he began to relax a little.
He lit a cigarette and took a seat to wait for his flight, but his surveillance continued as he smoked.
The suit felt strange to him, but he silently thanked a certain English gentleman for insisting that he wear it.
His usual attire would have looked out of place among his opulent fellow passengers.
Well, apart from the one who was just entering the room dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, though his heavy-set companion also wore a suit.
‘I guess fame means you can dress how you like,’ the man considered as he watched Mick
Jagger
take his seat in the lounge.
‘But it’s not fame that I need.
Maybe you can’t get no satisfaction Mick, but I
fuckin
’ well can.’
A
small grin crossed his face as he stubbed out his cigarette.
A round of applause broke into his thoughts and he looked up to see that the flight crew had entered the Concorde lounge.
An announcement was made on the public address system.
Apparently the captain and crew would be available to answer any questions the passengers may have about the flight.
Impressive.
He sat quietly and listened as one of the crew explained to a middle-aged lady that the aeroplane would, indeed, be flying at Mach 2 or, to put it another way, 1,350 miles per hour.
The woman listened intently, but was clearly confused by the astounding speeds.
In an attempt to put things into perspective for her the crewman continued by explaining, ‘That, madam, is as fast as a rifle bullet.’
Then he glanced round the room to see if there were further questions and noticed the man with the ponytail, but he was shaking his head.
He had nothing to ask.
He already knew quite a lot about rifles and their bullets.
Just five minutes before the scheduled departure he heard the gate agent as she made her understated announcement:
‘British Airways Flight One, Concorde Service to New York’s J. F. Kennedy Airport, is now available for boarding.’
Taking a deep drag he extinguished his latest cigarette and began following Mick and the other passengers through the jet-way.
As he boarded the plane he stopped mid stride and flinched a little as he noticed just how
narrow the cabin really was.
The memory of a hellish trip sealed inside oil drums returned to him with a vengeance.
He swallowed hard, desperately trying to cast those images from his mind and to ignore the brief bout of claustrophobia that had overcome him.
He continued down the aisle to arrive at his seat - 17A.
There he took a quick glance out of the tiny window and shuddered before concentrating on his breathing to calm himself.
The leather seats were comfortable and stylish, the armrests shaped in the British Airways' Concorde logo.
‘Fancy plane,’ he whispered as he leaned back into the seat and fastened his belt, his feelings of anxiety slowly lessening.
He listened as the captain began his announcement, explaining that he would be turning on the reheats to get the fuel-laden craft up to
takeoff
speed.
This, he continued, would make for a very noisy ride, especially for those in the rear, but the reheats would be turned off as they passed the airport’s perimeter and flew over the surrounding residential areas.
And that was that.
They were off.
About twenty minutes later the captain again came on the P.A. to announce that the craft was now over Bristol, on the west coast of England, and it would soon be time to go supersonic.
He explained to the passengers that they would feel two clicks and, sure enough, the clicks were felt and the aeroplane thrust forward, continuing its climb.
This was all very educational, the man had to admit, but soon the detailed explanation began to wash over him.
The reheats, the clicks,
the
plane’s position, Mach 1, Mach 2: the truth was he wasn’t really that interested in any of it.
All he wanted was to get to
America,
do his job and then leave as quickly as possible.
He ignored the rest of the captain’s speech, closed his eyes and blocked it from his thoughts, preferring instead to study the mental images that were running through his mind like a scene from a movie.
He was just getting to the part where, his job done, he was leaving America and boarding another flight home when a girl’s voice interrupted him.
‘A glass of champagne sir?’ t
he stewardess asked sweetly.
‘Oh
erm
, champagne?
No thank you
darlin
’, but I don’t suppose you have Jameson’s do you?’
‘One moment sir, I’ll check.’
‘
I’m sorry sir
,
we appear to be out
.
However, we do have
Bushmills
.
Would that be all right?’ she enquired just a few seconds later.
‘
Bushmills
? No it
fuckin
’ won’t be all right,’ he thought, recoiling at the very idea, but he managed to keep a neutral expression as he told her, ‘No thanks my
darlin
'.
But on second thoughts I really fancy
a vodka
.
Do you have vodka?’
‘Yes, of course sir - Smirnoff?’
‘That’ll do nicely.’
He returned her smile.
He took the glass and settled down, deep into his seat.
As he sipped the potent liquid he sighed contentedly before reminding himself that he’d better keep it to just one drink.
He wasn’t being given the first class treatment for the Hell of it.
‘We need you to arrive fresh, old boy,’ he had been told.
‘You’ll need to be in and out quickly and we don’t want jet-lag slowing you down.’
‘I’ve changed sides, changed loyalties, changed targets,’ he thought for the umpteenth time.
Everything was different now, even the travel.
‘Especially the
fuckin
’ travel,’ he told himself, ‘and it’s a damn sight better.
Aye, Darren me lad, it’s all different now.’
The mental slip caused him to bolt upright in his seat.
‘Liam,’ he admonished himself quickly.
‘My name’s Liam O’Neil.’
Jesus, three months of intensive training and he could still forget.
Turner would have a fit.
Darren McCann, “The Butcher of Belfast”, isn’t dead: he’s very much alive.
Liam O’Neil is a paid assassin working for the British government and only a handful of people in the intelligence community are aware that Darren McCann and Liam O’Neil are one and the same.
Anthony Turner is one of those men.
He captured him, turned him and recruited him.
Now he was sending him on his first mission and Liam couldn’t let him down.
‘Liam O’Neil,’ he repeated under his breath as Concorde continued its journey to New York.
‘Liam O’
Fuckin
’ Neil.’