The Killer II (4 page)

4

The Druids

Liam shouted across to the barman. ‘
Oi
Tony, where’s the jacks?’

‘The jacks?’

‘The jacks.
The
fuckin
’ toilets mate.’

Tony silently pointed down the unlit corridor towards the rear of the building as Liam drained his drink.
‘Hey,
gimme
another will you,’ he asked, ‘I’ll be back in a minute.’

He walked past the jukebox, ignoring the small gang of youths, quickly found the sign reading MEN and entered.
He saw three shitters to the left, a row of sinks to the right and the urinals at the far end, to where he headed and turned to face the door.
He didn’t have to wait long before the four gang members poured in.
‘
Somethin
’ I can help you with is there boys?’ he asked.

‘
Gimme
your money, you motherfucker,’ hissed the lad who had spoken to him earlier as he lunged at Liam, swinging his clenched fists wildly.
Liam took one step backwards and, though he caught two punches square on the chin, only a moment later all but one of the gang members were on the floor.
Three toughs rolled around together gasping for air, finished and out of the fight, for a while anyhow.

The remaining youth stood high on his tiptoes with the point of
The Killer
digging into his chin.
The deeper it dug, the higher
he rose as he stared with terrified eyes at the man in the suit and began trembling in fear.
The original youth from the bar regained his breath and reached into his leather jacket, his fingers desperately clawing for the pistol that he couldn’t find.
Then he froze as he saw it pointing at the centre of his head.

Liam calmly stood looking at the gang,
The Killer
in one hand, youth suspended, and the .22 in the other as he spat blood on the floor.
‘If you boys are going to act tough, you should learn to take care of yourselves,’ he suggested.
‘You really should.
Now get up, all of you,’ he barked as he slowly removed
The Killer
from the kid’s throat.
Closing the knife, he pocketed it.

One by one the toughs climbed to their feet and stood in a line at the far side of the room.
‘Look lads,’ said Liam quietly, the pistol still trained on them, ‘I don’t want any trouble with youse ones, so how about we call it a day?’
He smiled at them each in turn as he dropped the clip and racked the slug from the pistol.
‘Tell you what lads, let’s go back into the bar an’ the juice is on my tab.’

For a second the youths looked uneasily at each other before nodding slowly in unison.
They couldn’t believe this lucky escape.
One of them slowly held his hand out to take back the empty pistol.
‘Fuck me, Mister, where’d you learn to fight like that?’ he asked.

‘Belfast,’ said Liam.

‘Seen it on TV,’ the youth acknowledged, ‘but never met anyone from there.
They all like you?’

‘There’s a few of us,’ Liam agreed.
‘Now, can I take a pee?
That witch piss goes right through me.’

Business quickly dealt with he walked to the door and headed back to the bar, four sheepish Druids in his wake.

Tony blinked in disbelief as Liam ordered four beers and a whiskey.
Sure, he’d seen the same scenario played out many times, but never ending like this.
Usually he was asked for an ambulance not a round of drinks.
He supplied the beers, bypassed the
Bushmills
and poured a large Jameson’s.

‘What’s the deal with the whiskey anyway?’ asked one of the youths.
‘Tommy, by the way,’ he added, ‘and this here’s Bobby, Link and Mono.’

‘Paddy,’ offered Liam in return.
‘Catholic born and raised on the Jameson’s.
Only Protestants drink
Bushmills
.
To offer shite like that to a Catholic?
Well, let’s just say it’s a bit of an insult.
I think
yer
man knew that.’

‘Ah, I see,’ Tommy lied.
Jeez, if someone bought him a whiskey, any whiskey, he’d drink it not
throw
it on the floor.

‘Anyone hungry?’ Liam asked his new friends.

‘Yeah, but,
er
, we’re a little broke, that’s why we were going to...’ Bobby cut his answer short.

‘That’s why you were going to rob me was it - eh lad?’
No reply, just four slowly
nodding heads. ‘So, what do you fancy then?’

‘Pizza be OK mister?’

‘Aye.
I’ve never tried any of that before, but yes you go and get it.’
He handed over some money.
‘That enough?’

‘Sure,’ said Mono, snatching it from his hand and rushing out into the street.

An hour later there were empty boxes on the bar and Liam had decided he liked pizza.
‘So, I take it that youse lads ride motorbikes then do you?’ he asked, looking at their leather jackets.

‘Motorbikes?
You mean motorcycles?
No way man,’ Link answered.

‘We’ve got a T-Bird.’

‘Oh.
And what’ll one of them
be
then?’

‘What’s a T-Bird?
It’s a fucking Thunderbird.
You know - it’s a car.
You do have cars back in Ireland don’t you Paddy?’ grinned Tommy.

‘Aye, we have cars all right, but I’ve never heard of a T-Bird.’

‘Man, it’s the hottest car around.
A beautiful fucking monster of a car,’ Bobby gushed.

‘It’s a Ford,’ Mono interjected quickly.

‘Oh, right,’ smiled Liam as he looked at the eager young faces.
‘That’ll be me told then.
Now I know.’
He looked slowly from one to the other and his smile gradually faded.
He wasn’t all that much older than these lads, yet his own youth felt so far away and so long ago.
‘You know Tommy,’
he continued more seriously, ‘if I were you I’d dump that .22 of yours.’

‘Dump it?
Why the hell should I dump it Paddy?
It’s a good gun, nice and light.
Quiet too, and it’s reliable.
It’s never let me down.’

‘Aye, I’ve heard that, but you see I knew a man back in Belfast.
Header was his name.
Of course he’s dead now, God rest his soul.
Anyhow, Header liked the .22.
He said it was quiet too.
He once told me that you only needed to put a single bullet in a man’s head to kill him, because it ricocheted around and around until it turned the brain to mush.
So he said anyhow.’

‘So, what’s wrong with that?’ asked Tommy innocently.

‘Well you see boys - one day Header met a man with a .45.’

Tommy gulped, and the conversation dried up entirely.
Liam finished his drink and stood to leave.
‘OK boys, I’m off.
Got a busy day tomorrow.’

‘Wait, Hell’s Kitchen can be dangerous at night.
We’ll walk you back to the
ho
..
.’
With a sheepish look on his face Link didn’t finish the sentence.

‘Thanks anyway son,’ Liam grinned.
‘I appreciate the offer, but I reckon I should be OK.’
He paid his tab and left, waving goodbye to his new friends.
Just minutes later he was back at his hotel.
There had been a change of staff and the new guy on the desk stared even harder than the first had done, reminding Liam that he probably still had blood on his face after the fight with
the lads.
He examined the damage back in his room, but it wasn’t bad.
After a quick wash to remove the evidence of the fight he fell into bed exhausted.
‘That’ll be the jet-lag then,’ he reasoned before falling into the deepest sleep he’d had in months.

On the other side of town a call was placed to Ireland.
The phone rang several times before it was answered by a gruff, sleepy and very irritable voice.
‘Hello, who’s this?’

‘Hi, it’s McKee in New York here.
Listen, you got anyone over my side of the pond?’

‘Do you know what
fuckin
’ time it is?’ snapped the man in Ireland.

‘Fuck the time, I just need to know one thing - have you sent anyone over here?’

The Irishman yawned loudly before answering, still half asleep as he thought for a moment.
‘Aye, we have.
Why do you ask?’

‘Had a guy in the bar today - asked for me by name.’

‘Could be any one of three of our boys over there.
What’s the man like?’

‘Bit on the short side, but a tough looking guy.
Has a scar on his cheek and a very heavy Irish accent.
Says his name’s Paddy,’ McKee explained patiently.

‘Well, that really
fuckin
’ narrows it down, doesn’t it?’

‘Hey, I’m only checking to make sure he is one of your people,’ snapped McKee.

‘Well, as I’ve already told you we have three of our boys there.
Anyhow, if he wasn’t one of our lads how the fuck would he know
your name?’ the gruff voice asked before adding, ‘
Ya
bleedin
’ eejit.’

‘OK, OK, I was only checking.’

‘Well next time you fancy checking something do it during the day, not in the middle of the
fuckin
’ night.
I’m off back to sleep.’
He yawned loudly once more as he slammed down the phone. ‘
Fuckin
’ Yanks,’ he muttered.

Back in New York McKee stared angrily at the receiver. ‘Fucking Irish,’ he cursed as he slammed down his own phone.

5

How
D’You
Like Your Eggs?

T
he following morning Liam woke early, showered and dressed in jeans and a casual shirt, throwing his jacket over his arm.
No need for the whole suit look today, thank Christ, and the lack of interest from yet another new receptionist was a pleasant change as he left the hotel.
‘Breakfast Liam me lad,’ he muttered to himself as he walked along searching for somewhere to eat.
The smell of cooking bacon found him and he followed it to a small café.

Pop’s Coffee Shop.
Cheap, Fast, Tasty Breakfast
, said the sign.
So in he walked, took a seat and ordered bacon, eggs and toast from the middle-aged waitress.

‘How would you like those eggs sweetie?’ she smiled.

‘What’s that?’

‘Your eggs, how do you like ‘
em
?’ she asked again.

‘
Erm
, two please.’

‘Honey, you want ‘
em
over easy or medium, sunny side up, scrambled, poached, boiled or what?’ she
tutted
, her smile now replaced with a frown.

‘Oh,
erm
, scrambled, I reckon.
Yes scrambled is fine,’ he offered apologetically.
‘Fuck,’ he thought as she left with her notepad.
‘I never knew ordering eggs could
be such an ordeal.
Back in Ireland eggs is
eggs
; you don’t get a
fuckin
’ choice.’

As it turned out, though, they were worth the trouble.
The food was delicious and he left the waitress a healthy tip.
Her winning smile had returned as she gave him directions to the nearest pay phone in answer to his request and added a few instructions.
‘Jeez honey, if you can’t order eggs you’d never manage an international call,’ she’d concluded as she waved him goodbye.

Dodging his way through the morning traffic he crossed the street, found the phone and followed the useful instructions as he dialled a London number.
The call was answered instantly by a pleasant-sounding young woman
.
‘Hello.
ID, location and party please.’

‘Liam O’Neil, New York.
I’d like to speak to
Mr.
Turner please.’

‘One moment caller, I am connecting you now.’

Within seconds a familiar voice came on the line.
‘Ah, Liam my boy, there you are.
I was beginning to worry a little.
Is everything all right over there?’

‘Aye
Mr.
Turner, all OK here.
Tell me, the plan still the same, is it?’ he asked.

‘We have one extra request and some new information to send you,’ Turner informed him.
‘Please make a note of this number and then locate a fax machine.
And do make sure it’s a public one, will you old boy?’

Liam quickly scribbled down the number that Turner reeled off before replacing the receiver and leaving the booth.
‘Shite,’ he wondered out loud.
‘Now, where the fuck will I be
findin
’ a fax machine?’

‘Ah, ‘tis a fax machine you’ll be wanting now is it?’ said a voice behind him and Liam swirled round to face a burly cop complete with
night-stick
.

‘
Er
, yes please,’ he stammered, trying to regain his composure.

‘Oh,
begorrah
, aye lad, to be sure I can help you,’ the cop answered in a very theatrical, and badly done, generic Irish accent.
‘To be sure, the copy shop
Black and White
one block down will have one that you can be using.’
He pointed his stick in the direction and smiled.

Liam nodded and thanked the man, then walked off silently cursing.
The accent could have been a piss-take, but seemed more like an effort to be friendly.
Either way he wasn’t happy.
Yesterday had been the day for him to stand out, not today and he didn’t like the thought of being remembered by a cop.
Still, nothing he could do about that now and he took the short walk to the
Black and White
copy shop.
As he entered his eyes were immediately drawn to a pretty, young coloured girl who was humming happily away to herself as she stacked a large pile of papers, boxes and envelopes.

‘Excuse me miss, but do you have a fax machine I could use please?’ he asked her.

‘Yes, of course we have.’
She flashed a huge smile at him. ‘Would you like to send something or receive?’

‘To be honest my
darlin
', I’m not too sure.
To tell you the truth I’ve never used one of these things before.
But you see, my boss in England told me to call this number when I got to a machine.
I don’t suppose you could help me?
Could you please?’

‘Yes I can help you, no problem.’
Her dazzling white teeth almost blinded him as she held out her hand for the paper and then dialled the number for him, passing him the handset.

‘Liam?’ Turner asked as he answered on the second ring.

‘Yes, it’s me.’

‘On it’s way.
Let me know if there are any problems.’

‘OK I will,’ Liam confirmed, then waited.
A few seconds later a high-pitched squeal assaulted his ear and he thrust the handset at the girl in confusion.
She laughed out loud and pressed a green button on the machine, which suddenly spewed out a thin roll of paper.
The girl tore it off and handed it to him without looking at it.

‘Is that all there is to it?’ he asked.

‘Yes, that’s it.
That’ll be two dollars please.’

Liam gave her a five-dollar bill.
‘That’s fine
darlin
', keep it,’ he said as she went to get change, ‘and thank you very much for helping me out.’

The girl beamed back at him. ‘Thank you very much too sir, and goodbye.
You have a nice day, you hear.’

‘You too,’ he replied, unable to help smiling as he left.
Everyone here was so very friendly, even those Druids once they’d been given a chance.
He decided he rather liked America and he certainly liked the latest young lady.
He’d probably have liked her even more if he’d known her thoughts as she watched him walk out of the shop.

‘Wow, what a sexy accent that guy has.
I just love the way he called me
darlin
'.
Oh he’s so dreamy.’

The morning sun was cool but pleasant and Liam spotted an area of parkland and an inviting looking bench.
Fax in hand he strolled over to take a seat and light a cigarette.
It almost seemed a shame to be contemplating business on a day like today and he let his mind wander a little.
It had already been quite a morning and the combination of egg ordering, international phone calls and fax machines had his mind swimming.
Guns and his trusty
Killer
were easier, he decided.
He knew where he was with them, and with that thought he knew he must address his orders.
He stretched out the roll of paper to study the message.

--------------------------------------------------L.
As per original order:
Final confirmation: C45 - Approved
T. Order - Confirmed
Ref: RM/JMB
Further: Urgent

Required L&IY supplier of A to NM.
That is TO NM.

O&R. no T. Order.
That is NO T. Order

For Your Further Information
Last Shipment by NM.
That is BY NM
Delivered Into A1. 1st Jan.
Load Inspected Cleared and Released. 2nd Jan.
Cargo F3 + E1.
Collected By X3 on
3rd Jan:
Come home safe.
A.T.
--------------------------------------------------

As he finished reading the fax Liam ground his cigarette out underfoot and sighed.
He’d better get back to the hotel where he could check his codebook in private.
He was already pretty sure he had it all.
For a sophisticated organisation the British Secret Service had very simple codes, quite unlike the complicated messages he’d had to deal with in his previous existence.
He understood the reason.
This message was so innocuous that anyone seeing it probably wouldn’t give it a second thought, but its simplicity meant things often had to be repeated.
The word “no” meant simply that, but it needed emphasising in capital letters.
Trouble was, N meant NORAID and O probably meant something too, but he couldn’t remember
what right now.
That didn’t matter.
NO was nothing more than no in this case, but he’d better make doubly sure that he had everything correct.

He walked slowly back to the hotel, his mind full.
He wasn’t happy at the change of plan, though thankful that he hadn’t had the opportunity to deal with McKee last night.
Now it looked like he needed some information from him first.
Back in his room a few minutes later he retrieved his book from one of the hidden pockets inside his jacket, threw
himself
on the bed and checked the message.
This was actually coded code and more difficult to grasp than the original message.
Bollocks, he hated all this spy shite.
Life was so much simpler when he had just been a sniper.

Finally he was sure that he had everything correct.
The termination orders for Ryan McKee and James Malcolm Brennan were confirmed, just as he’d expected they would be.
‘No one will mind,’ Turner had assured him.
Liam thought that Messrs McKee and Brennan might actually mind quite a bit, but he’d said nothing and let Turner continue.
‘They’re high enough up in the arms supply chain and a little too overt for their own good, so that makes them excellent targets for us.
They don’t really count in the grand scheme of things, you see.’

Liam wasn’t sure that he did see, but he reasoned that it would boil down to politics somewhere along the line.
He guessed that
these guys were probably pissing off their own side by being “overt” so the Americans wouldn’t be too upset if they disappeared.
That was Turner all day long.
He really didn’t like to upset anyone, a trait Liam considered strange in a man whose job it was to issue termination orders.
Ah well, that was none of his business.
‘Anyway, looks like you’re going to live another day, McKee,’ he decided.
‘Got to find out who’s supplying you with your arms before you send them over to us.’

Shite!
Had he really just thought that?
Us?
That was the Irish
boys
he was talking about.
He wasn’t part of “us” any more.
Now he was very definitely one of “them”.
‘Jesus Christ, Liam, get a grip,’ he admonished himself out loud.
He returned his attention to the fax.
Further information told him that the last shipment had been mixed firearms and explosives, it had arrived at the Port of Dublin and had been collected by A&R Transport of Cork, a name he knew only too well having once spent three days in an oil drum in the back of one of their trucks.
He shuddered at the memory and was thankful that he had something more urgent to occupy his mind.
He needed a plan and it took several hours to come up with something that, once it hit him, was incredibly simple.
His furrowed brow relaxed.
‘Got it,’ he laughed.