Undercover (24 page)

"Oh, Jesus."

Lydia laid her hands on Mattie's shoulders and gently pushed him back. She caught sight of her son's face, badly bruised, eyes sunken, mouth drawn downwards. He rubbed at his upper arm self-consciously and she saw his fingers were bound by bandages.

"What's happened to you two?"

"It's been a rough couple of days, Mum."

Stephen Black stepped between her and her son.

"You need to sit down. We're taking off now."

The ex-spook turned away and entered the cockpit. Took a seat by the pilot. Rory led Lydia by the arm to the seat beside the mystery woman. Mattie sat down beside Lydia and Rory took the seat opposite him.

Gunfire crackled outside and became the pilot's cue to take off. The helicopter lurched and tilted and Lydia's bladder did a loop-de-loop. She closed her eyes and sank her fingers into her armrests.

Breathe, breathe, breathe.

Lydia's ordeal should have ended. She was back with her family and flying away from the danger. But her brain had been assaulted by an information overload. What had happened to her boys?

She opened her eyes and looked at John.

He must have sensed her stare. His eyelids cracked open and he forced a pathetic smile.

"Hiya, gorgeous. Good to see you."

"Oh, John. What the hell happened to you?"

"We tried to escape. I got shot in the confusion."

"Shot? Why are you not still at the hospital."

"It wasn't safe. They would have known where to find me." He took a shallow, pained breath. "Did they hurt you?"

She thought about the slaps, the manhandling and the psychological torture. Compared her physical state to John's.

"No. I cooperated."

John puffed air through his nostrils.

"I didn't."

"Neither did Mattie by the looks of it."

"You should be proud of him, Lydia. We've raised a tough kid."

Mattie beamed in spite of the grim situation that had tested his mettle. Lydia wondered about the horrors he'd been through without her there to protect him. She had to fight back the tears and push her morbid thoughts right to the back of her mind. It was time to concentrate on the present.

"We need to get you medical attention, John." She looked at Mattie again. "Both of you. I'm not taking any risks."

The mystery woman spoke up. "We're flying to the nearest hospital now." Her accent was Northern Irish but not as harsh as John and Rory's. She made it sound warm and musical.

"I'm sorry," Lydia said. "Who are you?"

"I'm Donna. A friend of Cormac's."

Lydia tilted her head.

"Detective Kelly, like."

Lydia pointed at Donna's stethoscope. "And you're a doctor?"

She nodded. "I would have advised Cormac against moving John under normal circumstances but things got really crazy back home."

"What's done is done. Will he be okay?"

"He's a fighter. I'm surprised he's still awake."

It wasn't a yes by any means but Lydia didn't want to push it. She wanted to go over to her husband, sit on his lap and squeeze him tight but he looked so delicate and tired that her weight might crush him. The bastards had taken his strength from him.

Thoughts of revenge began to surface. She'd make the bastards pay. Starting with the worst of them. The traitor.

"Fucking McGoldrick."

John raised his chin. "McGoldrick?"

Lydia hesitated for a few seconds, worried that she shouldn't encourage John to talk. Put him under further stress or sap his energy. But the doctor didn't warn either of them against it.

"McGoldrick is involved in this somehow," Lydia said.

"The greedy bastard." John shifted in his seat slightly and grunted. "I fucking knew it. He's finally stopped dipping the toe and just plunged right in."

"What are you talking about, John?"

"At the height of my... low times, McGoldrick put me on to some shady men he'd been dealing with to help me out with my losses."

"The loan sharks."

"Aye, Rooney's crew."

"What would somebody as rich as McGoldrick want with loan sharks?"

"They specialise in other areas. Drugs, racketeering, prostitution... But they also get a decent turn out of money laundering."

Lydia shook her head, still unsure of how that related to the old Scot.

"Do you remember when the whole bung scandal exploded a few years ago? Managers, talent scouts and agents got named and shamed for accepting extra fees for signing new talent to the top clubs. Bribes to ensure a certain player ended up with the right transfer deal and on the right team."

"Who could forget it?"

"Heads rolled, that's for sure. But not all of them. The scam ran much deeper than anybody could know. It was only the stupid ones that took the fall. The braggers and blaggers. The sloppy operators. They were the ones who got arrested and dragged through the tabloid shite. But the ones who knew what they were doing? They got more careful."

"McGoldrick took bungs?"

"Took them? He pretty much demanded them on every other deal. You've traded contracts with him in the past. You must know the score, babe."

They'd talked plenty about the dodgier side to the beautiful game when they first got together. Often they'd compare notes and share outrageous gossip over a bottle of wine, never taking it too seriously. Lydia sometimes got the feeling that John's morals were a little more slippery than hers but she hadn't pressed him to 'fess up. At first it was about fearing she'd cross a line early on in their relationship. Then it was about caring too much for him to admit he might have had a darker side. She was almost relieved when she discovered his secret gambling problem. Like she knew that if that was the worst he'd ever get up to, she could live with it. But maybe she'd been kidding herself about that too.

"No, I don't know the score, John. One stupid bastard tried to pull that bung shit on me once. Some greasy little up-and-comer always on the cusp of relegation. I told him I didn't deal that way and he was lucky I didn't report him."

"Always one of the good ones... you're rare, though. Sad but true." John sighed deep. He closed his eyes and seemed to drift off to sleep. Then his lids shuttered open again. "McGoldrick kept his own nose clean by channelling his money through Martin Rooney's businesses. The fronts for his cocaine and protection income. Risky game, getting in bed with London gangsters, but McGoldrick always was a cocky fucker. Probably thought Rooney was just a greedy underling who'd be glad of the crumbs McGoldrick threw his way. But you deal with the devil and... you know?"

"I still don't understand how that led him to kidnapping."

"You've got the hottest player in the Premiership in your stable now." John pointed at a dumbstruck Rory Cullen. "Us being skint, you know they weren't after our money. Not directly, anyway. They're looking to get control of young Rory, there."

"But why?"

John shrugged then winced. "Maybe McGoldrick wants to sign him by any means. Or he's working on something with Rooney that'll earn them even more money. Rooney likes to bet on the footie, and he's better at it than I ever was. But how much better would he be if he controlled some of the greatest talent out there?"

"Match fixing?"

"It's a theory, babe."

John's smile was interrupted by a savage fit of coughing. He groaned when it passed and a thin line of blood burbled over his bottom lip. Lydia felt panic like a battering ram in her chest. She unfastened her seatbelt and rushed to John. Knelt down in front of him and grasped his hand. Donna, the doctor, was beside her. She remained on her feet and reached out to cup John's head in her hands.

"I'm fine," John said, his voice barely audible.

Donna shouted in to the cockpit. "How long until we get to the hospital?"

Stephen Black spoke over the stuttering pilot. "Mere minutes. I can see it from here."

Donna held two fingers against the side of John's neck and looked at her watch. She patted John's shoulder and said, "Good man, John. Keep on fighting. You'll make it, so you will."

John nodded and closed his eyes. Donna looked down at Lydia, still on her knees, her fingers entwined with John's.

"He'll make it," Donna lied.

"I know," Lydia lied.

––––––––

I
t's football. Not rocket science. I mean, people actually care about football, don't they?

Rory Cullen,
CULLEN: The Autobiography

––––––––

C
ormac fired round after round – the Glock bucked in his grip – but none of his shots found their target. The motorcycle continued its jerky approach while his fingers worked with well-oiled grace to snap home a fresh clip of ammo. He jacked the slide and raised the gun. They were close enough now to score a hit. He aimed for the driver's chest and squeezed.

Nothing happened.

He jerked at the trigger again.

Jammed.

The motorcycle was almost on top of him. It skidded to a halt, sideways to allow the pillion passenger a clear shot. Cormac charged, covering the couple of metres between them quicker than the gunman could cock the hammers of his sawn-off. He bent his legs and sprang into a dive. Tackled the man on the back of the bike like an American footballer. Their bodies crunched together. Cormac's head cracked off the other man's helmet. His vision clouded for a second. But adrenaline dragged him from the depths. Kept clarity. They tumbled to the ground. Came to rest side-by-side.

Cormac rolled onto his knees and brought his jammed pistol down on the gunman's helmet. Smashed through the visor. He drew his hand back and jabbed the muzzle through the gap he'd created. The gunman shrieked. Cormac scrambled to his feet and soccer-kicked the cracked helmet. Then he stomped down. The helmet cracked further. The floored man went still.

Cormac felt a thud in his chest. His feet left the ground and he landed on his back, skidded across manicured grass. He heard the revs of a motorcycle and rolled to the side. It buzzed past him, kicking up clods of golf course. Cormac watched the bike skid and turn a neat 180 degrees. And then it was coming for him again. He scrambled on his hands and knees towards a large bunker and flopped into it. The motorcycle hit the edge of the bunker like a ramp and soared over Cormac's prone body. The front wheel slammed into the sand and the rider was flipped over the handlebars. He landed on the grass with a bone-jarring thump.

Cormac pulled himself out of the bunker, pulling at strands of grass like a Romero zombie digging itself out of a grave. His heart hammered in his chest and his breath hitched. He loosed a short burst of half-insane laughter, marvelling at the fact he was still alive.

The motorcycle's engine had stalled and the helicopter was now well out of earshot. He was almost suffocated by the blissful silence. But it was broken by a groan. The man he'd knocked off the back of the bike was coming to. His leather-clad body shook as he came back to his senses. Cormac aimed his Glock and tried to shoot the man but the gun was still jammed. He holstered the bastarding thing and reached for his ankle holster.

Empty.

"Fuck."

He'd given it to Donna.

Cormac looked around for an alternative weapon. He spotted a rake at the edge of the bunker. Its shaft was half the length of a standard lawn rake but the head was wider and felt satisfyingly heavy. He gave it a little practice swing and smiled to himself.

Ahead of him, the rider with the smashed visor had retrieved his sawn-off. He used it like a mini walking stick to aid his struggle to stand. It seemed like Cormac had done a real number on the guy. His movements were sluggish but he managed to get himself upright, if a little wobblingly. He raised his sawn-off. Cormac swung the rake and the metal head clattered into the gunman's wrist. The sawn-off flew from his grip before he could squeeze the trigger.

Cormac swung the rake again, this time at the man's head. The ruined helmet gave up the ghost and fell apart. Pieces of it came away like cracked eggshell. Cormac recognised the revealed face instantly. One of the Scullion brothers. Mick. The tough fucker looked damaged and dazed but he remained upright.

"Give it up, Mick," Cormac said. "There's no point, I have you."

"Fuck you, peeler scumbag."

"Be sensible, big lad."

Mick growled and darted forward, his fists swinging. Cormac bobbed and weaved his way out of Mick's path then caught him low in the legs with the rake. Mick toppled over and landed face-first in the grass. Cormac straddled Mick's back and slipped the shaft of the rake under the stubborn bastard's chin. He gripped both ends of the shaft and pulled back to choke him. Mick coughed and spluttered when Cormac eased the pressure again.

"It's over, Mick. Don't make me kill you."

Mick bucked and writhed under Cormac in a bid to escape. Cormac pulled back on the shaft again and reminded the lunatic who was in charge. When he felt the pinned man's body sag he released the pressure again. Mick gargled an indecipherable curse, threat or prayer but was still. Cormac sighed in relief. He got off Mick's back and stood up.

Cormac drew his jammed Glock and took the opportunity to try and fix it. He ejected the clip and jiggled the slide. Something clicked and he was able to rack the pistol. He slipped the clip back in, relieved that he was armed again. Mick had rolled onto his back and was greedily gulping air. Cormac looked to the bunker. The fallen rider hadn't moved. He kicked one of Mick's legs to get his attention.

"Who was on the front of the bike? Your brother?"

"Fuck yourself." Mick's voice was raspy, his throat damaged.

"He's not looking good, whoever it is. Took a very nasty spill. You want me to call an ambulance?"

"Suck my dick."

"God, you're a contrary fucker, aren't you? I'll go find out myself, then. Of course, removing his helmet might cause him even more damage. Shame to take the risk."

"Fuck him too."

"Ah, so it's not your big bro, then."

"Pete's dead."

Cormac bit his tongue. He'd almost told Mick he was sorry for his loss. In reality, the world had lost a psycho. He said nothing, waited to see if Mick would get any chattier.