Undercover (31 page)

O'Neill tried to catch Cormac with an elbow as he turned to face him. Instinctively, Cormac shoved him away and the elbow sailed past his nose. It was a stupid move. O'Neill gained enough space to raise his revolver. Cormac kicked out before the gangster had time to aim. The shot went wild; the bullet pulverised the button panel. Cormac almost lost his balance as the lift shuddered to a stop.

Through the ringing in his ears, Cormac could vaguely make out the squeal of an alarm. O'Neill bent forward to retrieve the snub nose. Cormac smashed a cheap canvas shoe into his thick-featured face and the gangster fell back onto his arse. He went in for the kill, connecting a knee to O'Neill's forehead then attempting a head-stomp. The gangster jerked to the side and Cormac's foot slammed down on the lift floor. He turned to soccer kick the bastard into oblivion but felt an iron grip shackle his ankle.

"Ah, fuck."

O'Neill jerked Cormac's weight-bearing leg out from under him. His head bounced off the side of the lift and he landed on his backside, his shoulders propped against the doors. He saw O'Neill's fist come at him too late. White light flashed and he went blind for a second. But he managed to raise his arms to fend off the next haymaker. He countered with a jab at his blurry target. His fist met flesh and he felt something give way. He blinked until his vision sharpened and saw the mess he'd made of O'Neill's nose. It was kinked to one side and belching blood. Cormac threw a right cross from a sitting position. O'Neill's head jolted backwards but he didn't go down. Tough bastard still had a boxer's punch resistance.

"Give it up, O'Neill."

"Fuck yourself, kid."

O'Neill tugged the confiscated Glock from the waistband of his trousers. He tried to level it at Cormac but his aim wavered; blood and tears mixed in his eyes. His hesitation was a gift from God. Cormac flopped onto his side. Ambrose squeezed and the pistol barked; blew a hole in the lift doors. The ringing in Cormac's ears kicked it up a notch. He twisted and got his feet against the lift door. Pushed himself forward and grabbed at O'Neill's wrists. O'Neill took advantage of his position and rolled on top of Cormac. The gun got trapped between their chests.

"You're dead now, Kelly."

Cormac couldn't hear the words but he could read O'Neill's lips just fine. He felt O'Neill's fingers scrabble. Cormac bucked hard, twisted his hips and pushed O'Neill sideways. The Glock fired as he tried to wrestle it away.

"Oh, shit," Cormac said.

He ran his hands up and down his chest in search of a wound. Nothing. He checked his face and head. Sore but not shot. Then he looked at O'Neill.

Ambrose O'Neill lay in a spreading puddle of blood. His body jerked. He clasped at his throat. Blood bubbled over his thick fingers.

Cormac retrieved the guns from the lift floor. He tucked the Glock back in its holster and tucked O'Neill's snub nose into his waistband. His hearing was returning. He could make out a high-pitched whine. O'Neill, caught in a dying panic, welcoming death a hell of a lot quicker.

Cormac stood over Ambrose O'Neill, careful not to step in his mess. He watched him writhe and spurt gobs of blood. The lift doors were cranked open. Chaos snatched at him. Cops, cops and cops. Where had those fuckers been when O'Neill was paying Donna a visit?

Cormac interlaced his fingers behind his head and waited. They took O'Neill out of the lift first. Even this close to medical care it didn't look good for him. Then the cops threatened, cuffed and manhandled Cormac out of the lift. He didn't resist. Just went with the flow. Thoughts of a rest in whatever cell they took him to made him want to smile. But that wasn't the done thing when you were pulled from a grisly, blood-splattered scene. He didn't want these uniforms thinking he was some sort of psycho.

––––––––

O
n the pitch, I'm sublime. Beyond human. I'll give you your fairy tale ending.

Rory Cullen,
CULLEN: The Autobiography

––––––––

R
ory Cullen saw the goal happen in his head before his foot made contact with the ball. It played out exactly how he imagined it. Times like this, he always had a vague feeling that there was something more to him than quick reactions, stamina and gifted skill. He was practically supernatural on the pitch. The ball was his. He commanded it. Goals were easy.

Three defenders and a keeper, not one got near that volley. The net strained to contain his power. The keeper yelled at his defenders. The defenders scratched their heads.

Rory ran towards his teammates, his arms spread wide like wings. He crashed into them and they raised him up off his feet. Into the air. Rory Cullen flew. The players from his old team looked at him as if they wanted to spit in his face. He mouthed a clear "fuck you" for the benefit of his old skipper.
Never liked that philandering fuck-nut, anyway.

And the crowd. The clamour. They bayed in the stands. Sang their tribal chants; brimming with passion but indecipherable until they unified in a chorus of
Blue Moon
. Rory pointed to the City fans, their roars swelled. He lapped up the glory until the boys lowered him to the ground. The ref called for them to return to the centre of the pitch. They had more work to do and Rory was not going to shy from it. His heart pounded in a way that no drug could ever simulate – and he'd tried most of them so he knew that to be fact.

The madness of last week couldn't have been further away. Gangsters had tried to clip his wings but nobody held that sway over him. Even if McGoldrick and Rooney's plan had worked out, he'd never have been able to take orders from them. He couldn't throw games by missing easy goals or getting sent off at a crucial point in the match. There was no containing—

At the centre spot, the ref held the ball under his arm a little too long. He had a hand to his earpiece and wore an expression of confusion. He tilted his head from one side to the other as if trying to dislodge water from his ears. His ruddy cheeks were fading to grey.

"What's wrong?" Rory asked.

"We have to get off the pitch."

"The fuck we do. We're in the middle of a game, ref."

"Somebody's just been murdered. Up in one of the boxes. The cops are locking the place down."

Rory forced a shocked reaction to the news. But inside he felt a mix of panic and anger. The bastard wasn't meant to die until the final whistle blew. They'd fucked his debut game for City at his old stomping ground. It was bad enough that the plan would have detracted from his performance that day, but to interrupt it, make it not worth a damn... He'd have to have words with Stephen Black.

###

L
ydia sat on the edge of the couch and stared at the tickertape newsfeed at the bottom of the screen. Somebody had been murdered at Stamford Bridge. No name had been released but Lydia knew who it had to be. She'd been there when the idea had first been explored and thought that she'd managed to talk Rory out of it since then. But he'd gone ahead with it. Rory had paid Stephen Black to kill Martin Rooney.

She decided there and then that she'd have to drop him from her client list. Yes, he was her cash cow. He was also dangerously close to becoming a friend after all they'd been through. But she was done with violence now, and she was determined to cut all sources of it from her life.

Which was why McGoldrick was going to live a few more years yet.

Rory had offered to pay for that hit too. It took a few days for her to begin to think straight, but she'd realised that she couldn't be responsible for anybody's death. Not even the death of a man who was arguably responsible for her husband's murder. She would destroy the one thing that brought joy to McGoldrick's life, though.

His career.

She called McGoldrick's mobile.

"What do
you
want?"

"Now, now. I just wanted to check you were holding up all right. I believe a very close friend of yours has just died."

"I have no idea—"

"Martin Rooney is dead. He was shot at Stamford Bridge today. The gunman walked right into the executive box, shot him and disappeared."

Silence.

"I realise this must be quite a shock. Not even a crime boss like Rooney is safe. What hope would you have if somebody decided to come at you?"

"Don't you dare threaten me."

"Oh, that wasn't a threat. I don't want you dead. I want much more than that."

"You trying to blackmail me, hen? Here's the thing, whatever you think you have on me, it's bullshit. There's no evidence that'll support your conspiracy theory shit. And you need to stop calling me. If anything, I could have
you
done for harassment."

"Well, you say that, Mr McGoldrick, but it's just not true. You should check your emails before your PA goes through them in the morning. Turns out, my late husband had been gathering a bit of evidence about you. Kept it in a safety deposit box I didn't know about until his solicitor gave me a call during the week. I've scanned a couple of compromising photos for you to check out."

"Photos? They'll not hold up. I'm not so old that I haven't heard of Photoshop."

"These were taken with a Polaroid camera. Old school. You'll appreciate that. And they're just the tip of the iceberg. My hubby really did his homework. I'm starting to suspect he was going to blackmail you to cover his gambling debts but he couldn't go through with it. Even in his darkest hour he was ten times the man you are."

"And yet you're happy to blackmail me."

"But I'm not doing it for money. I'm doing it for control. For revenge. And my first demand will be for you to sign over your top three earners to my agency. I'll expect the paperwork by lunchtime tomorrow."

"You're out of your mind, woman. I'll do no such thing."

"Check out the selection of photos I've sent your way first, then get back to me, McGoldrick. It's been nice doing business with you."

Lydia ended the call then slumped on the couch. The breaking news from Stamford Bridge played on a loop. She let it wash over her and pondered the guilty thought that maybe Rory had been right to do what he did. Maybe it was the only way to protect himself against that psycho. But was it worth the risk? Time would tell.

The doorbell sounded and Lydia sighed. She'd have to smile and be sociable. Before she got up, she switched channels to connect with the CCTV camera at her front door. Detective Kelly's stern face filled the screen, as she'd expected, but she was going to check every caller from now on. Rory had paid for the same security system he had at his own house and arranged to have it installed before letting her spend a night at her own home.

Lydia stopped at the bottom of the stairs before she opened the front door.

"Mattie! You have a visitor!"

She heard the double thump of her son's feet hitting the floor. He didn't move that fast when she called him to do her a favour. But she could understand his excitement. This was the first time he would see Detective Kelly since the night they flew in the helicopter. And most likely the last.

Lydia went to the door to let an agent of death into her home.

###

C
ormac smiled at Lydia Gallagher when she answered the door. She looked thinner, paler, older, but pretty nonetheless. Prettier still when she returned his forced smile for a few seconds. She stepped aside to let him in.

"Go on through to the kitchen," she said. "I'll put the kettle on."

The carpet was spongy under his feet and the hallway was roomy and bright. The house had that "expecting company" smell that could only be achieved with plug-in air fresheners. Cormac followed Lydia to the large kitchen and sat on a high stool at the granite-topped island she indicated with a sweeping hand gesture. For a woman living with her dead husband's gambling debts, she seemed to have a very nice house.

"Hiya, Cormac."

Mattie stood at the door, an uncertain look on his face. His arms were folded in a way that made it look like he was trying to hug himself. He'd grown an inch in a week. Cormac stood up and met him halfway between the island and the door. There was an awkward moment where they clasped clumsily at each other's extended hands, getting the handshake wrong. Then Mattie surprised him by stepping in and throwing his arms around him. His chest hitched once but when he broke away from the hug there was no sign on his face that he might cry.

Cormac went back to his stool and Mattie sat next to him. There was enough room between them that it didn't feel too uncomfortable. They smiled, raised eyebrows and rolled eyes at each other for a few seconds before Lydia asked Mattie if he wanted anything to eat.

"I'll just have some juice, Mum."

"You know where the fridge is. Coffee, Detective?"

"Please, call me Cormac. And, yeah, coffee would be brilliant. Black, just."

Lydia nodded and poured him a cup from a percolator. "I'll leave you boys alone for a bit."

She left the kitchen but Cormac assumed she would be within earshot. As she should be.

"How's it going, big man?" Cormac asked.

Mattie scratched at the back of his head. "Pretty shit, to be honest. I miss Dad."

Cormac noticed the nice clean dressing on Mattie's damaged hand. The bruises on his face had mostly faded. The fingers would heal too. But the emotional scarring; that would last forever.

"I'm sure you do." Cormac couldn't think of anything else to say. He let the silence stretch.

"What about Donna?" Mattie asked eventually. "Have you seen her?"

Cormac shook his head. "She wants nothing to do with me. I found out through her doctor that she's recovering well, though. She was transported back to Belfast a few days ago. I might leave it a few weeks before I try calling her again."

"I'll have to see if she's on Facebook," Mattie said. "I never got to say bye to her. She did a lot for me, like."

"I'm sure she'd be delighted to hear from you."

"When are you going home?"

"Today. Heading to the airport from here. Not really looking forward to it, to be honest. My boss is collecting me. That'll be a fun drive."