it bounced into the darkness. The two UDR men approached and hunkered down so they were at eye level with Fegan. They aimed at Caffola’s broken head. Blood coursed from the wound on the bald man’s temple, and his glassy eyes fluttered as he moaned.
“All right,” Fegan said. He leaned down and pinched Caffola’s nose between his gloved fingers, covering his mouth with his palm. He let his weight settle on the other man’s back and, as the body began to jerk, Fegan squeezed tighter. A slick wet heat covered his gloved hand as Caffola began to vomit again, and Fegan applied yet more pressure. At last, he felt Caffola’s life slip away beneath him.
Fegan closed his eyes and searched his heart, looking for some sense of what he’d just done. He found nothing but the cold hollowness of his wishes.
He took his hand away from Caffola’s face, letting the vomit spill onto the ground. The rank odor and the warmth on his palm reached down to his stomach.
, he thought. He looked up at the followers. The woman stepped forward, carrying her baby, her floral dress pretty in the gloaming. She nodded and gave Fegan her small, sad smile.
The two UDR men were gone. Nine followers remained.
“Who’s next?” Fegan asked.
NINE
12
Campbell stared at the ceiling, his heart thundering, wondering what had woken him. He was a light sleeper - he needed to be - and the slightest stirring could rouse him. His mobile rang again, and he knew what had pulled him to waking. He reached over to the bedside locker and grabbed the phone. He squinted at its little display. Number withheld, it said. His heart rammed against his breastbone.
He thumbed the green button and brought the phone to his ear. “Yeah?”
“Come in,” an English-accented voice said.
“Now?” he asked, keeping the hope from his voice. “I’ve just got my way in here.”
“Change of plan,” the voice said. “This is urgent. Number one priority. That’s from the top.”
“Where?” he asked.
“Armagh. There’s a car park by a chapel, opposite the council buildings. Do you know it?”
“Yeah, I know it.” Campbell swung his legs out of bed. He rubbed his face, his beard prickling his palm. “There’s cameras all over that place.”
“They’ll be looking the other way.”
“Fucking better be. When?”
“An hour.”
“I’m in Dundalk. I’ve got to get packed up, get out of here, get my car, and there’s roadworks—”
“An hour.” The phone died.
“Fuck,” Campbell said.
His clothes lay on the floor where he’d thrown them the night before. He dressed quickly and quietly. A wardrobe leaned against the wall, its doors hanging at odd angles. He took a holdall from inside and stuffed it with the few garments he owned. His mobile and a set of keys were the only personal items remaining. Pocketing them, he stepped out onto the landing.
Gurgling snores came from the adjoining room. He pushed the door open and looked inside. Eugene McSorley lay sprawled on the bed, fully clothed, a beer can still in his hand.
Campbell wondered if he’d ever come back and finish what he’d started here. It had taken months to bring this about, to work his way into the gang. So far it had come to nothing. But still, McSorley might make a nuisance of himself if someone didn’t keep tabs on him.
An idea flashed in Campbell’s mind. He could cross the room and silently dispose of McSorley. It would be so easy just to kneel on his chest and put the correct pressure on his throat. He gave it a few seconds’ thought.
“Fuck it,” he said, and moved away from the door. He descended the stairs and let himself out. The sun was only beginning to creep above the houses opposite as he climbed into the old Ford Fiesta. Its tired, wheezy engine coughed into life and he pulled away, heading for the port where his own car, his real car, was safely locked away.
Fifty-two minutes after his phone woke him, Campbell steered his BMW Z4 Coupe into the car park by the chapel. Its engine burbled as he pulled alongside the anonymous Ford Mondeo. Like his own car, the Mondeo’s windows were tinted, obscuring its occupants from casual glances. He could just make out the shapes of two men in the front seats. His shadow stretched long in the early sunlight as he climbed out of the BMW. Armagh’s cathedrals loomed over the small town, reminding him it was actually a city. The man in the Mondeo’s driver’s seat reached across and opened its rear door.
Campbell lowered himself in and said, “Let me guess. McKenna, right?”
The two men exchanged glances. The one in the driver’s seat, the handler, passed Campbell a palmtop computer displaying a photograph of two men. It was poorly lit, but he could make them out, standing on a street corner.
“You know them?” the handler asked.
“Yeah,” Campbell said. He swallowed his confusion and focused. “Gerry Fegan and Vincie Caffola.”
“Tell us about them.”
Campbell thought about it for a moment. “Gerry Fegan’s from before my time, but he’s a legend. Everybody talked about him in Belfast. A vicious bastard. He did twelve years. Last I heard, he was hitting the bottle pretty
