the baby calm in the crook of her arm.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
She nodded.
O’Kane took a step back. “It’s time, Gerry.”
Fegan felt the twin muzzles at the back of his head.
He closed his eyes and the woman’s fingers slipped away from his.
52
Stay awake.
Every shred of Campbell’s will focused on this one thing, this one task. To grab the knife taped to his ankle, open the blade, and get to his feet. If he could do those simple things, he might live.
But there was the pain.
The last jolt had pulled him back to some form of consciousness when they lowered him to the plastic. Now his mind teetered on the cusp of aware and unaware, and only the pain kept him from slipping back into the fog. He knew the movement would waken the smoldering in his side and the pain would be unbearable. But he would have to bear it. If he screamed before the thing was done, he would not survive.
His brain thundered inside his skull as his eyes tried to make sense of the hazy shapes before him. How many were there? He couldn’t be sure. His vision didn’t stretch that far. The one in front of him, though, the one whose feet shuffled in front of his face: Coyle.
Campbell kept his head still but let his eyes work upwards, along the backs of Coyle’s calves, over his thighs, up to his waistband. A pistol, small, but it would do.
And what would he do with it?
Think.
Think.
Falling.
Who were these men standing over him, their fingers pointed to his head?
Falling into the dark again. No, come back.
He inhaled, letting the explosion of pain wipe away the mist, and held the air there. It had to be now. Fuck the pain. He ground his teeth together.
Now.
53
The desperate scream rose up to the barn’s rafters and Fegan felt the shotgun muzzles move away from the back of his head. He opened his eyes. Campbell had a knife to Coyle’s throat with one hand, and a small pistol in the other. Both men staggered in a lazy, lopsided dance as Campbell seemed to fight gravity. His eyes rolled, unfocused, like a drunk’s. Coyle’s mouth hung open. The scream hadn’t been his.
Campbell aimed the gun at random targets, sometimes air, sometimes shadow, sometimes flesh. “Stay back.”
Downey stepped around Fegan, the shotgun trained on the two shambling men.
O’Kane held his hands up. “Now don’t be silly, Davy.”
Campbell pointed the gun at the voice but his eyes seemed to focus on a place far beyond. “Stay back or I’ll cut his throat.”
Padraig moved to flank Campbell, but the Scot turned to the side. “Get back.”
O’Kane took a step closer. “Come on, now, Davy. You’re in no fit state for this. It’ll only make things worse.”
Campbell moved his aim back and forth between O’Kane and his son. “I’ll fucking shoot you if you don’t get back.”
“No, you won’t, Davy. Jesus, you can barely stand.”
“Get back.”
Padraig took one more step to Campbell’s left and the Scot pulled the trigger once, twice, three times. The first shot cut nothing but air, but the second punched Padraig’s shoulder, and the third his throat. He stood there for a moment, mouth open in surprise, blood flowing down his barrel chest and pattering on the plastic.
“Da?” he said, his voice a throaty gargle. He took two steps backwards and sat down heavily on the edge of the pit.
Fegan looked to O’Kane. The old man’s face was a slab of stone, his eyes red. “The dogs will have you, Davy. I’ll watch them eat you alive.”
“Don’t move,” Campbell said.
Padraig lay back on the dirt floor, his breath coming in shallow bubbling gasps. He tried to say something, but the words drowned in his throat.
“Give me the shotgun, Tommy,” O’Kane said, inching his way towards Downey. Downey passed it over. O’Kane raised it up to his shoulder and aimed at Campbell.
Coyle squirmed in Campbell’s grip. “Jesus, don’t shoot! Don’t!”
