lifeless limbs. No, no. no. I didn't want that, didn't want to witness that, didn't want to remember it for the rest of my life.
'Where, goddamn it?!' Uncle Dan said it again louder, and I knew his cop's sense of duty was at work, desperate to stop the shooters before they inflicted harm.
Where, where, where? The Jenkins truck had seemed perfect, especially if they didn't think we were onto them. Twenty yards, only that many paces to go. I could see the faces waiting, smiling, hands clapping, pointing out the banners, waving to their husbands and sweethearts. More officers strolled out onto the veranda, admiring the procession. Now, now is when I'd do it. Or wait, wait until we'd halted. Carrick looked at me. I was at a loss.
The truck. Why hadn't they used it? Because somebody might question why a Jenkins truck was still here. It was a delivery truck, and delivery trucks deliver-and leave. What about a truck that doesn't leave? We'd driven in without anyone checking us out, and our ambulance was still there. Right next to a U.S. Army deuce-and-a-half, parked head in instead of being backed in, which was standard procedure.
I turned to look again, and I was right-all the other vehicles were backed in. The pipe band was right in front of the truck, between the tailgate and the veranda. I broke ranks, pulling my automatic out, screaming for everyone to get down, get down, get down! I raced at the truck, pistol held out in front with a two-handed grip, waiting for everyone to move out of the way, waiting for movement in the truck. Pipers dove out of my way, one drummer at the end of the line standing and drumming in spite of the madness around him. The dying wails of the pipes sounded like so many death rattles. I jumped over a drummer hugging the ground and felt my finger tighten, just a little, wanting that extra split second that could mean another day in the Irish sun.
The tailgate dropped. I fired two quick shots then sidestepped, saw a muzzle blast, fired at it twice, then ran to the side of the truck and fired the last four shots through the canvas, dropped the clip, loaded another as I ducked and ran around the front, popping up on the other side, squeezing off four more shots through the canvas, angling them downward, thinking they'd be flat on their bellies, aiming prone. There was more shooting, and I fired my last three rounds and ran my last clip in as I realized it wasn't the sound of a BAR I was hearing, thank God, but the sound of police revolvers. I stepped back, automatic aimed at the truck, and worked my way left. Uncle Dan was kneeling, his arm extended, searching for a target. Carrick held his revolver steady as well, Masters at his side, bowler still on his head. After the sound of gunfire, silence filled the air, the marchers and onlookers on the ground, holding their breath, waiting for the next volley. I don't think I've ever experienced such a complete absence of sound.
Then a man in the truck began to cry. Choked sobs at first, then a torrent of anguish, the kind of agony that comes not from bullets on bone but from deep within a fearful heart. I edged around, watching Carrick and the others closing in with one eye and the interior of the truck with the other. The canvas flap was tied off above the tailgate, so I had to stoop for a clear view.
There had been four of them in the prone position, BARs set up on their bipods. One was crying great gobs of tears and wailing like a child with a skinned knee. He was curled up, unharmed, at the rear of the truck, staring at the two dead men still at their weapons, one with the top of his skull blown off, the other in a great pool of blood.
Grady O'Brick lay on his side, grasping a BAR, trying to pull himself upright. His eyes were unfocused, and blood oozed from his mouth. He'd been shot in the shoulder and once in each leg, those last probably by me. I hoisted myself up into the truck bed as Masters pulled out the abandoned BARs. Kneeling by Grady, I holstered my weapon. I didn't know what to say. I was glad we'd stopped them, glad that the killing wouldn't spread any farther in Ireland, north or south. But this was a genuine hero of the War of Independence, a man tortured and maimed by the British, whose purposes I had served today. I felt sick.
'No,' he said, falling back and clutching the last BAR to his chest. His hand fumbled at the trigger, and I reached for the gear change lever and set the safety. But he wasn't going for the trigger, he was holding onto the weapon, cradling it, his mouth set in grim defiance. 'No! You'll not have the Lewis gun, never!'
His eyes, wide open, glowed with determination as he stared beyond me, past years of struggles and plots, back to the turning point in his life, when everything hinged on a secret that broke him and began his quest for revenge.
'No, they'll never get it, Grady O Bruic,' I told him. ' Agus bas in Eirinn. ' Death in Ireland.
His eyes flickered for a moment, tried to focus, and his mouth curled in an attempted grin. 'Never…' His last word came out hot and harsh, smelling of blood, a faint rattle sounding in his throat. Then he was gone.
The man had tried to kill me, and I'd killed him. Still, I knelt and wept. Death in Ireland-that toast would never sound the same again.
CHAPTER THIRTY SEVEN
Besides Grady and two of his men, no one else had been killed. Bob Masters hadn't noticed he'd been shot until blood squished in his boot. A slug had hit his calf but it was a clean shot; he'd be running up Slieve Donard in a couple of weeks.
The Army Air Force bird colonel, a guy named Dawson, had caught it for real, a. 30 round in the shoulder. He'd had a. 38 Special in a shoulder holster, and charged the truck, blazing away, as soon as he figured out what was going on. The ambulance we'd stolen came in handy; he and Masters were bundled off in it to the hospital immediately. I stayed with Carrick and Uncle Dan, seeing to the prisoners and helping Masters's men load the BARs and ammo into the truck after the bodies were removed
I lingered, watching the crowds disappear, feeling the darkness creep in as the sun set, the blood red colors of dusk filtering in through the trees. I think I couldn't believe it was over. It was hard to leave the scene, because once I did, I would have to leave Ireland behind.
'Come, lad,' Uncle Dan said, draping his arm around my shoulder. 'Let's give these costumes back to the boys in their skivvies.' We walked to the church, enjoying each other's company, silent, letting the feeling of peacefulness seep back into our bones. As we came to the church door, we opened it without a thought. Entering the Church of Ireland had lost its forbidden quality. It was just a building.
Back in our own clothes, Carrick drove us to the hospital. I wanted to see Slaine and tell her the case was closed. Maybe it would cheer her up. Maybe it would cheer me up. Carrick dropped us off and I felt tired, achingly tired, as we tramped up the steps to the hospital entrance. Major Cosgrove stood at the top, looming large above us.
'I must say, Boyle, splendid job today. Well done.'
'Yeah, splendid. How is Slaine?'
'She was awake but the doctors appear to be concerned. She doesn't look well.'
'She was shot, for Christ's sake. How do you want her to look?'
'There's no need for that tone, Lieutenant Boyle. Need I remind you, I am your superior officer?'
'What's going to happen to Subaltern O'Brien?' Uncle Dan broke in, trying to short-circuit my temper before I blew. 'After she recovers?'
'Well, there's no question of her returning to MI-5, after her questionable conduct. I will leave it to District Inspector Carrick if charges should be laid against her.'
'You didn't question her conduct when she got things done for you,' I said, stepping up into his face. 'But now you're ready to throw her to the wolves. What is it, an Irishwoman doesn't deserve your loyalty?'
'There are larger questions at hand, young man.'
'Next time, get somebody else to do your dirty work. You aren't worth it,' I said, brushing by him, fighting to keep my fists at my sides, a haymaker begging to be let loose.
'And you, Mr. Boyle, you're supposed to be in police custody!'
'Go to hell,' Uncle Dan said, and followed me down the hall, patting me on the back.
We found Colonel Dawson first. He was awake, stretched out in a hospital bed, a cast enclosing his shoulder and arm. Bob Masters sat with him, his bandaged leg up on a chair.
'Well, if it isn't the walking wounded of Brownlow House!' Uncle Dan said. 'How are you both?'
'Glad to be alive, thanks to you boys,' Colonel Dawson said. 'Bob here has been telling me the whole story. You put a stop to something that could have snowballed into a real problem. Nice work.'
