‘Line up there,’ snapped one of the other men in masks and he jabbed the barrel of his weapon towards the bus.
‘Get your fucking hands up,’ another hissed, pushing the muzzle of his rifle towards the man nearest him.
Again the former prisoners did as they were instructed.
The bus driver hesitated, looking anxiously at each masked face.
‘Get in the line,’ one of the men told him.
Still the driver hesitated.
The man nearest to him stepped forward and, with incredible speed and power, drove the butt of his rifle into the driver’s face. His nose burst under the impact and he dropped to his knees with blood spurting on to his shirt. He remained kneeling for a second longer then fell forward motionless.
Vincent Leary regarded each of the men before him, his gaze occasionally straying to the four automatic rifles now aimed at himself and his four companions.
‘All right, you Fenian bastards,’ snarled one of the masked men. ‘Turn around and face the bus.’
‘What’s wrong?’ Leary said.‘Haven’t you got the guts to look us in the eye when you pull the trigger?’
The first burst of fire hit Leary, slamming him up against the side of the minibus. Within seconds all four weapons were spewing their lethal loads into the newly released men.
The peaceful silence of the country road was ripped apart by the staccato rattle of automatic fire.
When the first magazines were empty, the masked men reloaded and emptied more heavy-grain shells into
the five bloodied and torn figures before them. From such close range the damage was enormous. Bones were pulverised by the high-powered bullets, internal organs were blasted to pieces.
Blood covered the side of the bus and spread seven or eight feet around the tangle of corpses. Empty shell cases rolled around, steam rising from them.
The hooded men ran back to the Corsa and clambered inside.The driver started the engine, turned the car swiftly on the road and headed back the way he’d
come.
He pulled his mask off and threw it in the back, wiping sweat from his face.
The others followed his example.
Daniel Kane glanced at his watch. In less than five minutes they would dump the Corsa and change cars.
It had all gone as smoothly as he’d planned.
A REFLECTION
Ward sat and watched as the paper spilled from the printer. What a joyous sight. He might have found it even more joyous had he been able to remember writing what was on those pages.
But, what the hell, it was appearing before him perfectly typed and, as he glanced at it, well written.
The printer continued with its mechanical litany.
Ward turned and looked out of the window. He saw his reflection in the glass staring back. For long seconds he stared at his own face then he blinked hard, as if to dismiss the image.
When Ward looked again the reflection, obviously, was still there. But its expression hadn’t changed to match Ward’s. It wore a stern, almost reproachful look.
Ward moved back slightly.
The reflection of his face remained immobile, as if it had been painted on to the glass. It was almost as if a face were staring in at him. Unblinking.
Unmoving. Perched on one of the branches that tapped gently against his first-floor office window.
Ward closed his eyes tightly then looked again.
The face was still there.A severed head impaled on sharpened wood. Stuck there like a Halloween Jack-o- lantern.
He shook his head.
His reflection didn’t move.
He looked more closely at the eyes. They were fixed on the printer, watching the pages churning out.
Ward raised a hand and moved it slowly back and forth before the vision of his own features. There was no change. The face remained. Immobile.
Ward swallowed hard and hauled himself out of his seat. As he did, the mouth of his reflection opened wide as if in a soundless scream.
There was a single tooth missing from the upper jaw.
Ward ran down the stairs and out of the office, turned the corner and looked up into the tree.
He didn’t know what he thought he’d see, but there was nothing there. Just leaves stirred by the night breeze.
Ward stood gazing up for a moment longer then wandered back into the office.
The reflection was gone from the window. The printer had finished its work.The office was silent again.
LONDON:
The room smelt of gun oil. Doyle took each of the weapons in turn and field-stripped them. He cleaned each part carefully and then reassembled the firearms. He checked the slides on the automatics, then he ensured that the cylinder turned smoothly on the revolver.
Why are you doing this? You’re not going to need any of these fucking things again, are you?
There was a bottle of Smirnoff on the table in front of him and he stopped periodically to fill his glass. The bottle was already half empty.
The TV was on. Some twat talking about his new novel. Laughing like a fucking idiot as he sat on the sofa opposite the presenters.
The stereo was also on.
The last thing Doyle wanted was silence.
He glanced at the TV screen, but it was the music that dominated.
‘Fallen angel, ripped and bruised, think of better days …’
Doyle finished cleaning the Desert Eagle and sat back in his chair, the barrel pointed at the screen.
‘Life is rude, treats you bad, tears your wings away …’
He worked the slide on the automatic then aimed it at the male presenter of the morning show.
‘Take your dreams, broken schemes and sweep the past away …’
Doyle squeezed the trigger and the hammer slammed down on an empty chamber.
‘Bang,’ he murmured.
The news was coming up.
Doyle remained where he was in his chair, the Desert Eagle still cradled across his lap as he reached for the Smirnoff once more.
‘Fly, lonely angel, high above these streets of fire …’
Captions came up at the bottom of each news story. Rwanda. Kosovo.
Northern Ireland.
Doyle grabbed for the stereo remote and shut off the music.
The news camera was already panning over a scene of bloodshed in Northern Ireland. A bullet-riddled minibus, spattered with blood. Great puddles of crimson fluid congealing on the country road. He saw RUC men moving around among members of the emergency services.
Doyle pressed the volume button and the sound of the news reporter’s voice began to fill the room.
‘… all five men, granted early release as part of the Good Friday Agreement, had been serving sentences for terrorist-related crimes.
They are thought to have been ambushed on this quiet road and all were pronounced dead at the scene.’
Doyle sat mesmerised.
The men were being transported back to the Republic on what was thought to be a top-secret route. No statement has been made yet by either the RUC or any of the political or military organisations involved in what
