‘I told you we weren’t that different, Mel.’
‘Doyle.’ The shout came from Hendry.
Both the counter terrorist and Mel clambered out of the car and began walking towards their companion.
‘It’s another body,’ the driver called, gesturing into the grave.
‘Two more to go,’ Mel said.
Doyle nodded.
‘Then what?’ she persisted.
Doyle didn’t answer.
A LIGHT IN THE BLACK
Ward finished numbering the pages then sat back and scanned what had been printed. Again he felt that schizophrenic feeling of joy and bewilderment.
Where had the pages come from? Who had written them?
He took a deep breath and decided to return to the house. Perhaps he might be able to eat something. Perhaps.
He promised himself he would return an hour later.
When he did, he found more.
We’re just about finished with you,’ said Doyle, staring at Leary.
The Irishman was covered in mud. It was smeared on his cheeks. Even in his hair.
‘Last two locations,’ Doyle demanded.
‘I thought you wanted to see them,’ Leary protested.
‘We’re going to see them,’ Doyle assured him. ‘You and I will go to one.’ He turned to look at his companions. ‘Mel, you and Joe take the other one.’
‘Why split up now, Doyle?’ Mel wanted to know.
‘I’ve got business to discuss with this piece of shit. There’s no need for you two to be there when that happens.’
Mel held Doyle’s gaze for a moment then shook her head.
The counter terrorist turned back to face Leary. ‘Locations of the last two graves,’ he snapped.
‘One’s buried in some woods near Mountnorris,’ Leary said wearily. The other one’s in a church at Whitecross.’
‘Which church?’ Mel asked.
‘St Angela’s. It’s in a crypt under the nave.’
‘No bullshit?’ snapped Doyle, leaning closer to the Irishman.
‘Listen, I’m as anxious to get away from you as you are from me. Why would I lie now?’
‘Those locations aren’t more than ten miles apart,’ Doyle mused.‘Joe. Drop us at the one in Mountnorris. The woods will be nice and quiet for me and this prick to have a chat.’ He looked at Leary.‘You and Mel check out the one in Whitecross. If it’s kosher, let me know then come back and pick me up. I’ll ring both locations through then we’ll drop this fucker off somewhere the RUC
can pick him up.’
Hendry nodded.
The Astra sped on through the gathering dusk.
Doyle checked his watch. 6.04 p.m.
Mel and Hendry should be at the church in Whitecross soon. They’d left Doyle and his captive more than twenty minutes earlier. The counter terrorist had been following Leary through increasingly dense woods ever since. He walked five or six feet behind him, carrying the shovel like an oversized club. He prodded Leary in the back with it and the Irishman continued leading the way.
He was still handcuffed.
Birds returning to their nests were black arrowheads against the sky. Clouds were forming into menacing banks and Doyle thought he felt the first drops of rain in the air.
‘Who was he?’ Doyle wanted to know.
‘Who was who?’
‘This one? The poor bastard buried in here.’
‘Brit. Proddie.Tout. How the fuck do I know?’
They continued on through the trees, the gloom made more palpable by the canopy of branches above them.
‘What about the one in Whitecross?’ Doyle persisted.
Leary didn’t answer.
‘I’m talking to you, you cunt,’ Doyle snarled, pushing the Irishman hard in the back.
He fell forward, catching his head on a fallen branch hard enough to break the skin. He rolled over, looking up at Doyle. ‘There’s no body in the church,’ he hissed.
‘I told you not to fuck me around,’ Doyle said angrily.
There’s something there but it’s not a body.’
‘What the fuck are you talking about?’
‘It’s an arms dump. The organisation hid weapons and explosives there. It’s booby-trapped.’
Doyle’s grey eyes blazed. He dropped the shovel and pulled the Beretta from its shoulder holster, pointing it at Leary.
‘As soon as they open it, it’ll explode,’ the Irishman continued. ‘You’ll be able to bury them both in the same matchbox. I knew you’d prefer to get me alone in the woods in case we were interrupted in the church. Looks like you lose again, Doyle.’
Doyle lowered the Beretta slightly. He shot Leary once in the right kneecap.
Moving at a speed in excess of twelve hundred feet a second, the heavy-grain slug shattered the patella as if it were porcelain. It tore through the leg, ripping away cruciate ligaments and muscle.
Leary screamed in agony.
‘How do they disarm it?’ Doyle said, kneeling beside the wounded Irishman. He pressed the barrel of the automatic against the younger man’s chin. ‘How?’
They can’t,’ Leary said through gritted teeth.
Doyle fired again.The second shot pulverised Leary’s left kneecap.
His screams echoed through the woods, mingling with the thunderous retort of the pistol.
The counter terrorist thrust a hand in his jacket, reaching for his mobile. He stabbed in Mel’s number and waited.
Leary was still screaming. Doyle spun round and kicked him hard in the face.
It shut him up for long enough.
‘Hello.’
‘Mel, listen to me,’ Doyle said breathlessly.‘Don’t go inside that fucking church.’
‘Doyle… can’t hear… breaking up,’ Mel said, her voice fading.
‘Don’t go inside the fucking church,’ Doyle bellowed into the mouthpiece.
‘Still… hear … saying …’
The counter terrorist looked around him.
The trees. There are too many trees. That’s what was fucking up the signal.
Get back to the road.
He looked down at Leary who lay motionless on the mossy floor of the forest.
The road was two hundred yards away.
You’ll never make it
Doyle turned and ran as he’d never run in his life.
As he ran, Doyle ducked to avoid low branches, crashed through bushes, ignored twigs that scratched at his face. And, all the time, the road seemed to be miles away from him.
The breath seared in his lungs.
