He bundled both men into the bushes as a car’s headlights flashed over them, then ran back into the trees, moving parallel to the road at a steady pace. So far he hadn’t been seen by the front group – but he only had seconds remaining. He broke clear of the pools of darkness under the trees beside Gabriella, as the man who had left the car grabbed her arm. Her other hand was coming clear of the handbag. Quayle saw the small silver gun coming up in her hand and he swung his leg up, his foot flashing out. The man grunted and fell to his knees, his hand letting go of her arm. Quayle’s foot flashed up again smashing into his face with a solid meaty thump, the man dropping down onto the pavement, his kidneys ruptured and his jaw broken.
Quayle grabbed her arm. “Quick, Gabby. The trees!”
Propelling her towards the dark, he turned to the last of the watchers, the two in front. One had dropped into a marksman’s crouch, complete surprise on his face, a bulbous nosed gun coming clear of his coat.
Quayle thought better of it and he too darted into the dark, pushing the old woman in front of him. Stumbling over a tree root, the string bag still in one hand, the little silver gun in the other, she plunged forward. Quayle scooped her up as the first shot was fired, a dull muffled thud through the silencer on the man’s gun. She tried to turn, her old face angry, to bring her gun to bear – but Quayle pushed it down.
“No! Keep moving. Go, go!”
“I’ve run enough, young Quayle!” she snapped her old voice furious. He didn’t ask how she knew it was him, just pushed her further into the tree line. She made to talk as they stopped, but he put a hand to his lips. “Shhhh!” Then he pushed her down onto the knees in the dark of a tree trunk.
There were now three silhouettes moving slowly towards them, two in front and a third one further up the road. All had guns drawn. Where are the Garda when you need them? he thought. If they all have silencers, they can blast away all night and no-one will be the wiser.
The third man dropped from view. Quayle knew where he was going. He was moving round the back. He didn’t like that at all. Standing silently, his back to the tree trunk, he watched them approach for a second, one leading the other, their heads turning as they swept the darkness with increasingly good night vision. He pirouetted silently, until at last he faced the broad trunk of the tree, and slid around its base to see if he could locate the third man. Nothing.
Moving back around, he dropped into a crouch beside Gabriella.
He moved until his lips were at her ear.
“Stay very still,” he whispered. “I’ll draw them away.”
Thirty yards away, he made his first deliberate noise – and earned the uneasy feeling of immediate success when a bullet thunked into a tree a few feet away, bits of bark flying off into the dark damp grass under his feet. He moved another twenty feet away – and there he dropped into in the darkness beneath a large shrub, saying his mantra over and over again, controlling his breathing for the attack.
Come on, you bastard. Come into my bit of the darkness. I’ll be like your worst fucking nightmare come true.
They were very close now, the pair of them moving at a quick pace, thinking that their quarry had kept moving. Soon they came abreast of the bush under which Quayle lay. In the same moment that they appeared, he launched up like a pouncing panther, absolutely silent, a black shape in a black night.
One of the men was fast. Quayle felt the muzzle blast tug at his sleeve as his elbow snapped up beneath the man’s chin, the satisfying feeling of the strike masking the fear of the gun. Then he turned on one foot like a dancer, low and perfectly balanced, coming out of the move like a coiled snake, fluid and black and unbelievably fast. A second shot up very close – the silencer ineffective now after two rounds had gone through it – and the bone of the man’s cranium crunching under his fist.
NO! There is another! his brain screamed at him. Not a silenced gun, but a small one, close, very close… and he rolled down as another shot snapped off, tugging at his jacket.
A man began to scream in the dark of Stephens Green.
“Quayle, hurry! We must go!”
Rolling to his left, he spun around, looking for a silhouette. A trick. It had all been a trick. They knew it was me. Somewhere out here was another man with a big gun.
The screaming went on. Knee or stomach wound, thought Quayle. Shit, where is he? Shot one of his own men. He’ll be angry now.
“Quayle!” the voice called. “Don’t fight me. I am with you!”
He took the man from behind, the neck hold millimetres from the pressure points.
“Who are you, bastard?” Quayle’s voice rasped in his ear.
“Kirov. Major. KGB,” came back the strangled reply. “Alexi Kirov. I’m with you...”
“Bullshit!”
“Black... medal…”
Quayle released the pressure an iota. “What did you say?”
“I gave Black... medal…”
“What medal?”
“Let me go first.”
Kirov was getting tired of the pain in his neck and shoulders, so Quayle released more of the pressure.
“What fucking medal?”
“My father’s. A 1944 Hero,” the wiry little Russian replied.
“Why?” Quayle snapped, letting go. The man’s gun lay on the ground.
“Not now. The Garda will be coming. We must go!” He bent to pick up the gun, a big automatic, and brushed the damp grass of
