ends at the door of Jonathan Sands?s office. Behind his sleek black desk stands a solid glass wall that offers a breathtaking vista of the upstream bend of the Mississippi River, the great reddish tide flowing down out of verdant green bluffs on the east, and flat delta earth to the west. Sands sits behind his desk wearing an olive green commando sweater with patches on the elbows. He?s furnished the room with Barcelona chairs, an Eames lounger, and several other iconic pieces. The office feels as though it was ordered in a single shipment from Ultra Modern or Design Within Reach.
?Well, Mr. Kelly,? he says. ?We meet at last.?
Kelly nods but says nothing.
?Where did you come from, if you don'?t mind my asking??
?I flew in from a place called Qalat. You know where that is??
Sands gives a surprised smile. ?Actually, I do. I passed a few years there one afternoon, back in the nineties.?
?I figured maybe you had. Or somewhere like it.?
?So. Brothers-in-arms.?
?I wouldn'?t go that far.?
?Well, get on with it. Why are you here??
?Diplomacy. To make sure something?s understood.?
?I'm listening.?
?At the request of the government, we?re going to cease and desist trying to nail your hide to the barn door.?
As Sands laughs, the doors hiss open behind us. When I glance back, I see Seamus Quinn, his face clouded with suspicion. After Quinn comes the white Bully Kutta I last saw at Sands?s house. The dog walks around us and sits calmly to the right of Sands?s desk, the piercing eyes staring out of its wrinkled face.
?That'?s already been communicated to me,? Sands says.
?From Hull, no doubt,? I say.
?We?re here to add the personal touch,? Kelly says. ?I have a message of my own for you.?
Sands raises one eyebrow.
?I want you to understand that the only thing keeping you alive is this man standing here.?
Sands looks back and forth from me to Kelly.
?Penn is your old-school type guy. A gentleman and a scholar. Officer material, you might say. I'm more the direct type. A grunt. A grunt?s grunt might be more accurate. I have certain skills that your average grunt doesn?'t. When the brass sees a problem they can?t solve with a TV-guided bomb or an Abrams tank, they point guys like me at it. The paper pushers call it discretionary warfare. Doesn?t sound very bloody, does it?? Kelly smiles. ?But you know the real definition, don'?t you? Mate??
Sands?s good humor seems to be wearing thin. I doubt he?s accustomed to being challenged in his own office.
?I know what you did to his sister,? Kelly says mildly. ?And he told me what you said you?d do to his little girl. I'm a big fan of that little girl. I like the way she smells?like clothes that just came out of a dryer. So when Mayor Cage asked my opinion of your recent
activities, I told him you were a one-bullet problem. Do you require a translation, Mr. Sands??
Sands chuckles in appreciation. ?You?re all balls, aren'?t you, Danny boy? Where was your grandfather from? Derry??
?South Boston. You can play it as cool as you want, but you see me. You hear me. And I don'?t want any misunderstanding after I leave this room. We?re not your problem anymore, and you?re not ours. You guys can rob this town blind for all we care. Neither I nor the mayor is going to lift a finger to stop you. Am I right, Penn??
?Right.?
?But,? Kelly adds, ?if anything happens to my friend or his family?if his father should suffer a minor heart attack while walking through the produce section of the local Wal-Mart, say?then you, Jonathan Sands, will cease to exist. Your pal standing behind me too?but purely as an afterthought. I?d take him out just to get rid of the bog stink.?
I hear Quinn shifting his weight, but Sands stops him with a glance.
?Are we clear?? Kelly asks.
?Danny, Danny,? says Sands. ?Who do you think you?re dealing with??
?Rats,? Kelly says. ?Informers. But that?s an old IRA tradition, isn?t it? That'?s why you have the kneecapping with the power drills and all that, to try to keep your mates from selling you out for a bottle of Bushmills.?
Sands?s eyes harden remarkably fast.
?You?re ratting Po to the government,? Kelly goes on, despite my trying to shut him up with a glance, ?which sounds like a risky proposition to me, even if they get him. But if I were you, I?d be worried about what your lapdog behind me?s going to do if Po
take the bait. Hull is going to want something to show for his years of investigation. Quinn might decide to flip on you and turn state?s evidence to keep his own ass out of jail. Yeah, I?d be thinking hard about that.?
I hear a quick sliding sound, and then Quinn is flying over Kelly, a gun in his hand. At first I think he?s pistol- whipping Kelly, but when the motion stops, Kelly is wrapped around the Irishman like a boa constrictor, his bulging calf locked across Quinn?s thighs, his forearm wrapped around Quinn?s neck. The Irishman?s spine is
bowed to the point of breaking around Kelly?s other knee. Sometime during this commotion Sands whistled and the white Bully Kutta went alert, but something makes Sands call him off. The dog stands with his forelegs braced three feet from Kelly and Quinn, his clipped ears back, his bunched muscles quivering, tongue panting in frustrated energy.
Then I see why.
Kelly?s free hand is holding something small and black against Quinn?s bulging neck. Thin and irregularly shaped, it looks like the ancient flint knives I used to see in my father?s anthropology books. Where the point should be, I see only skin; then a trail of blood begins to make its way down the flesh of Quinn?s neck. Sands is on his feet behind his desk, as ready as his dog to burst into action, but he can do nothing, short of ordering his dog to attack me.
?Pick up the gun, Penn,? Kelly says in a steady voice.
I look down. Quinn?s automatic is lying on the floor, two feet in front of me. It would be nothing to pick it up?if Sands?s dog weren?t here.
?You give that animal an attack order,? says Kelly, ?Quinn will be spurting blood like the
and I'?ll gut the dog before he?s dead. Pick up the gun, Penn.
?
I feel like I'm reaching into a cobra?s basket, but I bend at the waist and pick up the gun. There?s no question about who?s in charge in this room.
?Don?t point it at the dog,? Kelly says calmly. ?Point it at his master.?
I turn to Sands, which brings the barrel of the pistol in line with his stomach.
?That'?s right,? says Kelly, like a man giving instructions to toddlers. ?That dog could take three or four rounds from a nine mil, but Mr. Sands will have a hard time surviving one.?
Quinn suddenly jerks hard in Kelly?s grip, but Kelly tightens his arm and leg, and I hear a sound like rope being stretched taut. Quinn groans, then screams in agony.
?How do you like being on the receiving end?? Kelly asks mildly. He drags the black blade farther along Quinn?s neck, and blood begins to stream from the cut.
?You?re a dead man,? Sands says quietly.
Kelly laughs. ?It takes one to know one. Open the door, Penn. Nice and slow. Just put your foot in front of it. Anyone but Penn moves, I'?ll sever Quinn?s carotid. Fair warning.?
?He?s bluffing,? gasps Quinn, still struggling against the hold.
With a strained smile, Kelly tightens his calf muscle, and Quinn screams like a heretic on the rack.
