action pulse pounding tales vo Page 6
Declan saw bullet holes near the back of the boat and dark stains on the carpet. "Sorry."
"I threw his body and the guns overboard," she said. Declan opened his arms and held her for a moment. He didn't know much about Paul Boyle or any of the other men that had died today but he didn't have to. Despite being his fellow Irishmen, they weren't good men. They were killers who were willing to take their fight to people who more than likely had never set foot in Ireland and probably never would. They were the kind of men that he used to be. Or were they? He'd killed today, too. What kind of person did that make him?
"Let's go," Meaghan said as she reached down and pulled off the white shoes she was wearing. Declan noted the red stains as she turned and tossed them back into the boat.
"You're going to regret that," he said as they walked north. "The road to the airport's gravel."
Chapter Four
11:29am Local Time – Sunday June 10th, 1990
Aldergrove Airport
Belfast, Northern Ireland
Declan knew that landing in Northern Ireland as opposed to the Irish Republic came with a great risk but McGuire had assured him the passports he had provided, which identified Declan and Meaghan as French and American respectively with no connection to each other, were foolproof and that each of them would make it through the required security without incident.
Having gone through the humiliating process successfully, Declan bent down and scooped up his backpack from the conveyor of an x-ray machine as he searched the incoming crowd for Meaghan. Spotting her as she neared the entrance, he moved away and waited outside of the security area.
He watched as she went through the same process as he had and approached, placing the American passport in the travel bag she had brought from Anguilla.
"I guess that's it then," he said. "No more overseas excursions planned, right?"
She gave him a cold stare. "Looks like the Ulster boys won this round."
Declan shook his head. "The people who won yesterday are the Anguillans since they won't be dying in mass numbers from either an IRA or a UFF bomb tomorrow."
"So it's true what they're saying about you, that you've become some kind of conchie or something?"
"That's not you talking. That's me. Three years ago—"
"Meaghan McCraven?" a loud voice called.
Declan looked over Meaghan's shoulder. Two men in civilian clothes approached followed by four uniformed officers of the Royal Ulster Constabulary.
"Meaghan McCraven, you're under arrest for—"
"I don't know who you're talk—"
"Save it. You're Meaghan McCraven," an officer said holding up a picture, "Take her away."
Declan stepped forward as the constables grabbed Meaghan by the shoulders and began to pull her away. One of the plainclothes officers stopped him with a hand to the chest. "Get lost stud, if you know what's good for you. This one's not worth the lay."
Declan felt a set of hands grab him from behind. "It'll be grand, old son."
"Take your friend's advice," the officer said as he turned and walked away, following the constables as they led Meaghan around a corner and out of sight.
Declan relaxed in the grip of the man standing behind him as he noticed a lock of blonde hair that had spilled over his shoulder. He knew the man was one of the few around that could match him move for move. "Let me go, Torrie." He turned and looked into the face of Torrance Sands as the man released him.
"There's nothing we can do, Declan," Eamon McGuire said as he stepped up next to Sands. "The RUC had every member of the unit identified and pictures at every entrance. She didn't have a chance of getting through."
Declan regarded both men coldly for a moment before walking away.
"Do you think he has any idea it was you who told the screws where to find her?" Sands asked.
McGuire shook his head as he watched Declan leave the airport. "How could he? We've done more in the last four days to bring Declan McIver back into the armed struggle than the Brits have in the last six months."
Bio:
Ian Graham was born in New Hampshire on July 4th, the third generation of his family to share a birthday with the United States of America. His three main interests have always been politics, religion and history. The stories and characters he writes about are centered on the explosive conflicts created when the three intersect. His writing has previously appeared in Action Pulse Pounding Tales alongside best selling thriller authors Matt Hilton, Stephen Leather, Adrian Magson, Zoe Sharpe and Joe McCoubrey.
He lives in the Blue Ridge Mountains of the eastern United States with his wife and two daughters. Veil Of Civility, the first full length novel in the Black Shuck / Declan McIver thriller series, was published on April 2nd, 2013.
SEE SAW
A McMurder short story by James Oliver Hilton
Manchester. England. Mid-September. 10.35 pm.
The last dregs of the pint of Boddington's beer went down easy. It seemed like years since he'd enjoyed a proper pint, although he'd only been away from the UK for less than twelve months. The beer in the states was okay but it was the same everywhere you went. Bud or Bud Light. Miller or Miller Light. Coors if you were lucky, Coors Light if you weren't. America was great for many things but a proper pint wasn't one of them. They just didn't seem to get the whole beer – lager thing. Also they seemed to think having two pints equated to being drunk.
Danny McMurdo gazed into the now empty glass like a trainee fortuneteller then reconsidered. Another brew would go down a treat but he needed to keep his mind on the game.
He was dressed in his 'old man' clothes again. Faded green army jacket, a rip in the left sleeve. Baggy corduroy trousers and scuffed boots. The moth eaten flat cap finished his tattered ensemble perfectly. He hadn't shaved for three days and knew the coarse stubble shot through with silver added to his mock persona. He'd recently added a pair of glasses to his disguise. A pair of ready readers from Marks & Spencer. Only a couple of quid and the lens strength he had chosen was so weak they did not affect his sight in any noticeable way.
He made a show of paying for his pint, allowing several twenties to fall from his wallet onto the bar. He looked down his nose at the money and took his time putting it back into his wallet. It was a ruse he'd used many times before. Just like a fisherman baiting a hook. Toss it out there and see which species of pond life would take the bait.
The barman nodded and gave him back the change.
Danny stepped out into the street. The northern night air carried a slight chill. He pulled up his collar and hunched his shoulders. He then set off in a slightly waddling walk. Further along the road, he used a shop window to see if he'd been followed. A tight smile crept across his face. There were two of them. Both walked with the same rhythm, half swagger- half fear. The taller of the two wore jeans and a brown leather aviator jacket, the smaller man was dressed in a dark purple tracksuit. The shiny logo on the tracksuit glinted as it reflected the streetlights.
McMurdo turned off the main road into a quieter side street. He knew there was a few car parks nearby, in one of which his own vehicle was parked. He added a little speed to his walk to be sure that they were still following him. Sure enough, he heard the pair's footsteps quicken in response.
Another two corners and he'd be ready for them in the doorway of a multi story car park.
What Danny didn't see was the taller of the two men talking into his i-phone.
Some half mile away, six men sat in a Hyundai Chaser I-10 people carrier. The man in the front passenger seat smiled at the phone as a photo of an old man in a green jacket pinged onto his screen. The voice on the phone was telling him exactly what he wanted to hear.
“We'll be there in two minutes,” said the passenger.
“Go?” asked the driver. He looked at the top dog in the car expectantly.
“Fast and furious my friend,” answered William 'Snap' Jones. Snap had been so named due to his distinctive shock of red hair when he was growing up in nearby Altrincham. His friends had dubbed him 'Ginger Snap'. They later shortened it to just Snap. He'd hated the moniker when he was younger, at one time shaving off all of his hair in an effort to shake off the tag. In response, his friends had called him 'Baldy Snap'. He'd given up after that and let his hair grow out. In the intervening years he'd almost doubled in size and muscle mass. He loved the gym. Now when asked why he was called Snap he offered, “Because that's what I'll do to your neck if you piss me off!” Most enquiring minds tended to believe him.
Danny monitored the two men behind by their approaching footsteps, which echoed against the graffiti decorated walls of the car park. As he turned onto the entrance ramp he staggered to one side and bumped against the wall allowing the men to get closer. Turning, he registered the two approaching men with a look of surprise tinged with just the right amount of apprehension.
“Er...hello lads.”
“You can drop the old man act. We know who you are.” The taller of the two glared at McMurdo as he spat out his words like bullets. He rubbed the fur collar of his leather jacket as he spoke.
But Danny kept up the facade for a moment longer. His voice slow and unsure. “What? Who do you think I am?”
“Well, you're not the old cobweb-cock you want us to think you are, that's for certain. You pulled the same shit on a couple of my boys up in Carlisle last year. Then you had the balls to pull the same shit again three months later but with some big fucker of a Yankee to back you up.” Johnny Phelps knew how dangerous the 'old man' in front of him was and was definitely not going to fall for any of his sneaky tricks. Like his dad always told him. 'Son, only a sucker gets sucker punched.'
Johnny smiled as the harsh headlights from the Hyundai people carrier framed the old dude like a star in a Hollywood spotlight. A bobble-head in the style of a small space alien wobbled it's oversized cranium at him from its perch on the dashboard.
Snap climbed out of the SUV clapping his hands slow and loud as he stepped into the light. “Nice one Johnny boy. I've been waiting to catch up with this fucker for a long time. He's got some big time payback coming his way.”
“And from me too. He pulled some Ninja shit on my cousin up north a while back. Pretended he was all old an' shit. Then next thing he was givin' it Bruce Lee an' shit. Fucking Mosher!”
“Don't worry Johnny boy, he's not fooling anybody tonight. We know who he is. And we know what he's getting.” Snap looked around at the seven men that now blocked the entrance. “Right?”
All of the men responded as one. “Right!”
A spider of dread crawled it's way down McMurdo's spine. His hand moved out of reflex to the waistband of his trousers. No pistol was tucked there. He seldom carried on roll 'em jobs. He did these for his own self-gratification; he'd never needed a shooter before. It kept him sharp with his hand to hand and there was always some ass wipe who needed a bit of lifestyle restructuring therapy.
Five of the seven produced ASP batons. Police specials. A series of metallic clicks sounded as the telescopic weapons were extended to their full length.
'Sounds like God cracking his knuckles,' thought Danny.
Snap pulled a Bowie knife from behind his waist. The blade looked to be around a foot long. The brass hand guard was shaped like an oversized 'S'. Big knife. Crocodile Dundee himself would have approved. The last man, smaller than the rest, held handcuffs and a roll of duct tape.
Danny rolled his neck and flexed his hands. He knew that the pain train was just about to pull into the station. But the sight of the tape and cuffs was both good and bad. Good: they meant to capture him not kill him here. Bad: they probably meant to capture him and kill him somewhere else.
Snap waved the knife in the air like an orchestral conductor. “You don't remember me do you?”
Danny searched his memory but came up with nothing. “I can't say I do, but once you've seen one ugly bastard you've seen them all.”
“Funny.” Snap pointed the blade directly at him. “Three years ago. Outside Oxford Road Station. You did a number on me and two of my mates. Knocked three of my teeth out with a snooker ball inside a sock.”
Danny nodded as he recalled the incident. “Now I remember. Trying to bag snatch women as they came off the trains. You were the skinny fucker with the Sideshow-Bob hair. I mean, a ginger afro...what was that all about?”
“Never mind my fucking hair.”
“Looks like you've been chompin' on the 'roids since then.”
“Tell you what Mister fucking Mc-Murder. When my boys are finished beating the shit out of you I'm going to cut off your balls and keep them as a trophy.”
Danny bristled at being called McMurder. When his friends used his old army tag he smiled, it was a badge of honour. But when an ungulate like Snap used it, it just grated on his nerves. He growled, “If you're planning on cutting my balls off, you're gonna need a bigger knife.”
Snap roared out a command and the five men charged as one.
Danny sidestepped the first man and sent him slamming face first into the wall behind. As the other men rained down blows with the batons, Danny used one arm to cover his head and the other to drive repeated elbows into the first man's kidneys.
Danny had fought many opponents with a much higher skill level than this rabble but the sheer number and enclosed area proved a difficult barrier to overcome.
His left arm felt like it was broken. Slivers of raw pain lanced through his bone as each new strike from a baton compounded the hurt already administered. Stooping under the onslaught, he rammed his stiffened palm hard under a chin, driving the man's head back at an unnatural angle. The man toppled to the ground and clutched at his face. If Danny could have hit him with a clean shot he would have sent him into the afterlife.
Another baton slashed across his forehead and split the skin just below his hairline. The blood that spattered over Danny's face added fuel to the fire that was his mounting rage. The last thing he needed was another scar. Ignoring the pain, he pulled the nearest man in close, wrapping his arm tight around the back of his neck. The man's face was squashed against Danny's chest. Then McMurdo snapped his upper body forward. The resulting crack told of vertebrae being broken, separated beyond repair. As the man fell dying to the ground, he emitted one gurgling cry for help.
The baton wielding gang paused in their attack and stared down at the body of their dead friend. A look of shock, panic and fear rippled through them like a hypnotic suggestion. This was a game changer. Snap had said this was going to be an easy mark. Kick the old duffer into the ground then have some real fun with him later. One of the men who had followed Danny from the bar looked over his shoulder at Snap, and while pointing to his dead friend said merely; “Fuck!”
When the gang looked back at McMurdo he too was brandishing two telescopic batons. Three fallen men, two weapons taken. McMurdo knew his ancestors carried Norse blood in their veins and he felt that ancient Viking fury flow strong.
The blood that now covered his face added to the savage impact of his snarling voice. “I hope you fucker's all have life insurance or your mothers are going to be really pissed off when they have to bury you out of their own pockets.”
The gang shifted, hopping back and forward, uncertain what to do next.
Spitting a mouthful of blood aside McMurdo challenged, “Come on then. You've had the starter, let's get on with the main course.”
Snap responded to his taunts. “Forget trying to take him down. Just smash his fucking face in!”
But the gang didn't have to attack. McMurdo attacked them. With a deep guttural howl that would have befitted a Viking berserker he tore into them. Slashing left and right as he came. Whereas the gang had rained down repeated blows predominantly from above, Danny struck from all angles. Years earlier he had learned the basics of Escrima, the vicious style of stick fighting that originated in the Philippines. He now used one of the most basic but effective sequences from that system. The 'heaven six' combination broke the fingers and wrists of two of the closest men. As soon as they dropped their weapons, Danny closed on them and broke one man's jaw with a horizontal slash and sent the other tumbling to the ground clutching his ruined eye socket.
After blocking another man's attempted strike, Danny planted a boot deep into his testicles. The man howled and buckled at the knees. He then received the butt of a baton on the bridge of his nose. Another man down.
Danny took another smack in the head, which sent spots of purple light dancing across his eyes. With his left arm extended in a guard, he wiped the blood from his eyes. After running his tongue across his teeth, Danny spat out another mouthful of blood-tinged saliva.
He looked at the remaining gang. The first man was back up but holding his spine and wearing a mask of hurt. The fucker with the handcuffs and tape was looking very skittish next to Snap. The big ginger gimp was still there with his Bowie knife.
Danny pointed to the guy with the bruised kidneys. “You! Fuck off home while you still can.”
The man looked at McMurdo and Snap in an alternating pattern, trying to decide who would do him the most damage if he crossed them. He moved to stand alongside his man Snap.
Without warning Danny launched one of the ASP batons through the air in an overhand throw. Handcuff boy, whose attention had been successfully misdirected to his friend caught the steel truncheon full in the face. He was bowled over and gave only a strangled Awk! as he fell.
“Well now, this is more like it. Just one on one. You and me, Snap. Your chance to even the score. No more interruptions.”
Snap glowered at his blood soaked enemy. “There's still two of us. And I've got this.”
Danny shook his head sadly. “I beg to differ. I can smell the crap in his pants from here. He's a waste of time. He's finished.”
Snap looked at the now terrified looking man beside him and grudgingly agreed with McMurdo's summary. “Fuck off Zebo. I'll sort you out later.”