Once A Pilgrim: a breathtaking, pulse-pounding SAS thriller. James Deegan

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ last thing that Billy Jones Jnr felt was something hot being pressed into the soft flesh behind his left ear.

      Then nothing.

16.

      THE RED SIERRA nosed its way back towards the Falls Road.

      At first, no-one said a word.

      Gerard Casey was trembling with adrenalin, and an odd mixture of pride and shame, of happiness and grief.

      He’d just killed an innocent young man, only a year older than himself.

      So what the fuck did that make him?

      But then, this was war, and he’d done it for the cause.

      That, and Roslyn McCabe, and her knickers round her ankles…

      Their route had taken them back along Great Victoria Street, passing by Robinson’s, and now they were in the evening traffic, heading north to join the Falls from the Divis Street end, well away from Springfield Road RUC.

      Travelling slowly in the bumper-to-bumper flow, fighting the urge to overtake somehow, or turn off and take a quicker route.

      In the cold night air, the sound of the three shots would have travelled a fair way.

      Someone might already be kneeling over Billy Jones’ body.

      Someone might have seen the red Sierra leaving the car park straight after the hit.

      You just never knew how quick that someone could call in its description, or how quick the police and the Brits could react.

      Their focus now was on ditching the car and getting it alight as soon as they were on safe ground.

      A patch of scrubland off Glen Street.

      The two gallon can of four-star in the boot, and a match.

      Then pile into McKill’s.

      Get the weapons back to Martin and Brian.

      Strip.

      Hand over their clothes for burning.

      Dress.

      Then off to The Volunteer, and a nice cold Guinness, and then…

      Outside, it was sleeting and Baltic cold, but inside the vehicle heating was turned down low.

      If the car misted up a little, so much the better.

      Sick Sean driving slowly, not wanting to attract any undue attention, just another guy going about his business.

      A big, fuck-off grin on his face.

      Occasionally looking at Gerard.

      Who was the first to speak.

      ‘Christ,’ he said. ‘Christ!’

      ‘Fucking outstanding,’ said Ciaran O’Brien, from the back seat. ‘Fucking brilliant!’

      ‘I told you the wee man would be fine,’ said Sean, over his shoulder. ‘It’s in the blood. He’s a stone-cold killer. Did you see the way the big sack of shite went down?’

      ‘I did,’ said Ciaran, from the back. ‘A good operation, Gerard. Well done. Proud of you, son. No hesitation. Straight in there. UP THE RA!’

      He shouted the last, and punched the seat in glee as the car turned left into the Falls, moving with the ebb and flow of the traffic.

      ‘He was the same age as me, near enough,’ said Gerard, half to himself.

      ‘He had it coming,’ said O’Brien. He clapped Sean on the shoulder, and hooted in delight. ‘Billy Jones’ fucking son! What a fucking result!’

      ‘Yeah, his old man’s going to go fucking bananas when he finds out,’ said Sean.

      ‘He’ll…’ said Ciaran.

      Then, suddenly alert: ‘What’s that? Is that a siren?’

      It was. In the distance.

      Sirens, plural.

      ‘Ach, it’s miles away,’ said Sean, after a moment.

      But it was a timely reminder to them all.

      Keep focused.

      Don’t relax.

      They were still in play, and any number of people in this miserable, benighted city would kill them on sight, if they got the chance.

      The UDA. The UVF. The UDR. The RUC.

      Even INLA, if the mood took them.

      And of course the fucking SAS, or ‘the men in cars’ from the Det, 14th Int Coy, who were often mistaken by their targets for the boys from Hereford.

      They were fiendishly good at what they did.

      Sure, them bastards could be behind them right now.

      Or ahead.

      Or both.

      Just waiting for a radio message to take down three men in a red Sierra.

      Sean glanced nervously in his mirror.

      ‘Keep your eyes on the road, Sean,’ said Ciaran O’Brien from the back seat. ‘You look out for checkpoints, let me worry about who’s following us.’

      Gerard Casey now slumped in his seat.

      All that nervous energy gone.

      The car drew level with Leeson Street.

      The traffic was slow.

      Must be the lights at Springfield Road Falls junction.

      That’s all it is.

      We’ll be on our way in a jiffy.

      But fate was not on their side.

      Unbeknown to them, Margaret Thatcher had landed at Aldergrove forty-five minutes earlier, and the security services were on high alert: twice the normal number of regular Army, twice the RUC presence, not to mention spooks, undercover SF and various others.

      And just then the red Sierra rolled to a stop behind a bus – right under a fucking streetlamp, of all things.

17.

      SICK SEAN CASEY looked out of his window and met the eyes of a man behind the wheel of a car stuck in traffic on the opposite side of the road.

      Six СКАЧАТЬ