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"C'mon Declan, I deserve better than that and you know it. Attacking the Royals or anything to do with them has never brought us anything but trouble. Donovan's gone mad. I doubt he could even pick an Anguillan out of a line up yet he's gonna blow 'em up just because it's the Queen's birthday. There's nothing but bad press to be had here and Meaghan's going to end up with a bullet between the eyes for it."

"But not if we stop it, mate," Shane put in.

"I can get you to the island and I know where they're held up," McGuire said. "There's not a lot of time but there's enough if you get moving. Are ya in?"

Declan grimaced. "Aye. I'm in."

Chapter Two

1:56pm Local Time – Saturday June 9th, 1990

Anguilla Wallblake Airport

The Valley, Anguilla

A regional jetliner roared down the small runway behind him as Declan considered the man leaning against the car in front of him. The lanky, black man in the baggy shorts and grungy tanktop seemed perturbed. "Are ya comin' man?"

Declan didn't like the feeling he was getting from the man but the three thousand miles between him and anyone that could change it left him with little choice. He let the backpack he was carrying slide off of his shoulder and rest at the man's feet. "Aye. Let's go."

The antiquated Ford LTD spun its tires in the dirt lot and bumped over several potholes as it left the airport and drove north, passing rundown one story buildings and sparsely populated businesses with cabanas in front. Several minutes later as they entered and quickly exited a more robust downtown area, the man made a right into a decrepit trailer park full of squalid, single-wide residences.

"My contact said you had everything I'd need," Declan said as they pulled to a stop in front of a trailer in the far corner of the park. He'd spent the previous day digging up everything the Belfast Central Library had on the minute island of Anguilla and he was guessing the man sitting next to him was a member of one of the gangs active throughout the island.

"Yeah. We have what you need, man, but money first. Always money first."

"Guns first. Then money."

"Always money first, man."

"Then I'll buy them somewhere else," Declan said as he opened the door and stepped out.

"You have a problem then, man," the Anguillan said getting out and meeting him near the trunk. "The other leprechauns pay faster."

Declan saw a reflection in the man's sunglasses and heard a throaty growl. He stepped aside as another black man lunged with a switchblade. The knife barely missed and the assailant quickly righted himself for a second attack as the driver of the car drew a knife as well. Faced with two attackers now, Declan let his backpack slide to the ground as he prepared to defend himself. Having been trained by the legendary Special Forces of the Soviet Union, he knew that neither man stood a chance.

The driver lunged first and Declan blocked him at the wrist, striking a pressure point on the man's neck as he fired his foot into the second attacker's stomach, throwing the man forcefully against the car. The first man writhed painfully as the second man struggled to get off the ground, gasping.

"You're a dead man!" the first attacker said lunging again. Declan was through playing with these two. He grabbed the attacker at the wrist and pushed a pressure point under the man's armpit forcing him to turn suddenly away from the pain and stab his partner in the throat as the second man advanced. Striking the driver in the carotid artery. Declan watched as the man collapsed onto his partner who was now choking blood.

"Dilen? Dilen!"

Declan turned to see another man rushing from the trailer, his eyes locked on the bloody scene. The man reached into his oversized pants pocket and pulled a small pistol. Declan bent, grabbed his backpack and hurried around the car, diving onto the ground as the man began firing. Taking cover behind the wheel as shots pinged off the metal over his head, he loosened his bag and reached inside, removing a razor sharp entrenching shovel that he'd concealed among some scuba diving items so it would pass the airport security in Dublin without a second look.

With the tool at the ready, he listened. The man had stopped firing and by the sound of gravel shifting under foot, Declan could tell he was moving around for an unobstructed shot. He waited until he was sure the man was around the back of the car and then rolled out suddenly, throwing the shovel. The blade lodged into the man's upper chest and he stumbled backward from pain and shock, the front of his white T-shirt beginning to turn inky red as he fell to the ground.

Bending down, Declan dislodged the shovel and picked up the pistol. Two tone sirens sounded in the distance and he knew it was time to take what he needed and get gone, fast.

Chapter Three

6:32pm Local Time

Home of Michael O'Keefe

West End Bay, Anguilla

As the sun set, Declan put down his backpack and looked west towards the front door of the villa where the IRA unit that included Meaghan McCraven was said to be held up. On top of the weapons they were to provide, the gang he'd made contact with was supposed to have taken him to the unit's location, but clearly that hadn't worked out as planned. It had taken him several hours to locate the property on his own, far longer than he had wanted, but here he was, hoping he wasn't already too late. Apparently the UFF had made contact with the same gang and if the gang had tipped them off to his presence, he could be walking into a trap.

He surveyed the property from the cover of a patch of Loblolly trees, looking over every nook and cranny of the flat-roofed, stucco-sided vacation home and its two pools and sundecks. The wooden shutters were closed tight and only a late model Land Rover parked at the end of the home's long driveway indicated that there were occupants inside. Eamon McGuire had told him that the home belonged to a wealthy American businessman named Michael O'Keefe who was sympathetic to the IRA's cause, but Declan wondered if the man knew his house was being used as a staging area for a bombing that would kill dozens of innocent bystanders. Somehow, he doubted it.

If there was a trap set for him, he couldn't see any evidence of it from the outside. The only way to know was to walk up to the front door and find out. He removed a Beretta pistol from his bag and flicked the safety off, stowing the weapon in his waistband as he picked up his bag and strolled out of the brush. On the home's porcelain tiled porch, he stood just far enough away from the door to avoid someone shooting through it. Reaching up, he pounded several times with his fist.

"Who's there?" a female voice asked.

"Meaghan, it's Declan. Donavan sent me."

After several moments the door opened a few inches and Meaghan McCraven's slender face peered out, her brown eyes darting around before finally landing on Declan. "Donovan sent you?"

"Aye."

She looked over the parts of the property that were visible from the door again and closed it, released the chain-lock and reopened it wide enough for Declan to step in. Before he did he regarded her for a moment, a feeling of despair rising inside of him. It was his fault that she was here. It was his hatred and anger that had first brought her into contact with the IRA and had placed the ideas of the armed struggle in her head. Standing there, three thousand miles from home, with bare feet and wearing a black sundress with her chestnut brown hair spilling down around her shoulders she looked angelic and innocent. He hoped she was still innocent, that her association with the IRA hadn't led her to commit the kind of acts that would blacken her soul forever, the kind of acts he'd seen and done. "Let's get inside," he said as he glanced over his shoulder. "It's not safe out here."

"You say Donovan sent you?" Meaghan said as he stepped inside. "He didn't tell us anyone else was com-"