Crossfire

'All right, mate. North on the M1, first stop Dundalk.'

He turned the lights on and we rolled out towards the main.

I gave Mr Green a clip across the back of the head. 'Right, what's his number?'

As he recited it, I dialled. 'You might be thinking about being clever and warning him, but remember this. When we get there and the shit hits the fan, he's not going to give a fuck about you. If he wants us dead, he'll think nothing of hosing you down as well. That's if I don't do it first. So think very carefully about what you're going to say.'

I lifted my head. 'Dom, give us a good bit of engine noise and a few gear changes once we're on the main.'

We turned left, and Dom obliged. I hit the button and shoved the phone towards Mr Green's mouth.

'It's me. We've got them… We've just left now… No trouble, both of them can still talk… See you there.'

He nodded and I pressed the red button.

I sat back up, still on his legs. 'Now you're going to tell us everything about this scrappy and who's going to be there, and what you would have done if you'd been in the driving seat.'

104

Dundalk was a big market town whose main claim to fame during the war had been as a safe haven for bad terrorists. Nowadays most people knew it for having spawned the Corrs. As kids they'd probably practised their harmonies in the front room accompanied by the dull crump of PIRA on homemade mortar.

The wet streets were all but deserted. I was fucked. My head bobbed up and down and banged against the window as the street-lights strobed past.

I wasn't the only one. Mr Green had cramp again. I raised my arse a bit so he could fight the spasms, then sat back down on him. With his hands strapped up behind him, about the only other thing he could do was talk.

Half a mile of ruptured old concrete track led towards the farm. He told us he had to make the call immediately before he turned on to it. At the top of the track there was a cattle grid, then a yard full of crushed cars and piles of tyres. As we drove in, we'd see a line of four old artic containers that housed the reclaimed scrap. I stored all these details. If the landscape deviated in the slightest detail, if the track was mud not concrete, if there was a gate instead of a cattle grid, I'd make him very sorry indeed.

Finbar was in the second container along from the right. He was kept tied up most of the time. He slept on a big cushion and had a bucket to piss in. I'd watched Dom's reaction under the street-lights as he listened. He kept the Seat on the road, but he gripped the wheel so tightly his knuckles were as white as thermal imaging.

Dom glanced over his shoulder. 'We're nearly out of town.'

'Start looking for somewhere good and dark to pull in, and we'll get ourselves sorted.'

The street-lights petered out just after a sign had thanked us for visiting Dundalk. Dom slowed about a mile out of town and turned into a lay-by that led to a picnic area. Our headlights picked out tables and seats, and information boards about the local wildlife.

I climbed out and stretched. 'Weapons first, mate.'

Dom went to the back and opened up. I loaded a mag into an AK, pulled back on the cocking handle and released it. It was good to hear the familiar clunk as it rammed a round into the chamber. They'd have heard a lot of those clunks in this part of the world over the past thirty years. Even the cows wouldn't have bothered raising their heads.

Mr Green must have heard it too. He pressed his face a little bit harder into the seat, like he was hoping it would turn into a black hole. He was probably wondering if we'd bin him now he'd described the Yes Man's procedures and the lie of the land.

I handed Dom the weapon as we got out of the wagon, and pulled him to one side. 'You sure you want to do this?'

'It's OK, Nick. I know what I've got to do…'

'It's not going to be your best day out. If Fuckface in the back there is telling the truth, there's going to be at least five of them carrying, plus the Yes Man. This might sound corny, but our only hope is to go in with speed, aggression and surprise. You got that?'

He half smiled. 'SAS?'

'We control the fuckers, lift Finbar and get the fuck out. Straight off to Siobhan, and take it from there…'

'What about the Yes Man? We can't just kill him, Nick. He's at the heart of all this. We can use him to expose the whole network.'

I ignored him. 'Our mission is to get Finbar, bung him in the back of the wagon and get the fuck out. We're not trying to change the world. End of story.'

'And the Yes Man?'

I shook my head. 'How many ways are there to tell you this? We've got to kill everyone who tries to stop us — and that means everyone. We've just got to crack on with it — step up to the plate, or whatever you Transylvanians say.'

He half smiled and lifted the weapon. 'I've never fired one of these in anger. I did my conscription in the forestry service.'

'Well, we're about to find out how good your basic training was.'

I didn't want him to dwell on it too much. When he was in front of a camera he might have thought he was invincible, but it's a different story when you're doing the firing and anyone with half a brain is firing back.

I walked back to the wagon, loaded and cocked my own AK. 'I'll drive now, mate — you sit on Fuckface. Remember, if we don't get stuck in, we lose — then Finbar and Siobhan lose as well.'

I got in behind the wheel, with the AK across my lap and the two spare mags tucked into my jeans. I waited for him to close the door, then headed on towards Dundalk.

105

'I need to see where the fuck we're going.'

Dom let Mr Green sit up.

'Left at the next junction. It's about two miles down the road. You'll see the sign for Caitriona Farm on the right. I'll need to call before you drive up it.'

I handed Dom the phone. 'Number's still on there, mate.'

We drove on in silence. There was fuck all to say; we just had to do.

Mr Green was getting his voice back. 'Listen, fellas, just drop me off. I'll do the fucking call, but let me go. Come on.'

I didn't bother to reply.

'We're here.' The badly handpainted sign wired to the fence would have looked at home in Kabul. I swung on to the track and stopped.

Dom tapped the keys and shoved the phone to Mr Green's ear.

'Aye, yep, it's me. We're turning in now.' He nodded at Dom, who cut the phone and shoved it into his pocket.

'Dom, shut him up. Use the gaffer-tape and the rubber strapping. Do his legs as well.'

'Hey, come on, please, let me go, fellas — I won't say anything, I won't do—'

Dom rummaged in the day sack.

I drove up a crumbling concrete track on full beam. I flicked on the fancy front fog-lights for good measure. There were no buildings yet, just shiny wet grass.

'You ready, Dom?'

I heard the click of his AK's safety lever.

'You make sure you point that thing at them, not me.'

I wasn't worried about getting shot. That was the business I was in. But getting shot by one of your own side is a bit of a fucker.

I checked my own safety. The arm was still up.

We crested a gentle rise. The farm was spread out below us. Light spilled from the ground floor of what looked like the main house on to a cracked and pitted concrete yard. Wrecked cars were piled haphazardly to the right of it, just as Mr Green had said.

We rattled over the cattle grid.

The concrete hard-standing was about twenty metres wide and fifty long. The containers were jammed together in a line and padlocked up between the wrecks. The rest of the yard was like any other scrappy — in shit order. Hosepipes led in all directions from wall-mounted taps outside the house. Oily rags had been dropped where they'd been used. Tyres were stacked four or five high in a long line, like the safety wall at a racetrack. Dirty water puddled the concrete.