Crossfire

Three guys emerged from the front door and stood waiting. Their cigarettes glowed in the darkness. The full beam and fog-lights hit them and they half turned or shielded their eyes with their hands. They were dressed for Sheriff Street, not the countryside, in jeans, trainers and leather coats. The lights were blinding them and I could see their mouths working as they cursed.

'Dom, you're going to hold them outside here. If they move, don't fuck about. You OK?'

'You can depend on me, Nick. I won't let you down. Or Finbar…'

I stopped the wagon with the three still caught in the beam. I left the engine running. I opened the door and got out. Dom was just behind me.

Weapon in the shoulder, safety lever down two clicks to single shot, I took one step to the right of the main beam.

They turned their heads. 'For fuck's sake, turn your lights off, you stupid shite…'

I kept my voice low. 'Stand still.' I kept moving. 'Stand very still.' I spoke like I was trying to coax a child. 'I have a weapon. Stand still.'

I took a couple more steps and they saw what was going on.

'Show your hands! Hands, hands!'

All three were thirty-something. All three had a cigarette cupped in the right hand where their weapon should have been.

'Who's got the keys? Keys for the containers. I want the boy.'

Dom made himself visible on the left. The one in the middle flicked his cigarette to the ground and nodded towards the house.

I had to go straight in. I didn't know when the next lot might be coming through the door. I moved towards it. It was still ajar. Right hand on the pistol grip, pulling the butt into the shoulder, I pushed it gently with my left.

I moved into a tiled hallway. There was a strong smell of cigarette smoke. Voices filtered from a room at the end of the corridor. The beamed ceiling was low. I crouched to present a smaller target as I started along the hall.

The voices got louder. There was a burst of laughter. Cigarette smoke lingered in the doorway.

'On a job well done.' I heard educated Belfast. Glasses clinked. 'Shall we go and sort these shites out now, or let the lads play about for a while?'

I strode into the room, weapon up.

There were three of them sitting in old, floral-patterned armchairs. The Yes Man was in the middle. The two smoking either side of him were older, in their fifties, faces hard as stone.

They weren't fazed to see me. They kept hold of their glasses. A bottle of whisky stood at the Yes Man's feet.

'Playtime's over. Give me the keys for the boy.'

The Yes Man's eyes flicked between his companions. He was out of his depth now.

The one on the right held out his hands. 'Sure, sure. Take him and fuck off. Tell you what, I'm going to stand up and reach into my trouser pocket. The right pocket. I have the keys.'

I nodded.

'Stone! This is ridiculous…' The Yes Man was recovering fast.

The guy on the right heaved himself out of his chair. Very slowly, he moved his hand to his trouser pocket; his left was still wrapped round his whisky glass. 'Stay calm, son.'

The Yes Man was feeling feisty. 'Stop this nonsense, Stone. What's this boy to you?'

His companion rounded on him. 'Shut the fuck up!' He held up a set of keys and turned to me. 'Let's keep everything nice and calm now.'

There was a burst of automatic fire outside. The next thing I knew, a whisky glass was flying through the air. All three sprang into action. I had to assume they were going for weapons. I fired a quick double-tap into the one with the keys. A pistol clattered to the floor from his other hand.

I stood my ground, swivelled slightly right. Both eyes open, I fixed centre mass on the second target, who charged at me, head right down like he was making a rugby tackle, as the Yes Man disappeared through one of the doors behind him.

I double-tapped downwards, into his back, and he collapsed on the floor.

A cloud of cordite rose to join the cigarette smoke. It was like being back in the Jock's bar.

I scrabbled round the two bodies and found the ring of keys.

Another burst came from outside.

I charged back down the corridor. 'Dom, I'm coming out! Dom, don't shoot! Dom!'

There was no reply.

I got to the end, gulping for breath. 'Dom, I'm coming out, do you hear me?'

Nothing.

Fuck this. Weapon in the shoulder, I moved into the doorway. Over to the right, against the wall, three bodies lay in a heap. One must have taken a chance on Dom not opening up.

Dom was caught in the Seat's lights. He was frantically kicking and pulling at the lock on the second container. I ran across the yard, past Mr Green, who lay bound and gagged on the greasy concrete. He was moving like a slug, trying to get away.

'Dom! I've got the keys! Dom, calm down!'

He'd tried to blow the lock apart. There were strike marks in the steel all round it. Rust had been blasted away to expose shiny metal. He was lucky a round hadn't ricocheted into his head, or gone straight through and hit Finbar. 'Stop, mate — I've got the key.' I pushed him aside. 'Cover me, mate. I don't know who else is out there.'

I took a deep breath and started trying the keys. The third worked.

I pulled back on the handle. The locking bar creaked and the door swung open. The light from the Seat flooded in.

Dom rushed past me. 'Finbar! Finbar!'

He was just where Mr Green had said, lying on his side, on a large dog cushion. There was a bucket in the corner, surrounded by oily engine parts and wing mirrors. The smell of shit was overpowering.

'Finbar!' He turned back towards me, eyes wild. 'Nick, he's not…'

I went over and rolled him on to his back. 'Feel for a pulse…'

I lifted an eyelid. The eye was glazed and dull. I looked for an entry or exit wound. There was no blood.

'Finbar!'

He groaned. He tried to say something. A syringe and the rest of his paraphernalia were scattered over the floor.

'Dom, it's OK. The fuckers have kept him smacked up. He's going to be OK.'

Dom looked as if he didn't know whether to laugh or cry. 'It's me, Finbar, it's Dom.' He cradled him in his arms. 'It's OK, we're here.'

I tugged at Dom's arm. 'Come on, let's go, mate. Somebody will have heard that lot and called the police.'

He pulled gently on Finbar's arms and the mass of matted blond hair was moving off the cushion. 'It's OK, Finbar, it's all right, it's Dom. You're OK…'

The boy finally realized who it was.

'Dom, for fuck's sake, get him out to the wagon — we've got to go!' My shout echoed round the container.

A vehicle fired up behind me. I ran out as a Mondeo estate screamed past. The wheels lurched over Mr Green's head with two sickening thuds.

There was nothing I could do but fire. It was like someone crashing through a vehicle checkpoint. I stood, got a good position, and kicked off a series of rapid single shots into the fading shape.

Brake-lights came on and off.

I kept firing.

Finally it crashed into a post beside the cattle grid. I was already running.

The Mondeo's rear window was frosted; it had taken five or six strikes.

The Yes Man was crumpled against an airbag. Blood leaked from his neck; he looked like he'd just burst an extra big boil. His eyes were closed but he was breathing.

I wrenched open the door and reached in for the keys. He wasn't going anywhere.

I turned to see Dom staggering to the Seat with Finbar in his arms.

I ran back and helped lift the boy into the front seat, then threw my weapon into the back. I dragged out Mr Black and left his body where it lay.