Leary didn’t answer.
‘I’m talking to you, you cunt,’ Doyle snarled, pushing the Irishman hard in the back.
He fell forward, catching his head on a fallen branch hard enough to break the skin. He rolled over, looking up at Doyle. ‘There’s no body in the church,’ he hissed.
‘I told you not to fuck me around,’ Doyle said angrily.
There’s something there but it’s not a body.’
‘What the fuck are you talking about?’
‘It’s an arms dump. The organisation hid weapons and explosives there. It’s booby-trapped.’
Doyle’s grey eyes blazed. He dropped the shovel and pulled the Beretta from its shoulder holster, pointing it at Leary.
‘As soon as they open it, it’ll explode,’ the Irishman continued. ‘You’ll be able to bury them both in the same matchbox. I knew you’d prefer to get me alone in the woods in case we were interrupted in the church. Looks like you lose again, Doyle.’
Doyle lowered the Beretta slightly. He shot Leary once in the right kneecap.
Moving at a speed in excess of twelve hundred feet a second, the heavy-grain slug shattered the patella as if it were porcelain. It tore through the leg, ripping away cruciate ligaments and muscle.
Leary screamed in agony.
‘How do they disarm it?’ Doyle said, kneeling beside the wounded Irishman. He pressed the barrel of the automatic against the younger man’s chin. ‘How?’
They can’t,’ Leary said through gritted teeth.
Doyle fired again.The second shot pulverised Leary’s left kneecap.
His screams echoed through the woods, mingling with the thunderous retort of the pistol.
The counter terrorist thrust a hand in his jacket, reaching for his mobile. He stabbed in Mel’s number and waited.
Leary was still screaming. Doyle spun round and kicked him hard in the face.
It shut him up for long enough.
‘Hello.’
‘Mel, listen to me,’ Doyle said breathlessly.‘Don’t go inside that fucking church.’
‘Doyle… can’t hear… breaking up,’ Mel said, her voice fading.
‘Don’t go inside the fucking church,’ Doyle bellowed into the mouthpiece.
‘Still… hear … saying …’
The counter terrorist looked around him.
The trees. There are too many trees. That’s what was fucking up the signal.
Get back to the road.
He looked down at Leary who lay motionless on the mossy floor of the forest.
The road was two hundred yards away.
You’ll never make it
Doyle turned and ran as he’d never run in his life.
As he ran, Doyle ducked to avoid low branches, crashed through bushes, ignored twigs that scratched at his face. And, all the time, the road seemed to be miles away from him.
The breath seared in his lungs.
You’re not going to make it.
He was fifty yards from the road now.
‘Stay out of the church,’ he shouted into the phone as he ran. There was still a deafening hiss of static.
‘Mel,’ he roared.
Thirty yards. ‘Mel, can you hear me?’
‘Breaking up … to go in now …’
Twenty yards. ‘Don’t go inside the church,’ Doyle bellowed frantically.
‘Off now … call you back … Leary was talking about …’
Ten yards. He crashed through the hedge, almost sprawled on to the road.
‘Mel, keep away from the church,’ he shouted.
There was no sound at the other end.
Doyle switched off. Dialled again. Waited.
‘Come on. Come on.’
No answer. He tried Hendry’s phone. It rang twice.
‘Answer it,’ Doyle snarled, his eyes bulging madly.
‘Yeah.’
‘Joe, get out of there now. It’s a set-up.’
‘What?’ Hendry said, his voice echoing.
They must be inside the church.
‘Leary’s fucked us over. The crypt is booby-trapped. Don’t open it,’ Doyle gasped.
He heard Mel’s voice in the background. Something unintelligible.
There was a creak. A sound that almost split his eardrum.
Then silence.
Doyle dropped the mobile back into his pocket and turned back towards the woods. He moved slowly, retracing his steps, his face set in hard lines.The knot of muscles at the side of his jaw was pulsing angrily.
It took him fifteen minutes to reach the place where he’d left Leary. The Irishman was still lying face down, both his legs shattered. It looked as if he’d been dipped in red paint from the knees down.
He walked up to Leary and kicked him hard in the ribs. Hard enough to roll him over on to his back.
Doyle took out his mobile again and dialled a number.
He recognised the voice on the other end. ‘Robinson. It’s Doyle,’ he said quietly.
‘Doyle … can hardly hear you … breaking up,’ the Cl told him.
‘Listen carefully.’
‘What … hell is going on?’ the RUC man wanted to know.‘Been an explosion … church in Whitecross. All hell’s… loose.’
‘I know about the explosion. You’ll find two bodies in the church. My back-up team. Leary double-crossed us.’
‘Where is he?1
‘Here, with me.’
Thank God for that.’
‘I need to ask you something. What was your daughter’s name?’
‘What?’
‘Your daughter? The one who was killed in that bomb blast. What was her name?’
‘Angela. Why?’
‘Next time you go to visit her grave tell her everything’s all right.’
‘Doyle, what … talking about? You’re not making any sense and I can hardly hear you …’
‘I shouldn’t have killed Kane.’
‘Doyle … say again …’
‘I’ll call you back in twenty minutes.’
The counter terrorist switched off the phone. He looked down at Leary impassively.
The Irishman tried to hold his gaze but was forced to close his eyes due to the unbearable pain.
Doyle shot him five times.
He stood there for a moment longer then turned and trudged back towards the road.
LONDON; TWO DAYS LATER:
Sean Doyle held the crystal tumbler in his hand and studied the amber liquid in it before taking a mouthful. The brandy burned its way to his stomach.
‘Perhaps we should have had a toast first,’ said Sir Anthony Pressman, raising his own glass.‘I’ll be the first to admit that your methods are somewhat irregular, Doyle, but they seem to get results.’
Jonathan Parker glanced at Pressman then at Doyle as he sipped his drink.
Sunshine was streaming through the windows of Parker’s office at the CTU’s Hill Street headquarters. Motes of dust turned lazily in the air.
‘Sinn Fein seemed fairly happy with the way you handled Leary,’ said Pressman.
‘I’m glad they approve,’ Doyle said disdainfully.‘l saved them the job of killing him. What did they have to say about the graves he showed us?’
That’s a matter that will have to be discussed in the future,’ Pressman said.
‘Yeah, I bet it fucking will,’ grunted Doyle getting to his feet.
‘Most of those responsible for the murders are no longer associated with that organisation or the Provisional IRA,’ Pressman continued. The recovery of the bodies was a cosmetic exercise anyway. Designed to help the families of the victims as much as anything else. It’s just rather unfortunate about your colleagues.’
‘Shit happens,’ Doyle said flatly, moving towards the door.
Pressman rose too.
‘There’s a message you can give to Sinn Fein when you see them,’ the counter terrorist said. The same one I want to give to you.’
Pressman smiled efficiently.
Doyle caught him with a perfect right hook. The powerful blow knocked the politician off his feet and sent him crashing backwards into the sofa, his nose broken, blood spilling down his perfectly laundered shirt and tie.