The seven ‘p’s.
Proper preparation and planning prevents piss poor performance.
Hands into fists. Drip of endorphins soothing the lizard brain.
Again that old, old thought: fear is power, son, fear is the precursor to action.
A look of alarm in Strong’s eyes. “Why are you smiling, Duffy?”
“Kill the light!”
The light went out.
It was pitch black.
I hit the deck and immediately all six men fired into the space where I had been.
I crawled through the rubble.
Fire above me.
A terrifying noise bouncing off the walls.
I crawled in a diagonal, away from the gunfire. The shotgun men shot both their barrels immediately, the AK man went through his clip in a few seconds, the men with pistols fired intermittently into the darkness.
Ping! Ping! Ping! all around me. “Jesus!”
I kept crawling through glass and muck and oil.
Something hot screamed past my face.
“Return fire for fucksake!”
Were they dead?
Oh fuck, had I killed them too?
Two muted flames shooting towards the gunmen.
Crabbie was behind a turbine in one corner. Lawson was behind a cast iron door in another. Both of them had suppressors on their MP5’s, not just for the noise but to screen the muzzle flash.
“Return fire!” I screamed unnecessarily.
They knew what they were doing and they had targets to shoot at: the dusty yellow flames from the barrels of the men shooting at me.
Crabbie fired.
Lawson fired.
Turning round and lying on the ground in sniper mode I fired.
The range time paid off.
Range time always pays off.
Three men went down.
We all shot again and two more men went down and one made a bolt for the back door.
“Lights!”
The lights came on and I got to my feet and pointed the MP5 at the vacuum where the baddies had been standing. Jim Dale, Haughtrey, Breslaw and James were all dead. Selden was bleeding out from a hole in his chest the size of an orange.
“Is everyone OK?” I screamed.
“Not a scratch,” Lawson said.
“Crabbie?”
Silence.
“Crabbie!”
“I think I was hit.”
I sprinted over to him. “Where were you hit?”
“I’m fine. Go after. Strong, Sean! He’s getting away,” Crabbie said.
“Are you OK?”
“I’m all right. It was just a scratch. Go after Strong.”
Lawson came over to the pair of us.
“Run with me to the car!” I said and we ran through the factory. “Did you get everything on tape, son?” I asked.
“Yes, sir.”
“All right. I want you to call Special Branch, not the regular police. Tell them what happened. If they can find Superintendent Baker get them to send her. Play her the tape if necessary.”
“What are you going to do?”
“I’m going to try to catch Strong before he does anything stupid.”
27: RUNNING FOR THE BORDER
I dashed out to the BMW. Strong was getting away in his Bentley Turbo making for Belfast.
“Your family’s back that way!” I yelled after him, but he was gone. He wasn’t going back to be with his wife and kids while the cops closed in. He was trying to get away.
The 1988-89 Bentley Mulsanne was a mean piece of equipment. 400 brake horse power, twin-turbo 6.75 litre V8, top speed of 140 mph.
I got in the Beemer without looking underneath it for bombs.
“Here we go,” I said and drove out of the factory and onto the onramp for the dual carriageway. At this time of night there was almost no traffic.
Perfect. Just me and him.
The Bentley was a mile ahead now. He was making for the M5, heading for the city and a million ways to escape after that. Yeah, that Bentley turbo was some car all right. Look at it go.
I laughed.
I was driving the BMW 535i sport with a 5-speed Getrag manual transmission. I knew the specs off by heart: 0–60 mph in 6.5s. Top speed (computer-limited): 128 mph. Top speed (without computer limit): 146 mph. Needless to say, I had showed my warrant card and had the dealership remove the computer limit.
The Bentley was about to get fucking crucified.
We reached the hill coming into Newtownabbey. The mercury tilt bomb under my car did not go off because there was no mercury tilt bomb.
Don’t make a habit of this, Sean.
I grinned at myself in the rear-view. I was alive. And the killers were dead.
I was alive and the killers were dead but the man who had sent the killers was getting away in a souped-up Bentley. Smile gone. Shit, I couldn’t even see him any more.
Surely he couldn’t outrun me in that big boat?
I turned on the police scanner.
Reports of a white car doing over 100 mph at Mullusk.
He was already at Mullusk?
I’d have to shovel some more coal on to catch him.
I ate the tarmac on four wheels.
I ate the M5 and the M2 coming into Belfast.
I ate the motorway out past Dunmurry.
I ate Ballyskeagh and Moira.
The BMW’s speedometer nudged upwards.
110 mph. 120 mph. 125 mph. 130 mph.
Christ, this thing could fly. I pushed the accelerator all the way to the floor.
150 miles per hour.