Once A Pilgrim: a breathtaking, pulse-pounding SAS thriller. James Deegan
Читать онлайн книгу.
fellas,’ said Thompson.
‘Alright, Tommo,’ said Sean.
He nodded at Freckles.
‘Evening, Freck.’
‘Ready?’ said Freckles.
‘As always.’
Martin Thompson picked up the holdall and opened it. ‘Here’s your change of clothes for later,’ he said, indicating a Tesco carrier bag. ‘And you’ll need these.’
He picked out three other carrier bags and handed them over. Each contained a pair of pink Marigolds, still in their plastic packets, and three new balaclavas.
‘You know the drill,’ said Martin. ‘Get yourselves gloved up before you touch the weapons.’
Each of the three pulled on a pair of the gloves.
‘Over the bottom of your sleeves,’ said Sick Sean to his brother, holding out a wrist. ‘Like I showed you.’
Once the gloves were on and the sleeves tucked in, Freckles produced a roll of duct tape and went from one to the other, taping the gloves in place.
‘That’s great, Sean,’ said Gerard, as casually as he could. He felt oddly talkative, and blurted out, ‘Feels a bit weird.’
His voice sounded as though it was coming out of someone else’s mouth, and for some reason a vision came to his mind: a trip to Barry’s in Portrush… What had he been? Seven? Eight? He’d got on the roller coaster, full of bravado, and then they’d locked the lap belt on, and there was no way off, and he’d pure near shit himself, and there was nothing to do but sit there and go with it and hope it wasn’t going to be too bad and just wait until it was all over because you can’t get off can’t get off can’t get off
‘You’ll get used to it,’ said Ciaran O’Brien, calmly. ‘It’ll keep the forensics off your hands. Unless you like the look of the H Blocks?’
The two new men chuckled. ‘Ah, leave him be,’ said Martin.
Nothing to do but go with it, and hope it’s not too bad.
Satisfied, Freckles stood to one side and the three men walked to the table. O’Brien picked up the AK, cleared it, then loaded a magazine and made it ready. He put the spare magazine into the inside pocket of his leather jacket. Gerard went to pick up the semi-automatic – it was a 9mm Browning Hi-Power – but Sean slapped his hand away. ‘Fuck off, that’s mine,’ he said, grabbing it, loading it and putting it into his waistband.
Gerard Casey picked up the revolver, and looked at it in disbelief.
It was a late-model Webley, liberated from an unfortunate British Army officer at some point in the previous half century.
Its wooden handle polished smooth by many hands.
Bad hands.
‘This looks like a fucking antique, so it does,’ he said. ‘You sure it’ll be okay?’
‘Better than an automatic,’ said his brother. ‘No chance of it jamming. Sure, it’ll blow that prod fucker’s brains out, I know that much. Make a hell of a fucking bang.’
O’Brien smiled wolfishly. ‘And a hell of a fucking hole in his head,’ he said. He pushed the Celtic mug across the old table. ‘You’d better load it.’
‘Is that all the bullets I get?’
‘If you need any more than that you’re a dead man,’ said O’Brien, flatly. ‘We’ll not be hanging around.’
Gerard Casey broke the pistol open and emptied the half-dozen shiny .38 brass cartridges into his gloved palm.
Trying and failing to hide the shaking of his hands, he slotted them slowly into the cylinder.
‘Where’s the car?’ said Sick Sean.
Martin picked up the phone and dialled a number; it rang once and was immediately answered.
‘Car,’ he said, and put the phone down. He turned to the three. ‘Be out front in five minutes, boys.’
Gerard looked at the pistol in his hands, and then slipped it into his waist band. He stared at the floor, not wanting to look around.
There was a knock on the door and then a voice through the wood: ‘Car’s out front, Marty.’
Gerard brought his head up.
Sean was staring straight into his eyes, and now he smiled.
‘Showtime,’ he said, his grin widening into a leer.
Gerard shivered. He had never until that moment realised just how evil his brother looked.
But there was no going back now.
AT 18:00HRS, THE PARAS had conducted the shift change for the RUC crew, and now they were sitting in Springfield Road police station, drinking yet another round of Tetley teas.
Second lieutenant Guy de Vere reckoned he’d drunk half a dozen cups already that day, and not out of the dainty little Royal Doulton china teacups that his mother liked, but out of big black plastic Army mugs which each held about a pint. It was playing hell with his bladder.
Around him, the men were relaxing in the smoky warmth.
Mick Parry, an unlit B&H fag in one corner of his mouth, was telling one of the older Toms a filthy story about a girl he knew back in Wavertree.
Keogh and Morris were sucking Fox’s Glacier Mints and bickering good-naturedly over who was the better driver.
John Carr had his head buried deep in a dog-eared book.
‘What are you reading?’ said de Vere.
Carr held it up. ‘Chickenhawk,’ he said. ‘Robert Mason.’
‘The Vietnam book?’ said de Vere, unable to keep the note of surprise out of his voice.
Carr looked at him. ‘I might never have went to Eton, boss,’ he said. ‘But they do teach us to read, you know.’
‘I didn’t mean it like that,’ said de Vere. ‘And I didn’t go to Eton myself, either.’
‘Not posh enough?’ said Carr, with a grin. ‘The OC won’t let you in the Mess if he finds out.’
‘You read a lot of military history?’
‘A fair bit, aye.’
Pte Keogh leaned over. ‘Guess his favourite song, boss,’ he said.
‘No idea,’ said de Vere.
‘Dancing Queen,’ said Keogh, with a cackle. ‘By Abba.’
Carr grinned. ‘That’s a fucking good track, right enough,’ he said. ‘But let’s get one thing straight. My favourite song is actually Love Will Tear Us Apart.’
‘Joy Division?’ shouted one of the Toms, from across the room. ‘Bunch of poofs.’
‘Bollocks,’ said Carr. ‘It’s a fucking classic. Ian Curtis, a man gone too early. Brilliant band.’
‘I don’t think I…’ de Vere started to say, but Carr was away, singing the first few lines of the song.
‘Jesus,’ said Scouse. ‘Cover your ears, lads, what the fuck is that? Sounds like a ladyboy in distress.’
‘Get to fuck, Scouse,’ said Carr. ‘You know the birds love my singing. Gagging for it, once I start.’
‘Maybe that fat NAAFI bird up in Whiterock, mate, but no-one else,’ said Parry. ‘Oh yeah, that other fat bird in Palace Barracks.’
‘They all