Once A Pilgrim: a breathtaking, pulse-pounding SAS thriller. James Deegan
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boot, and a match.
Then pile into McKill’s.
Get the weapons back to Martin and Brian.
Strip.
Hand over their clothes for burning.
Dress.
Then off to The Volunteer, and a nice cold Guinness, and then…
Outside, it was sleeting and Baltic cold, but inside the vehicle heating was turned down low.
If the car misted up a little, so much the better.
Sick Sean driving slowly, not wanting to attract any undue attention, just another guy going about his business.
A big, fuck-off grin on his face.
Occasionally looking at Gerard.
Who was the first to speak.
‘Christ,’ he said. ‘Christ!’
‘Fucking outstanding,’ said Ciaran O’Brien, from the back seat. ‘Fucking brilliant!’
‘I told you the wee man would be fine,’ said Sean, over his shoulder. ‘It’s in the blood. He’s a stone-cold killer. Did you see the way the big sack of shite went down?’
‘I did,’ said Ciaran, from the back. ‘A good operation, Gerard. Well done. Proud of you, son. No hesitation. Straight in there. UP THE RA!’
He shouted the last, and punched the seat in glee as the car turned left into the Falls, moving with the ebb and flow of the traffic.
‘He was the same age as me, near enough,’ said Gerard, half to himself.
‘He had it coming,’ said O’Brien. He clapped Sean on the shoulder, and hooted in delight. ‘Billy Jones’ fucking son! What a fucking result!’
‘Yeah, his old man’s going to go fucking bananas when he finds out,’ said Sean.
‘He’ll…’ said Ciaran.
Then, suddenly alert: ‘What’s that? Is that a siren?’
It was. In the distance.
Sirens, plural.
‘Ach, it’s miles away,’ said Sean, after a moment.
But it was a timely reminder to them all.
Keep focused.
Don’t relax.
They were still in play, and any number of people in this miserable, benighted city would kill them on sight, if they got the chance.
The UDA. The UVF. The UDR. The RUC.
Even INLA, if the mood took them.
And of course the fucking SAS, or ‘the men in cars’ from the Det, 14th Int Coy, who were often mistaken by their targets for the boys from Hereford.
They were fiendishly good at what they did.
Sure, them bastards could be behind them right now.
Or ahead.
Or both.
Just waiting for a radio message to take down three men in a red Sierra.
Sean glanced nervously in his mirror.
‘Keep your eyes on the road, Sean,’ said Ciaran O’Brien from the back seat. ‘You look out for checkpoints, let me worry about who’s following us.’
Gerard Casey now slumped in his seat.
All that nervous energy gone.
The car drew level with Leeson Street.
The traffic was slow.
Must be the lights at Springfield Road Falls junction.
That’s all it is.
We’ll be on our way in a jiffy.
But fate was not on their side.
Unbeknown to them, Margaret Thatcher had landed at Aldergrove forty-five minutes earlier, and the security services were on high alert: twice the normal number of regular Army, twice the RUC presence, not to mention spooks, undercover SF and various others.
And just then the red Sierra rolled to a stop behind a bus – right under a fucking streetlamp, of all things.
SICK SEAN CASEY looked out of his window and met the eyes of a man behind the wheel of a car stuck in traffic on the opposite side of the road.
Six feet away.
No, four.
Lit up by the same streetlamp, and the lights from the car behind the IRA team.
Big guy, probably six-two, moustache. Scruffy bastard.
Sean Casey habitually noted faces; he had a good memory for them which had helped keep him alive, until now.
He didn’t know this guy.
But there was something about him – for all that his gaze was casual – and Casey sensed it straight away.
And he felt his guts lurch.
‘Your man there…’ he said softly, almost to himself.
Moustache’s shirt and pully and jacket looked like an Oxfam scarecrow’s hand-me-downs, and his hair was collar-length and unkempt.
But it was all too carefully done – too studied.
It looked like an act, and it didn’t hide his bearing, which was fit, and strong, and confident.
Military.
Sick Sean would never know it, but he was spot on.
The man was a lance-jack in 3 Para Close Observation Platoon, dressed in civvies and driving an admin vehicle from a resupply visit to his mates at Springfield Road RUC, where they were pulling extra hours for the visit of the Iron Lady.
Bastard fate had brought Sick Sean and the man with the moustache together, separated only by a few millimetres of glass and a white line.
Moustache’s passenger and vehicle commander were idly looking out of their own windows in the opposite direction from the stolen vehicle, visually covering their arcs while stopped, oblivious for now as to who was on their right.
But Moustache was suddenly wide awake, eyes narrowed, trying to place the face, flicking into the rear of the Sierra.
That guy looks familiar. Who the…?
Sick Sean could almost see his cogs turning, his mind’s eye flicking through mugshots and briefings.
Then he saw it click into place.
Sean Casey.
Sick Sean Casey.
At that point, Moustache should have yawned and broken his stare – he’d had it hammered into him enough times by the SAS instructors at Hythe and Lydd – but even the best of men can fall victim to the shock of the moment.
Instead, he turned to the vehicle commander.
‘That’s that cunt Sean Casey, opposite,’ he said, under his breath. ‘And it might be Ciaran O’Brien in the back.’
The commander snapped his head around and locked eyes with O’Brien.
‘We’re made,’ said Sean, a flustered edge to his voice. ‘The fucking SAS!’
The soldier said something to his passenger, and reached down.
That was enough for O’Brien. A split second later, he brought up his AK47 and opened fire from the back seat.
The