The Killer II Read online

  ‘Yep, how do you take it?’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Regular, large, hot, on ice, black, cream, sugar, what?’

  ‘You don’t just bring me a mug of coffee and a sugar bowl?’

  ‘If that’s what you want, you only have to ask,’ Tony said sullenly and walked off.

  ‘Jesus Fuckin’ Christ, what is it with all these questions?’ Liam mused. ‘Thank fuck I didn’t ask for tea.’

  A few moments later a mug of black coffee and a plastic cup containing sugar and a teaspoon were plopped down in front of him. ‘It doesn’t come with milk?’ said Liam in surprise.

  ‘You didn’t ask for milk,’ Tony huffed. ‘You want milk? I’ll get you fucking milk.’

  ‘Jesus Christ,’ thought Liam.

  ‘Jesus Christ,’ thought Tony.

  Just as the order was finally sorted the door opened and a gang of tough looking, leather clad men walked in and headed straight to a booth at the back of the room. They cast a glance at Liam as they passed, but ignored him as he studiously concentrated on pouring milk into his coffee. These were a different breed from last night’s leather brigade. There was no stitching on their jackets and the jukebox held no interest for them. They looked as if they meant business and Liam was thankful he didn’t need a piss. He wouldn’t have fancied taking them on in the gents and he watched as Tony scurried over to take their order.

  ‘Hey Paddy, how you doin’ today man?’

  The voice over his shoulder startled him and he turned to see four smiling Druids. He was thankful for the distraction. ‘Come in yer Thundercar have you boys?’ he asked.

  ‘Thunderbird,’ Tommy corrected him.

  ‘Aye, that’d be the feller, a Thunderbird.’

  The boys looked at each other. ‘You know, for someone who’s supposed to speak English, I don’t understand half what this guy says,’ Mono whispered to his friends as they perched themselves on bar stools.

  ‘That’s maybe as well with the Westies in,’ Link suggested.

  ‘Westies?’ Liam picked up the hushed word. ‘That the other gang then?’

  ‘Yeah man, and keep your voice down,’ Bobby said in a whisper. ‘This is their turf and their bar. They’re all there, but I don’t see Mickey Featherstone. Maybe he’s out collecting, or dumping another poor motherfucker in the East River. But Jimmy C’s there all right. That guy with the hat, he’s the boss. This crew are fucking hardcore, man. They say that they work with the Mafia. Nobody around here fucks with them. Nobody.’

  ‘Not even that McKee guy you were talking to last night,’ Tommy interjected. ‘Fuck, Paddy, what do you want with a guy like him? He’s bad news.’ He didn’t wait for an answer, instead, changing the subject in a loud voice, he added. ‘So, what’re you doin’ tonight man?’ he asked.

  ‘Got to see a man about a dog.’ Liam was saved the necessity of explaining that to four confused faces as “bad news McKee” entered right on time and walked straight over to him.

  ‘Hop it, lads,’ he said to the Druids, who immediately complied. ‘You ready Paddy?’

  ‘Aye, that I am Mr. McKee.’

  ‘Come on then,’ he instructed and headed straight back to the door.

  Liam followed, leaving his coffee unfinished on the bar. He had a feeling that would piss Tony off.

  Outside the bar a long, black limo, complete with tinted windows, idled at the curb. ‘Get in,’ ordered McKee. Liam did as he was told. McKee followed and took the seat opposite as the car accelerated smoothly away.

  ‘We going somewhere?’ asked Liam

  ‘You wanted private, and this is how I do private,’ McKee informed him as he pressed a button to raise a dark glass shield between them and the chauffeur, who was now left with no rear view and must have been pretty good with his wing mirrors. ‘We’ll just drive round a little bit. Now, what’s the problem? Make it quick, I don’t have much time.’

  You don’t know how true that is mate, Liam considered before commencing with his recently conceived plan and praying that it would work. ‘The problem,’ he began, ‘is that a quarter of the last shipment you sent was junk. One out of four of the weapons were scrap. All the boys could do was use ‘em for fuckin’ parts.’

  ‘They were not scrap; they were all good. None of them were junk,’ snapped McKee.

  ‘Well, if that’s the case, why the fuck did Belfast send me all the way over here to check the condition of the next shipment?’

  ‘I’ve no idea.’

  ‘Look Mr. McKee, the boys in Belfast don’t want to risk blowing A&R transport by getting caught collecting scrap metal. And they don’t want to raise any eyes in the port either. Dublin’s a safe entry for the cause right now. Collecting good arms is worth the risk. Collecting scrap iron isn’t, simple as that.’

  McKee stared at the Irishman. He didn’t like what he was hearing, but at least he was hearing things that only an inside man could know. He’d passed the whiskey test and, last night, a contact had confirmed that some of the boys were over there. ‘When did the last shipment arrive in Dublin?’ he quizzed a little further.

  ‘First week of January I think. It was collected a couple of days after it landed, why do you ask?’

  ‘Oh nothing,’ smiled McKee, relaxing as this information further confirmed the man’s identity. ‘OK, wait a minute, I’ll set up a meet with the suppliers for you,’ he told Liam as he reached over to his car phone. The call was short and ended quickly. ‘Two hours’ time, outside the bar, someone will collect you. You can check everything in the next shipment for yourself before we take delivery of it.’

  ‘Fine, I’ll be there.’

  McKee spoke to the driver on the car’s intercom and the limo made a smooth U-turn and returned to the bar to drop Liam off. ‘Tell Tony to call me when you’ve checked the stock and are happy with it - I’ll pick you up again,’ McKee informed him before the car drove silently away, leaving Liam standing alone outside the Sunbrite.

  It looked like his plan might just work, but now he had two more hours to kill. He didn’t want any alcohol to fuddle his brain, not even the witch piss, and he doubted Tony would take kindly to another coffee request. He remembered his thought from earlier in the day about how friendly the Americans seemed to be. There had to be an exception to every rule, he decided, and Tony was it. So he headed off in search of some food and was back outside the bar two hours later when a distant sound transported him back through the years to his late teens and the Belfast gang he had once been a part of. The sound, like rolling thunder, grew until it arrived directly in front of him and he stared at the weird custom motorcycle and the leather and denim clad man astride the seat.

  It had the unmistakable shape and sound of a classic British 360° 650cc Triumph engine and the twin Amal carburettors, which were greedily sucking air through their open bell-mouths, told him the model too. It was the engine from the world famous Triumph Bonneville, but the rest of the bike looked unlike any Triumph he’d seen before. The engine was familiar, but almost everything else had been radically modified. It seemed to him that every ounce of excess weight had been cut away and removed, every single component not essential to basic function had gone. The bike had been chopped down so far that it looked incredibly fast, very mean, and virtually naked.

  ‘You the Irishman?’ the rider asked, breaking into his thoughts.

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘Animal,’ called out the rider. ‘Get on.’

  Either this guy was called Animal or he had just been insulted. He decided to assume the former and hopped on the back of the bike. He was immediately presented with a helmet and the instruction to ‘Pull the goggles down and don’t lift ‘em or take ‘em off at any time or you are a fucking dead man.’

  Doing as he was told Liam donned the helmet, securely fastening it under his chin. Then as he slid the black tinted goggles over his eyes he found he was instantly blinded. The lenses weren’t tinted, they had been painted black and he could see absolutely no
thing. He didn’t enjoy the sensation, but knew there was nothing he could do about it. The vibrations swiftly increased as the exhaust rose to a vicious growl then, like a rocket, the rider accelerated away.

  In no time the bike, now in high gear, was cruising effortlessly along the silky smooth highway. Liam soon began hearing the sound of more and more motorcycles as they joined him to form a small convoy. In total darkness he listened to the roar of several engines as his gut-wrenching feeling of claustrophobia returned. He consoled himself with the thought that this might be the lesser of two evils. For a while back in the Sunbrite he had wondered if he might have to deal with the Westies, and he really didn’t fancy that. Since they were riding away from the bar that now seemed unlikely. It was the one spot of light in his darkness.

  They seemed to have been riding for a long time as he noticed the road surface steadily begin to deteriorate. He could feel the gradual change from smooth tarmac to unmade road as the bike turned left and continued its journey down a long, twisting, bumpy lane. They slowed and then the engine stopped. ‘You can take off the helmet and goggles now,’ he was informed and he did so to find himself surrounded by around twenty large, powerful motorcycles. The mixture of Triumphs, Harleys and Nortons were all different colours and styles, but each one had the same, impossibly high, handlebars. Their riders were dressed in a similar fashion too. To a man they wore jeans, heavy boots and denim jackets with the sleeves torn off over thick, black leathers. On the back of the denim cut offs the words Satan’s Soldiers were embroidered along the shoulders and New Jersey stitched along the bottom. It was an intimidating sight and Liam knew he faced an unfriendly bunch who’d kill at the drop of a hat. If they caught him in his lie, well that’s something he’d rather not think about. ‘Front it out Liam,’ he told himself. ‘If they sense any fear whatsoever you’re a fucking dead man.’

  One of the riders, a large longhaired, mean and muscular man with arms and hands covered in tattoos, strolled casually over and held out his hand. ‘Chopper,’ he announced, ‘and you are Paddy I believe?’

  Liam shook the proffered hand and nodded his head, all the time taking in the details around him. He noted the patches on Chopper’s cut off - President, New Jersey, 1% and Filthy Few. This man was a top dog, the leader of an outlaw biker club and he had killed for that club too.

  ‘McKee tells me you had a problem with the last order,’ said Chopper in an unconcerned tone.

  ‘Not me mate, but the boys back in Belfast did. Some of ‘em were fucked.’

  ‘Look Paddy, you gotta understand one thing. We buy in good faith, and we sell in good faith. The club can’t be taking responsibility for the odd reject. So there’ll be no returns - you got that?’

  Liam stared back at the huge biker. ‘And you’ve got to understand we are fighting a fucking war. Any weapon that doesn’t shoot right results in one of our boys dying, not a fuckin’ black mark in a fuckin’ financial ledger. Have you fuckin’ got that?’ he snarled back at the biker, pushing his chin aggressively into his bearded face.

  ‘OK, OK relax man,’ Chopper said. ‘I’m just saying, there’ll be no refunds, that’s all.’

  ‘The boys neither want nor expect any fuckin’ refunds. They want guns that fire fuckin’ bullets, that’s all.’

  ‘Look, chill out man, take it easy,’ said Chopper, smiling uneasily as the rest of the gang looked on. ‘Follow me. You can check every one in this load for yourself.’ He pointed towards an old barn where one of the gang members was unlocking a large padlock securing a thick, heavy chain to the doors. He looked at Chopper for final approval and then pulled the doors wide open. The group of men walked into the barn and Liam watched as three of them dragged a greasy old tarp from a pile of wooden boxes.

  ‘Help yourself,’ Chopper told him as the other bikers began removing the crates, placing them down individually in neat rows and levering the tops from the heavy wooden boxes.

  Liam took his time and carefully checked the contents of each crate in turn. The revolvers, automatic pistols, assault rifles and a couple of pump action shotguns he found there were all in perfect condition, every single one of them. They were exactly as he assumed the last shipment had been. Glancing up, he looked into the expectant face of Chopper. ‘All these are fine. You just make sure that every shipment is of the same quality or you can expect another visit. If the boys get any more surprises it won’t be a chat you’ll be having,’ he whispered.

  ‘Lock it up,’ the big man ordered and they walked back to the waiting motorcycles. Chopper took hold of Liam’s arm, pulling him close. ‘Hey Paddy, threaten me in front of my brothers again and you’re a fucking dead man,’ he snarled.

  ‘I’m not threatening - I’m fucking promising,’ Liam told him. ‘I may well be a dead ‘un, but there’s plenty more men who’ll be willing to take my place. You just make sure they’re all good in future, every single one of them. Then there’ll be no need for any threats, or any shootings, or any fucking bombings. Have you got that mate?’

  The biker scowled as he spat in the dust, but nodded his agreement. ‘Animal’ll take you back,’ he snapped.

  Well, at least that answered that question. Animal was a name. Liam watched as Chopper mounted his bike, kick-started it and rode away spraying dust and pebbles behind him. The other bikers followed.

  ‘Get on, and use the goggles,’ snapped Animal and a few seconds later Liam was again in darkness as the powerful motorcycle spun its rear wheel furiously and they left the barn in a cloud of dust, heading back towards the open road.

  The return journey didn’t seem to take all that long and Liam was soon deposited back on the curb outside the Sunbrite. ‘Helmet,’ demanded Animal. Liam passed it to him and then, without another word, he was gone, the sound of thunder decreasing to nothingness.

  7

  The Killing Ground

  Liam was thirsty. It had been a dusty ride and the ‘Ice Cold Beer’ sign on the bar door was tempting. ‘Jesus, a beer would go down well just about now,’ he thought as he licked his parched lips, but he had more important things to do. ‘Right now man, you need to think, not drink.’ He bypassed the bar and took the short, brisk walk back to the privacy of his hotel room. He needed to be alone somewhere quiet, somewhere he could think, somewhere he could plan.

  Once inside the room he made a coffee and sat and thought. He had the extra intelligence Turner had requested, so now it was time to take McKee out – but where? ‘I don’t think I’ll ever find that fucker by himself. If he’s smart, and he doesn’t seem to be a stupid man, he’ll always have at least one other guy with him. How do I get at him alone? His home? No, there has to be security in the house, and possibly a wife too. The NORAID offices? No, that place will be crawling with security men, and they’d have guns. Way too fuckin’ dangerous. You need to kill him, not yourself.’ He was getting nowhere fast. He closed his eyes tightly and lay flat on the bed, his hands pressed to his temples. ‘The car? Hmm, how about the car?’

  It was the obvious choice – the only choice. ‘This is how I do private,’ he recalled McKee saying. He had the chauffeur, but he also had that thick glass partition. ‘Still, a gun would be too loud. It’s got to be up close and it’s got to be The Killer.’ A grin spread across his face at the thought. This was when he was happiest. All this stupid espionage stuff Turner had him doing wasn’t his thing - but his knife, his trusty knife! ‘Ah yes,’ he sighed and decided he could now have that drink. It was 9pm, so he took a quick shower and headed out. Just two hours later he was back in his bed trying to sleep and preparing himself for the meeting he had arranged for the following afternoon.

  The weather had changed and Liam shivered, the light New York drizzle chilling him as he patiently waited outside the bar. Finally the long, black limo came cruising down the street in his direction, decelerating gently until it came gliding to a halt in front of him. A black, tinted window slid down a few inches, then closed again as the rear door swung slowly open. He cl
imbed in and took the seat opposite the American, looking directly into McKee’s face. As the car pulled away from the curb and into the main flow of traffic McKee leaned forward and pressed a button. The glass screen slid up and the men had privacy in the back.

  ‘So, how’d your meeting go with The Soldiers? Everybody happy now?’ McKee asked.

  ‘Aye, it seems so,’ replied Liam. ‘We’ll put the problem down to a one-time thing.’

  ‘So, what else can I do for you?’

  ‘You’re Irish American, right?’ quizzed Liam.

  ‘Yeah, my folks came over here more than a hundred years ago, but I’ve supported the cause ever since I left high school. I do everything I can to help get the Brits out of the old country.’

  ‘So, how do you feel about the Troubles and all the killings,’ Liam asked him.

  ‘Fuck ‘em. Anyone killed by the I.R.A. deserves everything they get. The more kills they make, the better as far as I’m concerned,’ he smiled back.

  ‘So, you don’t get into the politics of it then?’

  ‘Fuck politics. There are plenty who hide behind that, but to me it’s simple. You need to get the Brits out and you need funds and arms to do it. I supply both.’

  ‘You’ll be unpopular in some circles then,’ Liam suggested.

  ‘Look, where are you going with this?’ asked McKee, a small trace of doubt creeping into his voice. ‘Sure there are some people who wouldn’t mind if I just went away, but not you guys, eh? I’m good with you guys, right?’

  ‘No one will mind,’ thought Liam, remembering Turner’s words, but he kept that to himself. Instead he fixed the American with an icy glare and dropped his voice to a whisper. ‘Mary Jeanette McCann.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Mary McCann. She was killed in Belfast.’