Hybrid Page 5

  Ward swung himself out of bed again and crossed to the window.

  The silver-grey light inside the office had gone. There was only darkness.

  He must, he told himself, have been dreaming.

  Ward headed towards the stairs.

  RAGE

  On days when Ward couldn't think straight he was filled with conflicting emotions. There was the ever-present feeling of desolation. Of wasted time.

  And there was the anger. The fury that came from sitting staring into empty air or at a blank screen without finding the will or the strength to write.

  For those who didn't make their living in his business, it was difficult to explain how difficult it was.

  From the outside, Ward realised how easy it must appear. Work from home. Sit behind a keyboard all day. Work when you wanted to. All the attendant bullshit that any self-employed person had to endure.

  But this was different. Creativity couldn't be forced.

  Self-employed bricklayers could make themselves work. Plumbers could force themselves to fix leaky taps. Decorators could will themselves to complete one more wall.

  It was not so with writing.

  No matter how hard Ward tried to make himself think, no matter how many times he shouted at himself in frustration, if the words wouldn't come then that was it.

  On the wall in front of his desk there was a quote

  from Nietzsche: WILL A SELF AND THOU SHALT BECOME A SELF.

  Nietzsche, he reminded himself, died insane. The clock was showing 10.49 a.m. when he began to write.

  Doyle jabbed the call button on the lift and muttered irritably to himself when nothing happened. He turned and headed for the stairs taking them two at a time to begin with. When he reached the second landing he slowed his pace, sucking in breath more raggedly.

  He paused and lit up a cigarette before negotiating the next two flights.

  The counter terrorist emerged on to the fourth-floor landing, walked to the parapet and gazed down into the streetThe dustcart was still in position at one end, the men moving back and forth, emptying rubbish into the back of it. To his left, Dalton Road

  was still open.

  He drew slowly on the cigarette as he watched a car pull up on the opposite side of the road. A man in his twenties got out and headed towards a house.

  Doyle wondered, for fleeting seconds, if Shonagh Finan had given him a false address.

  Only one way to find out

  He sucked on the cigarette once more then dropped it and strode towards the door of number 44.

  He slowed his pace as he drew nearer, allowing his

  right hand to brush the butt of the Beretta inside his jacket.

  There was another pistol strapped to his ankle in a small holster. The Smith and Wesson .38 Bodyguard held five rounds in its cylinder and was only slightly bigger than the palm of Doyle's hand. Hammerless, it was perfect for concealment and the counter terrorist had personally cut crosses in the tips of each bullet, ensuring they exploded on impact.

  The third pistol he carried was in another holster beneath his right arm. A .50 calibre Desert Eagle. An automatic weapon capable of spewing out rounds at a speed in excess of 2,500 feet per second.

  Tools of the trade.

  Doyle looked at the doors as he walked past them.

  Number 40. Boarded up.

  Number 41. The window in the front door was cracked.

  Number 42. There was a kid's battered tricycle outside.

  He slowed his pace even more.

  Number 43. As he reached the green painted door, it opened.

  The man who emerged was in his early thirties. He glanced at Doyle then turned his attention back to the occupant of the flat.

  The woman was roughly the same age. Auburn hair. Jeans. White T-shirt. She was barefoot.

  She looked at Doyle then at the other man who rushed away.

  'You've frightened him off now.' The woman smiled. 'He might not come back.'

  'Sorry about that,' Doyle said, switching to his impeccable Irish accent with ease.

  She began to close the door.

  'Have you got a minute?' he wanted to know.

  The woman eyed him warily, her smile fading.

  'Maybe. What do you want?'

  'I want to know when you last saw your neighbour,' he said, nodding in the direction of number 44.

  'Why should I tell you? Who are you anyway?'

  I'm a friend of his. He owes me money. I think he's been trying to avoid me. If you know what I mean.'

  'i haven't seen anyone go in or out of there for a couple of days.'

  'Have you been here all the time?'

  'More or less. I work from home.' She lowered her gaze momentarily.

  'And the guy that just left was the first job of the day, right?' grinned Doyle.

  She looked at him and the smile returned. She nodded.

  'I think my friend's due back this morning but I don't want to miss him,' Doyle lied. 'He never answers his phone either.'

  The counter terrorist held the woman's gaze with his piercing grey eyes, a slight smile touching his lips. 'It's a raw morning to be waiting about,' he said quietly, rubbing his hands together.

  'Do you want to come in?'

  'How much is it going to cost me?'

  'That depends.'

  Doyle grinned and stepped inside.

  Matthew Finan saw the dustcart blocking Dalton Road and sighed irritably. He banged his hooter but the driver could only shrug.

  Finan realised he'd have to either wait for the vehicle to move or drive around the block and come in from the other direction.

  He stuck the Renault in reverse, swung it into the next street and guided it around the rear of the flats. As he drove, he reached for his mobile phone and worked his way through the call index until he found the number he wanted.

  It was answered on the second ring.

  'Declan, it's me,' he said. 'I'll be there in about five minutes. How long will you be?'

  'About a half an hour,' Declan Leary told him.

  'See you then.'

  Finan ended the call and parked the car.

  The flat smelt of cheap perfume. The scent grew stronger as Doyle stepped into the small sitting room. There was a low coffee table in the centre with a large ashtray and four plastic coasters. Guests obviously didn't bother with them because there were several circular marks on the surface of the scratched wood.

  The single window was above a radiator shelf which sported several small ornaments, one of which, a ballerina, had an arm missing. Through the window, Doyle could see straight out on to the parapet. The walls were thin, and no one could pass the flat without him hearing.

  As long as someone passed, of course.

  He sat down on the mustard-coloured sofa, smoothed one hand over a cigarette burn in its arm and looked at his host.

  'So, what do you want to do?' she asked, brushing her auburn hair behind her ears and moving towards Doyle.

  'What did the last guy do?' he asked.

  The usual.'

  'Which was?'

  'Same thing he always does when he comes here. Empties his balls into a Durex while he's inside me. What do you think he does? What do you think they all do?'

  'What's your name?'

  'Whatever you want it to be.'

  'I'm serious.'

  'So am I. You're paying, I'll be whoever you like.'

  Doyle looked around, his gaze alighting on some photos on a sideboard to his right. One of them showed the auburn-haired woman and an older couple.

  'Your parents?' he wondered.

  She nodded.

  'They must be very proud.'

  'They're both dead,' she snapped.

  'Mine too. Seems like we've got something in common.'

  'Listen, if you're interested in spending some money then fair enough. If not, there are other guys who are.'

  Doyle pulled out his wallet and pressed two twenties on to the coffee table.

&nb
sp; 'What'll that buy me?' he wanted to know.

  'Whatever you want,' she smiled.

  'Tell me your name.'

  'Karen,' she said, reaching for the twenties.

  Doyle shot out a hand and caught her wrist, pulling her towards him.

  'Just leave them there for now,' he said. 'I just want to talk.'

  'Oh, that's your thing, is it?' she purred, resting one hand on his thigh. 'Okay, shall I tell you how I want your cock inside me?'

  Doyle shook his head.'I'm paying for your time, not your fanny,' he said flatly.

  She sat back, withdrawing her hand.

  'Who the fuck are you?' she snapped. 'If you're a fucking copper, this—'

  'I'm not a copper. I'm just a poor cold soul paying for your time, keeping a roof over my head while I wait for a friend. That's it. If you don't want the money then fine.'

  He reached forward to snatch up the notes.

  'No,' she blurted. 'All right, if you want to talk we'll talk.'

  Doyle settled back on the sofa.

  His gaze moved occasionally in the direction of the window.

  Matthew Finan paused as he reached the staircase and pulled the mobile phone from his pocket. He found the number and as he began to climb pressed call.

  The ring tone buzzed in his ear as he made his way up the first flight of steps.

  Still ringing.

  He wondered if his sister was still out shopping. But he'd spoken to her the previous day and told her he'd pop in and see her towards lunchtime.

  He reached the second flight and continued his climb, sucking in deep breaths every so often.

  Still no answer.

  He wondered if she was okay. He'd always looked out for her ever since they were kids. That was what older brothers were supposed to do for their little sisters his parents had told him. It was a credo he'd always lived by.

  He and Shonagh were close. Even when they'd been growing up together, there had been little of the sibling rivalry that normally blights brother-sister relationships.

  Perhaps, over the years, he'd been a little over-protective (using a length of lead piping on a man he'd

  suspected of getting her pregnant when she was nineteen may have been a touch excessive) but, what the hell, he loved her and he wasn't about to see any harm come to her.

  He knew that one of her neighbours had a key to her house. He could always call her. Get her to check on Shonagh. If he could just remember the bloody number.

  He began to climb the third flight of stairs.

  Doyle held the mug of tea in both hands and looked again at the window.

  'How long are you going to be?'

  Karen Mercer's voice seemed to echo inside the small flat.

  The counter terrorist heard but didn't look at her.

  'What would you be doing if I wasn't here?' he asked.

  'Earning money.'

  Doyle pulled another twenty from his wallet and slapped it down on the coffee table.

  She regarded the cash for a moment then sat back in her chair.

  'You're not waiting for any friend, are you?' Karen murmured.

  'I told you, he owes me money.'

  Doyle sipped at his tea. He heard footsteps on the parapet. Heard them stop outside the flat next door. Heard a key turn in the lock.

  About fucking time.

  'Put another sugar in there, will you, Karen?'

  He handed her the mug then got to his feet, reaching in his jacket pocket for his mobile.

  As she padded off to the kitchen, Doyle pressed the number he wanted.

  'Give me Robinson,' he snapped before the voice at the other end even finished speaking. 'It's Doyle.'

  Karen stood watching him from the living-room door.

  'Someone's just gone inside the flat on Dalton Road

  ,' said Doyle. 'Are the rest of your men in position?'

  Robinson said that they were.

  'I want to wait until both of them are inside,' Doyle continued. 'If we take one of them out we'll lose the other. Wait for my signal.'

  'You're a fucking copper,' Karen said. 1 knew it.'

  Doyle finished the call and turned to face her.

  'I'm a guy who's given you sixty quid to keep your fucking mouth shut. I suggest you do it. I'll be out of here soon and you can get back to work. For the time being just sit down.'

  She held his gaze for a moment then stepped forward into the living room and did as he instructed.

  Shonagh Finan gritted her teeth and finally eased her left hand free of the nylon string. It had cut deeply into the flesh of her wrist and she gazed angrily at the red welts that had risen there.

  She had no idea how long she'd been straining against the tightly fastened bonds. There was perspiration on her face from her struggles and both her hands felt numb.

  She undid the string around her other wrist then freed her ankles.

  As she got to her feet, she swayed uncertainly for

  a second or two, then headed towards the kitchen door and the stairs beyond.

  Reaching the landing she saw her handbag lying on the bed. The mobile was in view.

  Shonagh snatched it up and began dialling.

  Doyle wandered across to the window of Karen Mercer's flat and peered out on to the parapet. He looked at the flat next door then at his watch.

  The counter terrorist didn't want to move without Leary being present too but how long was Finan going to stay put?

  Come on, think.

  Karen sat watching him.

  Take one of them or possibly risk losing both.

  Doyle jammed a cigarette between his lips.

  Shit or bust?

  Footsteps outside.

  Doyle stepped back from the window but kept his gaze firmly fixed on the man who had walked past.

  About twenty-six. Five-ten. Light-brown hair, cut short.

  Declan Leary?

  Time to find out.

  He reached for his mobile, and turned to face Karen.

  'When I walk out of here, you stay put, got it?' he snapped.

  She nodded. 'What about the money?'

  'Keep it.'

  'Doyle,' said a voice at the other end of the phone.

  'Robinson. I think Leary's just arrived. Get your men to seal off both ends of the street.'

  'I've got snipers in position too. You can leave it to us now.'

  'Not a chance. I found these fuckers. I'm bringing them in.'

  'I'll send men—'

  'You send nothing. Just be ready to grab them if they get past me.'

  'We need them alive, Doyle.'

  'I'll do my best.'

  He dropped the mobile back into his pocket then headed for the door of the flat.

  Thanks for the tea and shelter,' he said.

  She raised one middle finger in his direction.

  'Remember what I said?' he told her.'You keep your fucking head down, right?' He slid a hand inside his jacket and pulled the Beretta from its holster. 'Otherwise you're likely to get it blown off.' He eased open the door. 'See you around.' And he stepped outside. Doyle heard her shout something as he went but he wasn't sure what it was.

  Who cared anyway?

  No one else was on the walkway.

  He glanced across to the buildings opposite wondering if, even now, RUC snipers were drawing beads on him.

  When you shoot, just make sure you shoot the right fucking person.

  The dustcart was still at one end of Dalton Road

  . At the other end there was a large white Transit and a Land Rover.

  Doyle peered down at the activity below for a second longer then turned his attention back to the door of flat number 44.

  He had the Beretta held down low beside his leg as he edged forward.

  How many times in your life have you been in this position?

  Wondering if the men on the other side of that door know you're here. Are they standing there now with weapons waiting for you?

  There was no re
ason why they should be, Doyle reasoned. As far as they were aware, no one knew their whereabouts, least of all the RUC and the Counter Terrorist Unit.

  Doyle took a step closer.

  The choices now were fairly simple. Kick the door down and go in blasting. Wait for them to come out and hope they wanted to give up instead of fight.

  Your choice.

  Something glinted across the street. Sunshine on glass. The rays of the sun on a scope? If Doyle had seen it, perhaps Leary or Finan had too.

  No reason to be expecting it.

  He was less than a foot from the door now, pressed tight to the brickwork. The snipers would be watching him, relaying his progress to Robinson by two-way.

  Go in blasting?

  He knew there was no back door and if Finan and Leary were going to get away, they'd have to come straight through him.

  He raised the butt of the automatic and prepared to bang on the door.

  As he did he heard the high-pitched burr of a mobile phone from inside the flat. There was a moment of silence then some muted voices.

  Doyle raised his hand again to hammer with the gun. He was about to strike when part of the door exploded outwards.

  It was a shotgun. No mistaking the thunderous roar. Doyle had heard the sound enough times.

  He stepped away from the door and pressed himself up against the wall, turning his face slightly as lumps of wood and metal erupted into the air, propelled by the force of two massive impacts. Several shotgun pellets rolled across the walkway and the counter terrorist smelled the all-too-familiar stink of cordite.

  He worked the slide on the Beretta, chambering a round, his heart thudding more quickly against his ribs, adrenalin pulsing through his veins like heroin through a junkie.

  What was fear to some men was close to exhilaration for Doyle.

  He looked around. No cover on the walkway. If the fuckers came out shooting, it'd be messy.

  Further down the walkway a door opened.

  'Stay inside,' Doyle roared and the door slammed quickly.

  There was another massive roar as the shotgun was discharged again. Another piece of the door was obliterated, tiny cinders and splinters spiralling into the air.

  For one ridiculous moment he thought about telling

  them to put down their weapons and come out.

  Yeah, right.

  What else had they got in there with them? More guns? Explosive?

  Come on, think.