Undercover Page 3

  "I'm still trying to understand why you would pistol-whip my cousin." O'Neill said. "Do you want to help me out at all?"

  Cormac took a deep breath and sneered. He leaned forward to occupy more of O'Neill's field of vision. "I thought your cousin was going to kill the child."

  "Ach, wise up. He just got smacked about a wee bit."

  "The kid was on the floor and that fat shite was hoofing kicks into his chest. If Mattie's not got broken ribs I'll—"

  "Mattie, is it? Did you make friends with our wee hostage last night?"

  "I barely said two words to him."

  "That right?"

  Cormac sat back in his chair and folded his arms. He nodded.

  O'Neill planted his hands on the table and bent at the waist. He eyeballed Cormac. "Because you seem to be getting on better with the hostages than you are with the rest of the crew. You smart-mouthed Frank last night, tried to kill Paddy—"

  "It'd take more than a bang—"

  "Don't interrupt me."

  Cormac reeled in the urge to argue his case. O'Neill wasn't ready to hear from him yet, even if this was a questioning. Cormac realised he'd be better off shutting the fuck up until the boss man finished ranting. Cops or robbers, it didn't matter. When your superior got in a mood, it was usually best to say as little as you could until it let up a little.

  "You think you're a cut above the rest of us. Don't you? Just because you've a couple of dissident connections you reckon you should be running the show here. I've put you at the bottom for a reason, son." His decibel levels hit a sudden spike. "So why don't you lose the fucking attitude and learn your place here? Or do you want me to knock that smirk of yours off your smug fucking face!"

  O'Neill swiped a string of spittle from his chin with the sleeve of his sweater. His mono-brow had formed an obtuse v-shape during his ball-chewing. He thumbed the little patch of coarse hair that joined his two eyebrows as if they needed manual adjustment to level out again. It seemed to do the trick too. He rolled his head like he was working the strain of a full-on bout of sparring from his bunched shoulders.

  Cormac took this post-fight display as a sign to speak. "Okay. So, I'm sorry, Mr O'Neill. I'll apologise to Paddy as well, if he'll accept it."

  "What makes you think you're going to get the opportunity to apologise to Paddy? Do you not think I should send you packing?"

  "With all due respect, Mr O'Neill, we both know you're not in a position to do that."

  "Am I not?"

  Cormac knew he was juggling chainsaws, but he had to make sure that he saw the job through. The whole investigation would fall to pieces if he got kicked off O'Neill's crew.

  "Those connections you mentioned, Mr O'Neill... my Real IRA friends... I'd have to call in a favour or two with them."

  O'Neill looked Cormac in the eye for a couple of heartbeats. Then he lunged as fast as a cobra strike. Cormac kicked himself away from the table and toppled his chair as he rolled off the back of it. He tried to push himself upright. O'Neill scrambled over the table and landed a push-kick on his sternum. Flipped him onto his back. O'Neill drew his gun. He aimed at Cormac's face.

  "You stupid bastard," O'Neill said. "Threatening me?"

  Cormac puffed hard. He thought he might be able to kick the gun out of O'Neill's hand from his position on the floor. Anger had made the boss a little sloppy. But he held still.

  O'Neill stepped back a few paces. "Get up."

  Cormac got to his feet, slow and steady, never taking his eyes off O'Neill.

  "Maybe I can't get rid of you," O'Neill said. "But I can't let you off with such a lack of respect either."

  O'Neill double-stepped on his diagonal and flanked Cormac. His arm arced in a cross between a hook and a hammer blow. Cormac caught the butt of O'Neill's automatic pistol on the back of his head. The lights went right out.

  ###

  "You were meant to phone hours ago."

  "Wind your neck in, woman. We phone when we phone. Be grateful for it."

  Through her blend of rage, panic and utter confusion, Lydia registered that the voice on the other line was different from the last. She wondered if this was the one who'd been videoed with Mattie and entertained a brief revenge fantasy that was heavy on castration.

  "Just let me talk to my family."

  "Mummy?" It was Mattie but something wasn't right. His voice was higher-pitched and he hadn't called her "Mummy" in years.

  "Oh, sweetheart, are you okay?"

  Mattie snuffled and squeaked. He was having trouble catching his breath.

  "Did they hurt you?"

  "Fat guy... got me."

  "Oh Mattie, sweetheart. Are you okay?"

  "Kicked—"

  Mattie's voice was cut off by a rustling at his end. Lydia figured somebody had snatched the phone by the mouthpiece.

  The gruff mystery voice returned. "That's your lot."

  "Wait. What happened to my son?"

  "The boy's fine."

  "Let me talk to him again. Put him on the phone now!"

  "You don't call the shots, woman."

  "Did you hurt him?"

  "I didn't, no."

  "You bastards!"

  The line went dead. Lydia had aimlessly walked in circles outside the café as she spoke to Mattie and his captor. She found herself at the Merc they'd arrived in. Without thinking, she drove a high-heeled kick into the passenger side fender. The impact rattled upwards from her toes to her hip. She twirled on her left foot as the right flared in agony. Then she leant backwards against the car and laid a hand across her mouth. Her guts burbled a threat and she fought hard to contain it.

  And then Rory was in front of her. "What the fuck's wrong, Lydia?"

  She held up one finger and shook her head as if she'd a mouthful of steak to chew through before she could speak. Rory hopped from foot to foot. Waited for her to respond.

  "I got some bad news," Lydia said. "Nothing for you to worry about. Just a deal gone wrong for another client."

  Rory looked pointedly at the small dent in the Merc's bodywork. "Must have been a hell of a deal."

  "You have no idea."

  He looked her up and down. Lingered on her eyes, which Lydia knew had to be puffed up and set to burst. Then he slipped his hands into his pockets and casually kicked at a loose stone on the badly surfaced footpath.

  "Who was it?" he asked. "Trabucco? I heard a rumour that AC Milan was courting the glory-hunting bastard."

  "I can't tell you."

  "Ach, come on. This is me you're talking to. Do you think I'd leak it to the tabloids or something?"

  Lydia pushed her bum off the side of the car and edged a little closer to Rory. She wanted to fall into him. Feel the comfort of his strong arms around her. Let him whisper in her ear that everything would be all right. Instead she tilted her head and did her best to feign coyness.

  "This is football, Rory. You know the score."

  ###

  Cormac cracked one eyelid. The light in the room, dull as it was, stabbed at his eyes like a demon's pitchfork. A slow throb warmed the back of his skull. He probed the area with tentative fingertips. They came back coated in sticky flakes of blood. He held his breath and examined the area more thoroughly. Pain ripped outwards from the wound. His whole scalp tightened and a muscle in his neck twanged. But he persevered until he could assess the damage. He guessed the cut in his scalp was about an inch long and not as deep as he'd first feared. It had probably bled like a bastard at the time, but it had been stemmed by a coagulated mess in the time he'd been unconscious. He guessed it'd been a few hours since O'Neill's attack.

  With a deep bracing breath he popped open his other eyelid. Didn't get half the pain he expected.

  The room wobbled a little as he righted himself into a sitting position and it took him half a minute to place himself. He registered the kid first, sat cross-legged on the mattress. A pair of big cartoonish eyes locked in on Cormac's. He looked more curious than afraid.

  "He's
awake."

  Mattie had directed this update at his father. John was a blurred image, slightly behind Mattie. The kid's arms were crossed, hands cradling his floating ribs. It looked like an attempt to hug himself.

  Cormac focussed on the father. He stood at the right of the mattress with his back to the rest of the room. His forehead rested against the wall. Shoulders slumped in defeat.

  Big Frank's legs cut across Cormac's field of vision. The steroid-popping ogre stood as tall and broad as a mighty redwood. One swift stomp from his size fourteen Timberlands would end Cormac. Big Frank offered his hand. On acceptance, Cormac was hauled to his feet like a toddler. He held on until a severe spell of dizziness passed. The big palm was coarsened by a neat line of calluses, most likely from a fully loaded weight bar. Cormac broke out of the iron grip when he was confident he would remain upright. His fingers pulsed as the circulation kicked in again.

  "You all right?" Big Frank asked.

  Cormac nodded and instantly regretted it. "I've been better, like. Could use a couple of paracetamol."

  Big Frank's expression was hidden behind his ski mask but his stare was as serious as a heart attack. Eyes set like granite. He clapped a meaty hand on Cormac's shoulder and leaned in a little to mumble in his ear.

  Cormac just about made out the words through a fresh wave of disorientation.

  "For what it's worth, I think you were right when you knocked Paddy out to fuck. The fat cunt has no self-control. God knows what could have happened. But O'Neill's pissed and he's my boss, so if he decides you're to be punished for beating down his cousin, I'll go with it. I'll try to make it as easy on you as I can, though. Just try not to resist when the time comes. It'll be easier."

  "You going for Mother Teresa's old title?"

  Big Frank's lips twitched in an almost-smile. Then he went to the door.

  "He's back in the land of the living." Frank's words rumbled like a bowling ball on its way down the stairs.

  Chairs scraped against tiles in the room below. Cormac guessed the whole crew was going to hold some sort of court to decide what to do with him. It was probably a bad sign that they hadn't replaced his ski mask. They were no longer worried if the family could identify him.

  O'Neill led the pack as they crowded into the bedroom. Cormac filled his lungs with a huge, calming breath. Whatever way it worked out, he intended to go down swinging.

  The Scullions' soft brown eyes had narrowed into jackal-like slits. The pair of them practically panted. Paddy barged past the bloodthirsty brothers to stand by his cousin. Righteous anger puffed his chest. He placed his hands on his wobbly hips and jutted his treble chin. A roll of fat slipped out from under his ski mask.

  "Let's get the air cleared, Cormac," O'Neill said.

  Fucking bastard had used his name in front of the hostages. The sound of it had the same effect as the shuck-shuck of a pumped shotgun. They were hanging him out to dry. The assignment was fucked. And so was he.

  O'Neill rolled his bulldog shoulders. "You shouldn't have hit our man here."

  "If I hadn't, we might have been dealing with a dead hostage right now." From the corner of his eye, Cormac saw Mattie stiffen. "I think the fool got off light with a bump on the head."

  "Funny, he thinks the same about you."

  Cormac's hand hovered above his own head injury. "How about we call it eye for an eye and let it be, eh?"

  Paddy shook his head. "I didn't get the pleasure from it."

  "So what? You going to crack me one now too? Fuck's sake, my skull won't hold up to it."

  "We thought about that," O'Neill said. "So he's going to break a couple of fingers instead."

  Cormac raised his hands. Before he could form any sort of guard the Scullions were on him. They seized a wrist each and pulled him into a Jesus Christ pose. Mattie started to keen. His father wrapped his arm around the kid's neck. Mattie buried his face in his father's chest.

  "Does my son need to see this?"

  O'Neill looked to Mattie and John and sucked air through his teeth. "Get John out of here." He pointed at Big Frank. "Take him into the other room."

  "What about my son?"

  "He started this shit storm. Maybe it'll put some manners on him."

  "Are you fucking—?"

  Big Frank stomped over to John. He grabbed the smaller man by the arm and cranked it up his back. He squeaked like a kicked shih tzu. Mattie scrambled to his knees and tried to grapple with the brute hurting his father. Big Frank shoved the kid away.

  "Dad! Don't go, Dad!"

  The boy's piercing command set the father off on a more frenzied struggle. Then he was on his tiptoes and howling.

  "Enough, enough. You're going to fucking break it."

  "No. Dad!"

  Frank eased off on the pressure just enough for John to settle.

  "I'm okay, son." He hissed through clenched teeth. "I'll come back as soon as I can. Be good."

  Big Frank wrapped an arm around John's throat. He dragged the defeated man out of the room.

  Mattie backed into a corner and squirmed.

  Cormac struggled against the Scullions but they held fast. His shoulders burned with exertion as he spat and cursed and jerked. The brothers mocked him with their own high-pitched F-words.

  "Would somebody panel this fucking wriggler?" Mick asked.

  O'Neill nipped forward and caught Cormac with a textbook uppercut. Cormac's head snapped back and his crown bounced off the wall behind him. The room disappeared in a brilliant white flash. His wound reopened and warm blood coursed down the back of his neck. The floor dropped away from his feet. He started to sink; slow and lazy like a falling feather. The Scullions gave his arms a tug o' war heave. And the floor was back. His knees trembled slightly but his feet stayed under him.

  A little voice at the back of his mind suggested he say a quick decade of the rosary.

  He chased away the fear and tried to focus. Clarity came back with a vengeance. O'Neill had his crazy eyes on. He drew his Glock and pointed it at Cormac's face. The boss's fat trigger finger went white-knuckled with pressure.

  O'Neill stepped forward and pushed the muzzle into Cormac's face. Ground it into the flesh below his cheekbone. Cormac could smell gun oil. It stuck to the back of his throat like smokers' mucus. He breathed the scent deeper. Drew it into his lungs. Imagined it hardening in his core.

  And then O'Neill put his gun away.

  "We'll not kill you yet," he said. "Don't want you stinking up the place. Might be here a while."

  Cormac jutted his chin at the boss. "What are you going to do when word gets back to my friends? You know they'll not be happy about this."

  O'Neill's mighty mono-brow bowed in the middle. "We'll think of something, son. Don't worry. Plenty of ways a lad can get himself killed on a job like this. Maybe I'll tell them John Gallagher did you in during an escape attempt. Just off the top of my head, like."

  Cormac snuffed air through his nose. Composed himself. He subtly tested the Scullions' grip on his arms, just a small shift in pressure here and there to see if they'd dropped their guard even just a little. Solid as shackles. O'Neill motioned Paddy forward.

  "Go on, fat man," Cormac said. "Have your pound of flesh."

  Paddy waddled forward. He stood with his nose inches away from Cormac's. His breath reeked of raw onion.

  "This could have all been avoided, you know," Paddy said. "If you'd just had the sense to stop for a second and ask me what happened... why I had to sort the wee shite out... Ach, why bother? You're a stupid bastard. I'm not even going to justify myself to you."

  Cormac tensed, expecting Paddy to grab a handful of fingers and get to work. But the fat man turned away from him and beckoned the kid off the mattress.

  Mattie stood slowly, his face wrought with trepidation. Then he darted forward. He dummied to Paddy's left. The fat man fell for it and Mattie dashed to the right. He almost made it to the door but in a moment of action that took everybody by surprise, himself included, Pa
ddy kicked out backwards like a surly mule. The kick caught the door and swung it shut. Mattie got sideswiped in the arc and was shunted to the side. He bounced off the stud wall and stumbled backwards. Mick caught up with the moment and left Cormac's side to grab Mattie by the scruff. The kid flailed his arms in all directions, caught Mick by surprise and ran at the door again. But he'd lost his chance. Paddy grabbed him by the waist and dumped him on the mattress. Mattie refused to stay down. He sprang up and threw a low punch. Paddy went back, arse first, and avoided a brutal thump in the balls. Mattie took advantage of a lowered target and caught Paddy's jaw with an efficient right hook. He primed his fist for another swing but Mick had shaken off Mattie's wild attack. He stepped in and kicked the kid's legs out from under him. Mattie crashed to the floor and stayed down.

  Paddy coughed and gulped air, the sudden exertion too much for him. Mick Scullion stood between the fat man and the boy. Dared him to have another go so he'd have an excuse to batter him. Mattie knew he'd been beat but he returned Mick's stare and dared him right back.

  Cormac started to weigh up the situation. There might have been a chance to gain some sort of advantage over the other three while Mattie had pinballed around the room but that frantic moment was lost. He'd been too wrapped up in watching Mattie's sudden charge. But the balance had shifted. Cormac, one arm now free, primed himself for the right moment.

  "You wee fucker." Paddy's breathless voice whined. "Did you not learn your lesson the first time?"

  Mattie paled. He knew what had to be coming next. Cormac couldn't help but admire him. No tears, no begging. Just cool silence and that tough little look of defiance.

  Paddy pushed Mick out of his way. "Keep that prick busy." He pointed at Cormac. "You know what he's like."

  Pete let go of Cormac's arm and stood shoulder to shoulder with his brother. They shifted into loose boxing stances and invited Cormac to have a go with matching perverse smiles. Paddy advanced on the boy, his guard held low to shield his groin. Mattie scrambled to his feet and backed away from the fat man. He held up his small hands, palms out, to ward him off.