Fireproof (32 page)

"Like you said earlier, I've grown attached to this body. I don't want to lose it."

"And of course, you don't want to lose Cathy." Satan smiled. There was nothing pleasant about it.

"Of course. What else, Master?"

"Hire someone else to kill Shane Kelly. Your emotions are getting in the way of your revenge campaign and you're not showing sufficient restraint or care."

"Forgive me for arguing, but I don't think that will satisfy my need for revenge."

"I can't see why not. He put a hit on you, so you put a hit on him. It's poetic justice. It's also got a forbidden fruit quality to it, and to be honest, I'm getting a kick out of the power trip."

"Can I think about this?"

"No! Obey me, you little worm!"

The sudden blast from Lucifer's mouth sent Mike head over heels. The chair he sat in flipped back and he woke up in the bed beside Cathy. The sun shone through a gap in the curtains and Mike could feel its warmth on his skin. It was Sunday, but Mike would not rest.

Cathy stirred beside him, sensing the change in his body position as he looked about the apartment bedroom.

"I'll have a bacon sandwich and a cup of tea when you're ready," she said.

"Just give me a second, baby." His voice didn't sound right to his own ears.

Cathy sat up.

"Are you all right, sweetheart?" She put her hand to his face as he turned to her. "You're sweating."

"I'm fine. I thought I was in Hell, but I'm not."

"You don't sound fine. Lie down. I'll put the kettle on."

Mike smiled at her and watched her leave. Her hips swayed subtly, tantalising without even trying. A sex goddess wearing the faded black T-shirt he'd lent her for pyjamas.

He let his head flop onto the pillow. He replayed the dream in his head. Every detail was perfectly preserved. Unlike an ordinary dream, this one would not fade from his memory by the time he stepped out of the shower.

Staying alive he could deal with. He knew where he stood with mortality. But what could he do about Shane Kelly? If he could bring himself to hire an assassin, he would need to do it as soon as. Now that he knew where to find him, he would be a constant temptation. In a situation like this, Mike's temper was almost a sword of Damocles. Fury could strike at any second. Shane Kelly would have to die today. Then Mike could concentrate on keeping his nose clean.

"Penny for your thoughts." Cathy stood at the door with a glass of cold water in her hand. He could hear the labours of the boiling kettle in the kitchen. Water and tea; weapons in the fight against hangovers.

"I need a hitman."

"For who?"

"Shane Kelly."

Cathy's brow furrowed. "I thought you'd want to do the honours yourself."

Mike shared what he'd been told in the dream. She took it as gospel and not just a paranoid nightmare.

"That's a sticky situation. You could still make it a little bit personal though."

"What do you mean?"

"Don't pay a stranger. I'll do the hit. Who's closer to you at the minute than me? If I do this, at least it will mean something. We both get something out of it."

"Cathy, I don't…"

"Wait. Just think about it for a second. Don't dismiss this in some misguided but sweet attempt to protect me. I can see why you had a problem with me killing the taxi driver, but this guy is far from innocent. I'll get the contract killer thing out of my system, you won't get in trouble with the big man below and we can get on with our lives."

"And what happens if you find out that you quite like killing. What then?"

"Sounds like the kind of bridge you cross when you get to it to me. Look, the kettle's just clicked. Think about it while I wet the tea."

Could he do it? Could he let Cathy kill Shane Kelly? She made it sound completely reasonable. And to be honest, Mike liked the idea of his lover doing the deed. It was the death of a loved one that started the whole bloody saga, and now a loved one could bring it to a definite end. That
was
poetic justice.

What about the danger? Cathy would have to sneak into a gypsy camp and sneak back out again, undetected. Was that even possible? How much would a safe passage cost? Kelly would have paid a lot for the Gypsies' protection. How much would it cost to break that deal? It probably wasn't a path worth pursuing. If Mike couldn't give the Travellers what they wanted, they'd alert Kelly that he was in danger. Could they draw Kelly out? Unlikely. He'd smell a rat no matter how subtle the bait. Fuck. It would be a covert and dangerous mission. He wanted Cathy to do it, but he didn't want her to get hurt.

Then inspiration hit him like a sock full of damp sand. It was glaringly obvious. Sniper rifle. Apartments were shooting up on all sides of the campsite in a new race to overpopulate the area. One of the top floor apartments would offer the perfect angle for one of the most notorious weapons in the North of Ireland. A Barrett M82A1 would do the trick. And he knew where he could get one. The IRA had decommissioned, but Mike knew one or two men who loved the guns they'd smuggled into this county more than their children. They were the men who would risk the wrath of their Provo superiors should it ever be discovered they were still holding a gun. They would also, as a result, keep their stupid mouths shut should that gun be stolen from their attic while they were at mass on a Sunday. Mike grabbed his mobile.

A quick conversation with Jim, in which he supplied two addresses and some possible hiding places, lifted Mike's spirits. He skipped into the kitchen and was welcomed by the smell of frying bacon.

"Who were you talking to on the phone?" Cathy asked.

"Jim."

"You didn't ask him to do the hit, did you?"

Cathy's expression gave nothing away, but Mike noticed the whiteness of her knuckles as her grip tightened on the spatula in her right hand. He decided not to tease her.

"No, I just asked him to get me something."

"So don't keep me in suspense, you big bastard. What have you decided?"

"I want you to do the hit, but I have a plan in mind, and I'd like you to follow it."

Cathy brandished the spatula in a celebratory slash that whipped cooking oil onto the wall behind Mike and the linoleum. She didn't notice and he didn't mention it, her expression too cute to worry about such a small thing. She danced with joy at the prospect of killing an old man in a gypsy camp. How could he not love this woman?

"So what's your plan?" Cathy asked after her brief victory jig.

Mike explained how he hoped to get his hands on a .50 calibre sniper rifle and told her about the new apartment buildings surrounding the camp.

"Won't I need to do a bit of target practice first?"

"Aye, but there'll be plenty of time for that. At that range, with a gun like that, you'll be able to shoot the fingers off his hands in no time. The telescopic sighting will do most of the work. Wind shouldn't be a factor. These guns are designed to be accurate at eighteen-hundred metres. You'll be about five-hundred metres away. Wee buns."

"Shoot the fingers off his hand? Sounds good to me. Maybe we could still have a bit of fun with this guy. His death needn't be instant."

"I like that."

"So will you be standing beside me?"

"Actually, I might be better off watching this from another vantage point. I can use binoculars and make sure you can make a clean getaway."

"Good thinking. Will we be able to do this tonight?"

"If we get a gun, yes."

"One more thing."

"What's that?"

"What does Shane Kelly look like?"

Mike laughed. "We might need to get on that Google thing again. You'll see his mug at almost every republican funeral ever televised."

***

Jim phoned within the hour with good news. One of his friends had located an M82A1 and a shitload of ammo for it. Cathy thought this a good omen. They were on a roll. Mike arranged for Jim to drop the rifle at his apartment in a couple of hours.

Armed with a pair of binoculars, Cathy and Mike took a black taxi to one of the apartment complexes close to the Gypsy camp. They were delighted to discover one of the most recent buildings was in the last stages of its construction and completely vacant. The doors were not locked as there was nothing to steal in the building, but the stairs had been completed. They climbed five floors to the top of the building and found a window overlooking the camp. They couldn't have asked for a better view.

Mike scanned the caravans and motor homes for a glimpse of Kelly. He huffed air in disgust. "Fuck's sake. Who does he think he is, Don Corleone?"

"Have you found him?" Cathy asked.

Mike passed the binoculars to her. "See if you can spot him."

Cathy looked out the window. Incognito was not a term Shane Kelly seemed to be familiar with. Cathy's eyes were immediately drawn to a huge modern effort of a caravan. At least thirty feet long, it had PVC windows and wooden decking. A tricolour flag flew from a flag pole on each corner of the static caravan. Shane Kelly sat on a patio chair on the decking in a cream designer suit. He might as well have painted a huge red and blue target on his chest. Arrogant bastard.

Cathy lowered the binoculars and shook her head. "This seems too easy."

"Murder is surprisingly easy."

Cathy nodded. "Well, never look a gift horse in the mouth, eh?"

***

When they got back to Mike's apartment building, Jim waited outside in a car. He got out as they approached.

"You're early, Jim."

"Yeah, I got nervous sitting about at home with your piece of equipment. Thought it would be better to wait in something with wheels. Oh, and I'm leaving you the car. It's not stolen, but watch for the cops anyway. I haven't gotten around to taxing it."

"Good man, Jim. Come on up."

Jim opened the boot and hauled out a long wooden box. "Probably not a good idea to leave this in the car. Someone might nick it."

Mike relieved him of the burden. The lift was still out of order, and they clumped up the stairs in grim silence.

"Where's Cadbury?" Jim asked as they sat down in the living room.

"I haven't seen him all day," Mike said. "I'll just go check on him."

Mike rapped the door lightly and it swung open. Cadbury sat in the lotus position on top of his neatly made bed, head nodded and eyes closed. His chest expanded and contracted in slow, steady breaths. Mike closed the door gently and left him to his meditation.

"Cadbury's just relaxing," Mike said.

"Good," Cathy said. "About time he had a day off."

Jim stayed for a cup of tea and then announced he was going to visit his aunt at the convent. She'd heard a rumour that the bishop was showing support to a new developing religion. Jim thought it was about time he told her about his role in the True Church of Satanism. Mike wished him luck, and thanked him for his help.

"No problem, Mike. You can always count on me," Jim said before he left.

"You must be so proud of the effect all this craziness has had on that boy," Cathy said.

"Yeah, I suppose I am. It's funny what kind of environment some folks thrive in."

"So, are you going to open the box?"

"Hell, yeah."

Wrapped in an oilcloth, the gun was in four pieces. Mike assembled it easily, enjoying the thick scent of gun oil as he worked. It seemed well maintained, as far as Mike could tell. He engaged and disengaged the bolt a few times and was pleased that it had been thoroughly lubricated. He explained how it worked to Cathy, pointing out that the clip held ten rounds and that the bolt needed to be cocked after each round was fired. He warned her about the recoil and explained that, with the aid of the 10x telescopic lens, she would be able to shoot a hole in a ten pence coin without much difficulty.

Cathy took the gun from Mike and familiarised herself with the bolt action and the trigger pressure. Her face was set and serious as she stroked the fluted barrel as part of the exercise. She looked like a natural.

"I like this gun, Mike."

"I can tell."

"We need to go somewhere to fire off a few rounds. I don't want to be shocked by the recoil."

***

Breathe, breathe, squeeze, but don't jerk. Breathe, breathe, squeeze, but don't jerk.
The mantra played on a loop in Cathy's head. She squeezed the trigger. The gunstock slammed into her shoulder. It didn't hurt this time. She watched the wooden sign prohibiting hunting disintegrate into a puff of splinters through the telescopic sight. A murder of crows burst from the tree the sign used to hang from.

"Ah, sweet symbolism," she whispered.

The long grass tickled her cheeks as a strong gust of wind blew across the field. Her hands throbbed. Or maybe it was the gun, emanating lethal power.

"Nice shot," Mike said. He removed his binoculars and looked down at Cathy. "You want to fire off a few more, or do you think you're a natural? That field's a mile away if it's an inch."