Read Games of the Hangman Online
Authors: Victor O'Reilly
"Yes,"
said Fitzduane.
The Bear stood
in the doorway.
"The phone is
dead," he informed them, "and the electricity is out.
We're trying to get the generator going
now."
"There's
a knack," said Fitzduane.
He felt
more than heard a faint throbbing sound as the big diesel cut in.
The lamp on the study desk came on.
"There
are only twelve of us now," said Etan.
"It'll
do," said the Bear.
*
*
*
*
*
Pat Brogan, the sergeant in charge of the security detail at the college,
always looked forward to the departure of the staff minibus.
There was a rotating element in the catering
and cleaning staff that could permit some dangerous person to infiltrate, and
in any case they were just more bodies around to keep an eye on.
After the bus left, he had only the students
and a few known faculty members to consider, and he felt he could relax.
All in all, it was a pretty good assignment, he thought
,
if a trifle boring.
They had comfortable
private rooms — not barracks smelling of sweat and socks like up on the border
— and a study had been set aside where they could lounge in easy chairs,
watching television or making tea or whatever.
The college had thoughtfully provided a fridge for milk, which the
guards kept well stocked with beer, and it was a cold beer he had in mind as he
handed over to the evening shift.
It had been a long, hot, glorious day, and all was well with his world except
that his face was brick red from too much sun.
He had read somewhere that pale Irish skins were especially vulnerable
to the sun:
not enough pigmentation or
something.
Apparently redheads had the
worst time.
To judge by O'Malley's
state, it was all too true.
He snapped the magazine out of his Uzi submachine gun as he entered the
rest room and put the weapon in the arms locker.
He kept the .38 Smith & Wesson revolver
he wore in a Canadian-made pivot shoulder holster.
Orders were to be armed at all times, even
when off duty, and wearing a handgun was now as
routine
to him as wearing a shirt.
The television was on, and the chairs were in their accustomed positions
facing it.
He knew he'd find the three
other off-duty guards already comfortably dug in.
He hoped they hadn't made too much of a dent
in the beer.
The hot day had encouraged
the stock to shrink as the hours passed.
He took a can of beer from the fridge, noting subconsciously that some
kind soul seemed to have replenished the drink supply.
The unit was practically full.
Normally he would have popped the can immediately and taken a long
swallow before going to his chair, which was situated, as befitted his
seniority, in the center of the row directly facing the screen.
But this time an item on the television
caught his attention.
Unopened can in
hand, he went to his chair.
The smell of beer and some other odor was strong as he approached the row
of seats.
Some sod has puked, he
thought, suddenly annoyed at this breakdown of self-control and
discipline.
People should be able to
draw the line between making
life
comfortable and
being downright careless.
He looked to
see which stupid fucker was responsible, and froze.
All three guards were sprawled in unnatural positions in their chairs, their
faces twisted and distorted in a record of their last agonizing moments.
Vomit stained their clothes.
The beer can in O'Malley's hand had been
twisted into an almost unrecognizable shape in the last few seconds of horror
before death won out.
Gripped by fear, Brogan stumbled backward, knocking the television set to
the ground in a cascade of sparks and broken glass.
A figure with the head of an animal stood in
the doorway.
Brogan's thoughts went to
rumors he had heard when he first came on the job.
"Students playing games," he had
been told.
"Keep an eye on them,
but don't make too much of it."
Holy Mother of God, he thought, some games!
"Aren't you curious?" whispered the figure in the doorway.
"Professionally curious, I mean.
Don't you want to know what killed
them?"
The figure moved forward into the room, holding a knife in one hand.
Brogan reached for his revolver, but a second
figure stood in the doorway with an Ingram submachine gun in his hands.
A burst of fire smashed into the wall beside
him.
The gun made little noise.
He could see the bulky silencer fitted to the
otherwise compact weapon.
His revolver
had only just cleared the holster.
He
dropped it onto the floor and slowly raised his hands.
He realized that he had never truly believed
there was any threat to the college — nor, it seemed, to judge by the tone of
the briefing, had his superiors.
Terrorist attacks were a media event, something for the television news.
They didn't happen to real people.
The figure with the knife spoke again.
It had moved around to Brogan's right.
It was close.
"We used cyanide.
Not
terribly original, but you must admit it works, and it's quick, though I'm
afraid you can't say it's painless.
Injecting the cyanide into unopened beer cans
took
some practice" — there was amusement in the voice — "but I think
you'll agree we mastered the art."
Brogan tried to speak, but his mouth was dry.
The figure laughed.
"Afraid, aren't you?
Afraid of a bunch of kids.
That's how you thought of us, wasn't it?
Very shortsighted.
The average age of our band is nineteen:
old enough to vote, to join the army, to kill
for our country.
Old
enough to kill for ourselves.
You
really should have taken us more seriously.
You did find out about us, didn't you?
We read your briefing files.
Your
security was atrocious.
You thought only
of an external threat and even then did not take that seriously."
"Why didn't you shoot me?"
"You've no imagination," said the figure.
It thrust the knife under Brogan's rib cage
into the thoracic cavity and watched him drown in his own blood.
Another figure appeared in the doorway.
"We got both of them."
"Any noise?" said the figure with the knife.
He was pleased that it had all gone so
smoothly.
They had killed six armed men
without a shot being fired against them.
The remaining faculty and students had assembled for daily review.
The entire college would be theirs in a few
minutes.
Kadar and his force would
arrive to find the job already done.
He'd be pleased.
He rewarded success
on the same scale that he punished failure.
And if Dick had done well at the castle on the other
end of the island...
"None," said the newcomer.
"They both drank the tea we brought them."
"Five out of six with cyanide," said the figure with the knife.
"Who called it right?"
He was referring to the pool they had
organized among themselves.
There were
ten Irish pounds riding on the result.
"I did," said the figure with the Ingram.
Brogan's death throes provided a background to their conversation.
His head and torso rose from the ground, and
blood gushed from his mouth as he died.
The body collapsed.
"Let's take them," said the one with the knife.
He removed Brogan's locker key and opened up
the arms locker.
He loaded an Uzi and
put spare clips in his pockets.
*
*
*
*
*
Fitzduane's Castle — 1746 hours
Fitzduane — no sexist by most standards — had always had the strongest
objections to women being put on the firing line.
Seeing dead women in a dozen wars, often
leaving orphaned children sometimes still being suckled, had hardened these
views.
In this case, however, more than
a third of his little force was female, and that element was not prepared to be
placed in a cellar out of danger.
He also
had to admit that like it or not, he
need
the extra
manpower:
the word personpower stuck in
his throat.
He compromised on the basis of training and experience.
He wasn't entirely happy with the
result.
Katia Maurer was no
problem.
As a nurse she had a clear
role, and a medical facility was established in one of the empty storerooms in
the tunnel complex.
The Bear was visibly
relieved.
Oona was the logical person to
take charge of the meals.
She
know
the castle and the location of all the supplies.
She got organized in the kitchens off the
great hall.
The Israeli girl, Judith Newman, shot so competently in the target
practice they had arranged in the main tunnel (wearing earplugs against the
deafening noise), and it was so clear that she wanted a combat role — and had
the experience to back it up — that he assigned her along with Murrough, de
Guevain, Andreas von Graffenlaub, and Henssen to go with him to Draker.
That left Etan, inexperienced but determined to fight if she had to.
The only consoling fact was that under the
Bear's expert eye, she had begun to shoot well.
Despite the need for combatants, Fitzduane had tried to dissuade her
from active involvement.
He had pulled
her away from the others and had closed the door of his study, and for a few
intense minutes he had argued with her.
She had waited until he finished, put her arms around his neck, and
kissed him gently.
Then she had looked
into his eyes.
"This isn't the
she had said.
"I'm not
Anne-Marie.
It's going to be all
right."
Fitzduane had started at the mention of his dead wife's name, and then
his arms had tightened around her and he had hugged her to him and held her
until called away.
Apart from Tommy Keane, who had relieved Murrough on the fighting
platform, the entire party had assembled in the bawn.
Everyone's clothes reeked of burned
propellant and gun oil from target practice in the tunnel — Fitzduane wanted
the existence of their weapons to remain a surprise — and everyone, including
Katia Maurer and Oona, he noticed, was armed.
He had made them all look at Dick Noble's body.
He could see from their expressions that the
reality of their predicament was beginning to sink home.
"I don't like splitting our group," said Fitzduane, "but
our phones are down and our long-distance radio has been destroyed, and we've
got to try to do something about those kids.
Several of us here have already had experience of the opposition we're
up against, and they are not the kind of people you negotiate with.
They don't bluff; they kill.
If we don't get to the students before they
do, there will be no good ending.
"Draker is too big and sprawling; it's indefensible.
My intention now is to head over there and
bring the kids and the few faculty members back to the castle, and then hole up
until help comes.
We can hold out here
for an adequate time — that's what a castle is all about — and it's a plan I've
already discussed with Colonel Kilmara of the Rangers.
"I don't know what the Hangman's plan is, but I would guess his
objective is a mass kidnap for money.
Intelligence reports indicate that he has trained a force of seventy or
so, and I'd venture that most of them are going to land from that cattle boat
at the headland.
Some may have come
overland as well, I don't know.
And
there may be a plane involved in this thing.
The point is that we are going to be pitted against a superior force
with superior training and firepower.
That means we don't fuck around.
I want no heroics or thoughts about the Geneva Convention.
This isn't war.
It’s a fight for survival.
We kill or we get killed — and no prisoners
unless I order it.
We can't afford the
manpower to guard them.