The Godson (47 page)

He was about to say something else when Logan cut him off. ‘Who the fockin' hell is it in that house?' he said. ‘Fockin' Rambo?'

From behind their balaclavas the others exchanged looks of disbelief. Liam spat out another oath as the Irish in him really started to boil now.

‘Fockin' Rambo,' he swore. ‘I'll give him fockin' Rambo.' Liam pushed another rocket into the RPG-7 and shouldered it again. ‘Where did those last shots come from?'

‘The other end of the house,' said Logan.

‘Right, then. Give me some more covering fire. Let's see how fockin' Rambo likes another one of these.'

N
ORTON WAS STARTING
to get a bit concerned now. That bomb, or whatever it was, and the hole in the wall where the window used to be had taken away any slight advantage he might have had. If they fired enough bullets through that hole they were bound to hit him sooner or later: if they didn't, the ricochets would. Les pondered his situation for a moment.
I wonder if I can get a better shot at them from the window? He picked up the bag of ammo and crawled through the debris to the kitchen. He was about to stand up and take a quick look when another intense volley of machine gunfire raked the side of the house. Shit! thought Les, rolling up in a ball and covering his ears. I think I know what that means.

There was another violent explosion and a sheet of purple flame as the windows around the study area were blown apart. Debris and shrapnel splattered around the dining room and kitchen pinging off the walls and ceiling as it rained down on Norton's back. There was silence for a second, then another fusillade of bullets slammed into the study end of the house; some came through the hole, thumping into the cedar walls around Peregrine's bedroom.

Les took his hands from his ears and shook his head. Well, at least he'd been ready for that one. He peered through the smoke which was now thick inside the house. There was debris and small pieces of smouldering wood laying around, but the house wasn't on fire and the walls had held firm once more. He took a deep breath, jumped up and fired two quick bursts through the kitchen window at the Irish.

‘Saints preserve us! I don't believe it,' said Liam. He fell back down as the first burst of bullets chopped pieces out of the gatepost just above his head. ‘Those bastards must have nine lives.'

Another quick burst made them all keep their heads down.

‘He's bloody well got something,' agreed Tom Mooney.

Liam let go a string of oaths. ‘Okay,' he said grimly. ‘I've got one shell left. I'm going to go to the rear of the house and blow a hole in the back wall. Logan, you come with me. But stay at the left end of the house in case he comes to that hole up there. Robert and Brendan, you stay here and keep firing at those two holes. Patrick, you and Tom go over by that car and watch those steps by the driveway. Whoever it is in there, he can't guard three holes at once and I'm tipping he'll make a break for it, either to the car or out the back. One of us has to get him.' Liam's eyes were blazing beneath his balaclava as he looked at his men. ‘You got that, then?' There was a brief nodding of heads. ‘Then let's go.'

Norton just had time to see the four Irishmen running for either end of the house when a hail of bullets raked both windows. He fired a burst at whoever was running towards the driveway. The gun emptied out after four shots.

‘Shit!' cursed Les.

The Irish were at either side of the house now. He wasn't sure how many, but it looked like two at both ends and there were definitely two guns firing at him from the gateposts. He shone the torch in the bag and reloaded. Christ! He'd fired off more rounds than he thought. He'd be flat out having a hundred bullets left. And now he was almost surrounded. But. the sides of the house were still sound, the only way they could still get to him was through the holes in the front. Unless they… Oh shit!!

‘Right,' said Liam, when they made it to the house. ‘You stay here and put a couple of bursts through that window above. I'm going round the back. I'm thinking this last shell should do it.'

‘Okay,' nodded Logan. He waited till Liam was at the rear of the house, then let go half a clip at the study window.

Crouched down behind the station wagon, Patrick and Tom were tempted to open up on the windows above too; they could hear and almost see Les firing out the front. But they waited as Liam instructed.

Liam ran to the opposite side of the barbecue area. After a quick look around he tipped the table over and, keeping it between himself and the house, loaded the remaining shell into the RPG-7. Smiling grimly beneath his balaclava he rested the muzzle on the upturned table and took aim at the windows behind the back verandah. Okay, Rambo or Norton or whatever the devil your name is — try this for size.

Norton ducked down as more bullets hit the house from the gateposts. He was about to return their fire when the burst from Logan smacked into the study window and tore up into the ceiling. As he recoiled from that Les was certain he got a glimpse of movement down in the driveway.

Shit! They're closing in on me now. Norton didn't know what to do. He wasn't panicking, but the sweat was now starting to drip from his brow and his lips were dry. This little gun's fairly accurate. Maybe I can get whoever's under the study. Les had just got to his feet when the back windows disintegrated in another ear-splitting explosion and again the house lit up in a blinding sheet of orange and purple flame. The beams and logs supporting the interior of the house took most of the shrapnel and broken glass, but Les wasn't ready for this one and took almost the full force of the blast. It lifted him off his feet and slammed him backwards into the kitchen. He cannoned off the sink and landed on the floor facing the hole where the rear windows had been, his back against the sink
cupboards. Pieces of broken glass had torn through his track-suit, some other smaller pieces had cut his face. Nothing was broken, but he was concussed and badly winded almost paralysed. It felt as if several people had thumped him on the chest and stomach with baseball bats. The Robinson was on the floor in front of him. Les tried to reach for it but found he couldn't move. All the strength had been temporarily knocked out of him. He fought to get his breath back as he blinked through the thick acrid smoke and prayed that no one would come at him from the back stairs. But it didn't look good. Norton had run out of time. He was almost gone now.

The last thing Les was expecting to see was the house and the surrounding area suddenly light up in a brilliant, purplish white glow almost as bright as day. The glow was accompanied by an eerie whistling sound. Norton lolled his head back and looked up through the smashed-in kitchen window. Floating down from the night sky was a flare suspended by a tiny parachute. What the… ? Then came the sound of more machine gunfire. But this was a different sound from the long, hammering rattles he'd been hearing all night. This was more of a harsh, quick bark coming from over by the stables. And it was coming in definite, short, controlled bursts.

T
HE PURPLE FLARE
fluttering down was the last thing Logan Colbain ever saw in his life. He just had time to tilt his face to the sky when a burst of bullets ripped through his body. Four blew apart his chest; two hit him in the throat, almost taking his head off. The bullpup went one way, Logan went another to land like a broken doll, his life's blood oozing out along the concrete path.

Patrick and Tom Mooney also spun around at the flare's light. They barely had time to exchange looks of worried surprise when several short bursts of machine gunfire almost tore them to pieces as it raked through them and into the station wagon. They spun crazily along the side of the car leaving a sticky, bloody smear against the white paint before falling in two lifeless, blood-soaked heaps near the front wheels.

Crouched behind the gateposts Robert and Brendan could make out the darkened figures in the flare's glow, firing from near the stables. They managed to get a couple of quick bursts away in that direction before three machine guns opened up on them. A hail of bullets tore up the driveway and smacked into the gateposts. There were two screams of pain, then silence.

Still holding the RPG-7 Liam looked up at the flare coming down and couldn't believe how everything could go so bloody wrong. Around him he could hear the sudden bursts of machine gunfire and the screams of his men as they fell. He dropped the rocket launcher and picked up his bullpup. It was obvious someone had arrived; who or what he didn't know, but the game was now up. The only thing left was to try and make a run for it. Liam Frayne's wild Irish eyes narrowed. Not a fockin' chance. He'd come all this way to get the British bastard that had murdered his brothers, and by God he would. Even if it was the last thing he ever did on this earth. He gritted his teeth and slowly, carefully, climbed the stairs at the rear of the house.

Norton's head cleared and he could slowly feel his wind coming back. He knew from the screams and noise outside that help had arrived and it appeared he was safe. He gave a silent prayer and reached for the top of the sink to try to stand up when he saw the figure in a balaclava and black leather jacket appear in the shattered doorway with a sub-machine gun in his hands. The figure spotted him, looked at him for a moment then raised the machine gun to his shoulder to make sure he couldn't miss. Les raised his arms in front of him in a vain effort to shield himself. So near and yet so far. He stared at the whites of the two eyes behind the balaclava and Les Norton prepared to die.

There was a quick burst of machine gunfire. Les braced himself for the bullet's impact. Instead of being torn to bits he saw the gunman's chest rip open and heard him scream as he dropped the machine gun and reached for the beam above him. Another shorter burst spun him around. A final one took his legs from under him and he tumbled head first down the back stairs.

Norton gasped in disbelief for a moment. He couldn't possibly explain the feeling going through him. He had been a second away from death. Now he was alive. Battered, shaken and bruised, but definitely alive. The flare flickered out as he climbed to his feet. He lurched to the doorway and held onto one shattered side for support. It was eerily quiet now after the hammering of the machine guns and the roar of exploding rockets. The dead Irishman was sprawled at the foot of the stairs. Standing next to him, holding a funny looking little machine gun with a drum magazine, was a short figure in khakis and a black woollen type of beanie with his face black
ened. The short figure nudged the dead Irishman with his foot then looked up at Norton.

‘You all right, Les?' he called out.

Norton mumbled a reply, nodded and gave a brief wave.

‘You can come down now, Les,' said the figure. ‘The area's secure.'

Norton blinked and shook his head. He couldn't make out the blackened face. He thought he recognised the voice. But it was impossible. Slowly Les came down the stairs.

‘How you feeling, Les? You all right?' asked the figure in the beanie when Norton reached the bottom.

Les had to blink again at the tight, blackened face. ‘Ronnie?'

‘Yeah,' replied the little caretaker. ‘You okay are you? Where's Peregrine?'

Peregrine. Shit! In all the noise and confusion Les had forgotten all about him. ‘He's in the front bedroom.'

Madden ran up the stairs leaving Les staring at what was left of Liam Frayne. He'd taken almost ten bullets. His chest was blown apart and half his face was missing. Laying there seeping blood, the dead Irishman was a dreadful sight.

Ronnie came back down the stairs scratching his head. ‘I don't believe it,' he said. ‘He's sound afuckin'sleep!'

‘That figures,' replied Les. Then despite himself, Norton started to laugh. ‘Ohh yeah, that figures. That fuckin' figures all right.'

‘Christ,' exclaimed Ronnie. ‘If he could sleep through that, he could sleep through anything.'

‘I'll tell you about it after. Right now I just want to sit down for a minute.'

Norton couldn't believe how buggered he was. It wasn't so much tiredness; he was drained. His body ached and his head was still ringing from the explosions. He was also completely confused. And on top of that he'd been no more than a split second from death. The sight of Liam Frayne's mangled body didn't help much either. It was by no means the best Sunday Les Norton had ever spent in his life. He picked up the overturned table and found a chair. The barbecue lights were still working; he switched them on and sat down.

‘You've got a bit of blood on your face,' said Ronnie. ‘You sure you feel all right?'

Les nodded. ‘Yeah. I'm a bit bruised, that's all. And my head's still ringing a bit.'

Ronnie picked up the RPG-7 and dropped it on the table.
‘Why wouldn't it be? You copped three of these. We heard the explosions coming over the hill.'

Norton looked at the rocket launcher. ‘I've seen them on TV. On the news.'

‘Yeah. They're Russian design. They're bloody deadly. You're lucky to be alive.' Madden gave a bit of a chuckle. ‘Or lucky old Daniel J. put plenty of reinforcement in the house.'

Norton didn't quite know what to say to that. ‘How do you fit into all this, Ronnie? You were about the last bloke I was expecting.'

The little caretaker's chuckle turned into one of his wheezy laughs. ‘Yeah, I figured that. I'll explain it all to you in a minute.'

Les looked up at the sound of footsteps coming from the driveway. Another two ‘soldiers' appeared. One was tall and skinny. The other wasn't much taller than Ronnie, only more solidly built. Like Ronnie, they too were wearing fatigues, sneakers and black beanies. And like Ronnie, their faces were blackened and they carried the same odd little sub-machine guns.

‘What's the situation?' asked Ronnie.

‘There's two dead noggies in the driveway,' said the tall one. ‘And another by the corner of the house.'