"Now you fellas must do a radio check or a shift change or something."
"Radio check every hour, shift change every two hours."
Killian nodded. "Go on," he said.
"Go on what?"
"When"s the next radio check? When"s the next shift change?"
"What time is it now?"
Killian didn"t have a watch but there was a clock above the microwave.
"Two-twenty if that clock"s right," Killian said.
"It"s not right, check my watch," Viv told him.
Killian rolled down some of the duct tape and found that it was actually two thirty-one.
He took the watch off and slipped it on his own wrist.
"Two thirty-one," he said.
"You better move fast if you"re going to burgle the house," Viv said. "Ginge is supposed to come and relieve me at three and then I go over and swap with Bobby."
Killian nodded grimly. Did he really think that this was all about a burglary? A man would take on the three ex-SAS types just to steal some pictures or antiques or whatever? Well, maybe if they were really valuable, which they probably were.
"Do you talk on the radio before you do the shift change?"
"Well..."
"Well, what?"
"We talk on the radio all the time. All night."
s.h.i.t. That was a f.u.c.king fly in the ointment.
"Viv, that causes me some difficulty doesn"t it?"
"How so, mate?"
"Well, if they give you a buzz on the radio and you don"t answer they"re going get all Red Alert on me, aren"t they? Red alert, this is not a drill, call the f.u.c.king peelers."
"I suppose they would," Viv admitted.
"Where is this walkie-talkie of yours?" Killian asked, looking around the surfaces and not seeing anything.
"I may have left it in the toilet," Viv said.
Killian went to the toilet and the radio was indeed there sitting on the spare toilet rolls next to a copy of Viz. He picked it up and carried it back.
"When Ginger calls, you"ll just act natural, you won"t try and f.u.c.k me will you?"
"No way," Viv said.
"Cos whatever else happens you"ll be for the memorial wall at Hereford," Killian said.
"I know. Don"t worry."
Killian sat down in what turned out to be a comfortable, leather swivel chair.
"Who else is in the house?"
"Mr C, Helena, Mrs Lavery, Paul," Viv said.
"Who the f.u.c.k"s Paul?"
"Butler type. Must be seventy if he"s a day. He"s in the right front bedroom on the ground floor."
Killian looked at the chart. Right front bedroom. Check.
"Mrs Lavery?"
"She"s all the way at the back of the house in the other bedroom."
"And how old is she?"
"I don"t know. Fifty-five?"
"Okay."
"She might have her niece staying with her. Sometimes she does. It"ll be on the visitor"s chart in Bobby"s room, but I haven"t checked it."
"Niece. Christ. How old is she?"
"Eleven, I think."
So that was another maybe seven people to deal with.
The radio crackled. "Joke for you," a man with a London accent said.
Killian held the radio up to Viv"s mouth and pushed the Talk b.u.t.ton.
"Go on then," Viv said.
"Don the Brummie lorry driver"s been on the road for thirty years, always local. He gets into work one morning to find that he has to drive to London for the first time with a big load of timber. He sets off down the M1 and after a bit he"s on the Edgware Road."
"I"ve heard it before, a million times," Viv said to Killian.
"Let him tell it," Killian said and pushed Talk again.
"Go on," said Viv.
"He"s in the Big Smoke, traffic, tall buildings, people. He pulls over at a bus stop, winds the window down and shouts across the road to some bint waiting for the number 17: "Oi love, is this London?" he asks. "Yeah," she says. "Well, where do you want this wood then?" he asks."
Killian looked at Viv. "Laugh and tell him that"s a good one," Killian said. He pushed the Talk b.u.t.ton and Viv laughed and said, "Oh mate, that"s a good one, ya c.o.c.kney b.a.s.t.a.r.d, ya."
Laughter. Laughter right outside the lodge door.
Killian checked the watch. It was only 2.40. Ginger was twenty minutes early.
But he was laughing and completely at ease.
Killian looked at Viv, put his finger to his lips, held the MP5 in his right hand and put his left hand on the door handle.
The door opened outwards. Ginger would see it opening, but he would be expecting Viv so he wouldn"t be in a weapon-ready stance and it- As Killian turned the handle Viv suddenly yelled: "Ginger, look out! There"s a f.u.c.king c.u.n.t in here with a gun!"
Killian kicked the door open and forward-rolled out of the lodge into the Belfast night. A drizzle of automatic fire and Killian kept rolling until he reached a mature palm tree that must have been here long before Coulter.
Every single second would be precious now.
If they called 999 immediately the nearest peelers would be coming from Carrickfergus, Killian"s own manor, and Killian knew those boys well - yeah, they were slow and a bit thick but they wouldn"t take half an hour. Maybe not twenty minutes.
Killian stepped from behind the tree, gave himself a covering burst and ran for the house - not the obvious escape route of the front gate. He reached the portico before Ginger fired back at him.
He dived for the marble steps and Ginger"s MP5 9 millimetre bullets carved holy h.e.l.l out of the front door, a line of splinters making its way at a thirty-degree angle up the wall. He was firing the MP5 on full auto and Killian waited for the silence. When it came he stood up and took aim. Killian saw Ginger switching clips with remarkable speed and proficiency.
It wouldn"t save him.
Killian squeezed one well-aimed single round into Ginger"s chest, topping the poor b.a.s.t.a.r.d immediately.
Killian had no time for remorse.
He shoulder-charged the front door and burst into the hall.
Pistol fire from the side room.
Killian hit the deck. Crawled behind a pillar.
Pistol fire.
Killian took a quick look: a hand connected to a wrist from behind a door. No person standing there exposing himself, just the pistol and maybe a mirror on a piece of stick.
No. 3 was being cautious.
"The cops are on their way!" No. 3 shouted. He was called Bobby or something, right?
"Bobby, I don"t want to kill you, close that f.u.c.king door, don"t come out, and wail for the cops!" Killian yelled.
"f.u.c.k you, a.r.s.ehole!" Bobby yelled and shot at him.
Killian looked at No. 3"s door. Some kind of dark expensive tropical hardwood no doubt, and sleekit old. No. 3 knew that 9 millimetre slugs wouldn"t penetrate it.
However Killian also had Markov"s ACP.
He let the MP5 hang on its strap, took out the Colt, removed the suppressor and gave No. 3 four .45 rounds through the door.
Killian heard nothing. No scream, no moan, no cry of defiance. Nothing.
He hesitated. Go on into the house? No. Couldn"t have this sneaky character behind him.
Holding the .45 ahead of him he ran to the No. 3"s ante room and entered FBI-style, clocking corners and blind spots.
Bobby was lying on the floor, his skull cracked in half like a broken egg. Blood, brains, bone all over the floor.
"Jesus," Killian muttered and ran back out into the hall.
A woman was standing there with a walking stick.
"Ye dirty baste!" she screamed at him and advanced on him at a shuffle-run.
Killian smacked the side of her head with his closed fist and she went down like a thirteen-year-old la.s.sie during a Justin Bieber concert.
Killian ran into the foyer, saw the venerable butler, nodded to him, didn"t see any niece and ran upstairs taking the steps three at a time.
He had forgotten the floor plan and he tried three bedrooms before finding the master bedroom at the back of the house.
Stupid place for a master bedroom - no view, he thought, as he kicked the door in and dived for the floor.
The expected shotgun blast did not come.
Killian opened his eyes.
Helena was standing by the bed, clutching her swollen belly.
"Everything okay?" Killian asked.
She looked terrified. Petrified, to be more strictly accurate.
"Everything okay?" Killian repeated, checking the blind spots.
"What? No."
"I mean with the baby, is everything okay with baby?" Killian asked, looking under the big four-poster. "I think so, I don"t know." "Cops will be here soon. Where is he?" "I don"t know, I-"
Killian walked towards her and nudged the barrel of the MP5 against her stomach.
"Where?" he asked quietly She pointed at the balcony.