Revenge

up and locked away somewhere terrible. Maybe even buried in a coffin, she remembered that happening to one kidnap victim. Would they have cut off an ear or a finger to prove they had her captive? Her imagination ran riot until finally she told herself to get a grip. Tom had come along and fortunately for her he had been willing to get involved. She knew that back home most people would have thought first of self-preservation and stayed clear of the danger. Maybe it was different over here?
Though she had employed security and bodyguards for several years now, she had never contemplated having to deal with anything more serious than over enthusiastic fans, likely to crush her in their desire for an autograph. She’d been lucky and she had a life to live. In fact she had three lives to live. She needed to think about others not herself. She started to make phone calls. A good start would be to find out about the bodyguard who had been killed. She’d only known him twenty-four hours but it was her fault he was dead and the least she could do was help his family.
It was late Sunday evening when Brendan Connor received his instructions from the Chief. He wasn’t surprised to receive the orders. He’d heard about the fuck up across the water and it was at such times he was often called for by the Chief. It had been that way for many years now. The bigger the problem the more likely he was to be needed. He was known to be reliable. He got the job done, whatever it was. At forty six years of age he knew it wouldn’t be that way for ever. He didn’t have the same speed of his youth and he’d given up going to gyms many years ago. He was just over six feet tall and had an average build. His skin was blotchy and his nose a red colour that pointed to years of excessive drinking. He wasn’t by any means an alcoholic, as he never fancied it early in the morning but he liked a regular drink.
His reputation deterred most people from ever thinking of crossing him or lying to him. When he asked a question he expected to receive an honest answer. He was ruthless and the passing of years had made him even more so. Strike first was his motto. He allowed nothing and no one to get in his way. He knew that was what the Chief liked about him and why he entrusted him with the most important tasks.
He packed a few clothes and bought a cheap airline ticket over the Internet. He was used to living out of suitcases and making trips at short notice. It had been the case for over twenty years, ever since he’d left the family home in Turf Lodge. He wouldn’t be able to say when he first started hating the Brit soldiers and everything they represented. He’d inherited the appropriate gene from his father and his father before him. Hatred and food were served up in equal proportions at the Connor dining table as he was growing up. While he was still in short trousers he’d joined the other kids from the estate, in throwing stones at the soldiers and shouting for them to piss off back where they came from. He had little interest in schooling. He learnt all he needed at his father’s knee.
A little older and he was running messages before progressing to keeping watch while others pulled the trigger. He’d been a good learner and barely past his twentieth birthday they’d let him shoot his first soldier. He remembered the feeling of pride reading about it next day in the paper. He’d been told not to tell his Da or anyone because of the constant fear of touts but over breakfast, when his Ma was in the kitchen, he’d given a hint and seen the look of pride and approval in his Da’s eyes.
Then came the news from Gibraltar. The murdering SAS bastards had shot his friends dead in cold blood without any warning and them not even being armed at the time. Operation Flavius they’d called it and the papers had made the SAS bastards sound like bloody heroes. He had never forgotten or forgiven them for that. Any opportunity to strike at the SAS was particularly welcome. One time he’d had the chance to be part of a team that interrogated a captured Brit. He was Special Branch not SAS but there was little difference. They had made him suffer big time. He’d squealed for his mother like a baby.
After Gibraltar, even worse had followed, when the bloody loyalist Stone burst into the funeral and killed three more friends and injured dozens of others. From then onwards his mind had been set and he’d grown over the years to become the Chief’s most trusted man. His expertise nowadays was in cleaning up messes. He couldn’t go shooting Brit soldiers any longer but there was still plenty to keep him busy.
He knew the Murphy boy a bit. Knew his father better. They weren’t friends. Paid not to have too many friends in his line of work. If it was possible to silence the kid then he was confident he was the best man for the job. He wouldn’t particularly enjoy it because the kid’s only crime was aimed at the Brits and Connor hated the Brits. He didn’t like politics and he wasn’t really into the new ways of doing things. Hitting at the Brits on the mainland was good news as far as he was concerned but orders were orders. He understood you had to follow orders. Couldn’t just do whatever you bloody wanted. After his work was done he’d be taking a trip to the sun. He looked forward to that. He could do with a holiday. He’d chase some skirt and drink too much Guinness. The thought sent him to