The Killer Read Online Free PDF Page B

this, the Manhattan branch. An American by birth, but an Irishman at heart, McKee was a hard-line I.R.A. supporter.
     
    ***
     
    Back in Belfast someone screamed out, ‘Fuckin’ ‘ell, Stan. Stan, it’s Vic. They got him. They got the kid in the fuckin’ guts.’
    The street had turned to complete chaos as Vic lay sprawled out on his back. His screams were an awful sound to hear as he cried, bled and very slowly died, right in front of his mates. They could do nothing but hunt and find the murdering Paddy bastard who’d shot him.
    Darren moved fast, quickly fingering the selector switch. The instant he found “auto”, he emptied the mag completely. Hot shell casings flew everywhere as he sprayed the street below with automatic gunfire. The sound of ricocheting bullets still echoing in his ears, he hurriedly rewrapped the sacking around the hot rifle and, after sliding it back under the floorboards, he quickly wiped dust around the area to cover the hiding place. Stopping only to pocket his fags and pull out his pistol he ran, gun in hand, downstairs, through the old door and into the street. A quick glance confirmed he was alone; there was no movement at all - until the front door of the house opposite swung slowly open.
    An old lady stood in the doorway of her terrace house. Frowning in his direction she slowly shook her head, subconsciously stroking her blindingly white hair as she gave him the negative signal. Then, after taking another quick look to her left and right, her frown was replaced with a warm and gummy smile. She beckoned him towards her using her crooked, arthritic old finger in a “come here” manner. Smiling even more now, she blessed him as he left his doorway and shot through hers. As the door slammed shut with a bang, she shouted, ‘God bless you son,’ as he ran past her and straight through her house.
    He continued on, running into the next home and the next. Three houses later he found he was alone in a small, cobble-stoned back alley. Turning to his left he could plainly hear the distinctive popping sound of several AK’s as they fired repeatedly. He began running once more in the direction of the Kalashnikov rifles and the boys who were firing them. Though now out of breath, he struggled onward, down towards the main road and the friendly sound of the automatic gunfire.
    Edward “Eddie” McQuillan was an intelligent man. A graduate of the Queen's University here in Belfast, and also of the University of Ulster, he had risen quickly through the ranks under the Accelerated Promotion System. He also proudly held the RUC Service Medal and had been commended on a number of occasions for the performance of his duty. Having served in most parts of Northern Ireland, including south Londonderry, Portadown, Crossmaglen, West Belfast, Holywood and Musgrave Street in Belfast city centre, he was no stranger to violence. He’d seen it all. He also hated the I.R.A. and its members with a vengeance.
    When Sergeant McQuillan heard the pattern of fire – pistol shot, rifle shot, automatic rounds – an immediate scene formed in his head and he knew there was a sniper at work. He ran in the opposite direction from the noise. He was far too long in the tooth to run towards it. He knew from long experience that the instant a gunman had finished his work he would run like hell away from the area. After all, a sniper who stayed around to admire his work was, or would shortly be, a very dead sniper. McQuillan ran for around half a mile, then slowed. Carefully he looked down the small back streets, one at a time, which led towards the hot area. He saw nothing. Street after street he checked without results. Then, as he was about to give up and return to the hot spot, he heard hurried footsteps coming in his direction. He tapped his service weapon three times before removing it from his belt, he liked threes, then he stood patiently at the junction of a small back street and the main road, waiting and holding