Tested by Fire by David Costa (the little red hen read aloud TXT) 📗

he couldn’t live in Ireland while the British continued to have influence and rule over the north of his country.

He heard the announcement over the speaker system that all vehicle owners should return to the car deck ready for departure. He made his way to his small white Ford van. He’d driven from South Armagh that morning and the registration plates would show it belonged to a deceased farmer near Crossmaglen. He had died from natural causes and the family were willing to let Costello have the van for £200. In a hidden compartment in the back of the van, there was a Sako TRG-21 sniper rifle which he’d zeroed-in between the hills near Camlough and Forkhill.

With the rifle was a 9mm Browning pistol and ammo for both weapons along with 20lbs of Semtex explosive. All with the compliments of Colonel Omar Gaddafi and his terrorist-supporting Libyan regime.

The one good thing since the Peace Process and 9/11 was that the British Security apparatus had turned most of its resources away from Ireland and were now focussing on Islamic terrorism. Costello was aware of the random security checks at airports and docks where, if you were unlucky, you could still get pulled in for questioning and a vehicle search, but he was willing to take his chances.

As he drove off the ramp and followed the line of traffic towards the port exit, he could see the police checking cars and occasionally directing one to a large drive-through building on the left. Costello knew that even if he was pulled in, the search would be a cursory one. He held his breath as he neared the checkpoint and concentrated on the traffic in front to avoid any collision. Two minutes later, he was safely through where he turned left at the port exit and headed towards the A55. He knew this journey east well and soon he would be in the safe house. He chuckled to himself. There was nothing safe about what would be going on in that house.

In fact, his plans were anything but safe for the people of Manchester.

 

 

Chapter Eight

He heard them smash down the glass front door to the flat. A few steps into the corridor was the door to his bedroom on the left. It was dark, but he knew where his gun lay on top of the bedside cabinet. He could see the dark outline of the two men filling the doorframe, both pointing handguns towards where he lay. He reached for his own gun, found it, and pointed it at the looming figures. He could get them both if he moved quick enough. He pulled the trigger, nothing happened. Had he forgotten to slash the slide and put a round into the chamber? Had he pushed off the safety catch?

He fumbled with both the slide and safety catch and the magazine fell out, spilling bullets on the floor and the bed. He looked up at the face of the closest figure, which now resembled a laughing skull. The dark gun aimed at him flashed once, then twice, the noise deafening in the small room. Then came the all-consuming darkness…the sense of falling…down…never landing.

He woke in a cold sweat, his heart racing, a sickness in the pit of his stomach. That’s how it always was. The nightmares always the same. The feeling of helplessness even though protection was at hand. The dream still came, but the nights between were increasing. Reece turned on the bedside lamp. His Smith and Wesson 59 was still there on the bedside cabinet. He still checked it, as usual, every time he woke from the dream. There was a round in the chamber. The 9 mm rounds filled the magazine, which was tight and secure.

The hotel room looked like many others he’d stayed in. He always carried a small leather bag with a few changes of clothes. His bag small enough to use as cabin luggage at airports, reducing the time he’d spend booking into or leaving airports. As always, when he booked into a hotel, he made sure to pick up a bottle of his favourite Bushmills Irish Whiskey, a bit of home no matter where he went. He loved to tell people that Bushmills in Northern Ireland at 1680 was the oldest licensed distillery in the world. The emphasis is on the word licensed. There were older distilleries, but none licensed at the time and paying tax on their product.

He looked at his Casio G Shock watch. It was four thirty. The night was still dark, but the dawn wouldn’t be far off. He crossed the room and poured himself a small glass of Bush. The Pavilion Hotel in Sussex Gardens was one of his favourites when staying in London. It was excellent value for money with close-by transport links through the capital. It was elaborately decorated, and he enjoyed the fact they provided a good breakfast in his room at no extra charge. The hotel was also close to the junction with the Edgeware Road and the area was a great favourite with him.

Despite the short walk from the hotel down the Edgeware Road to Hyde Park Corner and Oxford Street and the shopping centre of London, the immediate area provided a community feeling all of its own with a unique atmosphere. Small fruit and veg shops, old-fashioned barbers, family bakeries, and restaurants. Everything a community should have and everything in walking distance of the front door of the hotel.

After a good start to the day with a continental breakfast and leaving the hotel early, he could take his time using his anti-surveillance to make sure he had no one following him. A few stops at coffee shops along the way would also pass the time. He downed what there was of the glass of Bushmills, climbed back into the king-size bed, closed his eyes, and slept fitfully for a few more hours.