Rick Boyer: Billingsgate Shoal

And was he a pistol shot.

Four years at the range with small-bore weapons and I thought I was pretty damn good, But this guy, whoever he was, was in another league entirely. I heard John's heavy breathing next to me. I leaned forward close as I dared and asked him the question sotto voce:

"Who are these guys?"

"Shhhhhh! IRA Provos. The best they've got, kiddo. They'll kill us in a wink if we give them any trouble. Now mind, do what I do-"

"Who are you?"

"I am Stephen O'Shaughnessey of the Garda Siochana, the Irish National Police. 'John' is a pseudonym."

"Uh, which Ireland? The south?"

There was a pregnant pause, during which I heard a very distinct sigh of disgust and a slight smacking of lips which told me that my question had not registered favorably with the law officer. I felt an iron grip on my upper arm, and the growly grunt of his voice extremely close to my head. "There is only one Ireland, Doctor Adams. The Repooblic of Ireland. If you learn nothing else out of all this shite, let it be that. Yah twit! " He shoved me away, hard.

"Move! Move on with yah!" called a hoarse whisper, and we began again to push the cart. No, said Number One, it was too slow. Leave it to slow the others down. We crept around it and jog-walked the rest of the way through the transport tunnel, the two thugs (and one, at least, a superb shot with a big-bore handgun) at our heels., We kept up the pace until I saw a faint rectangular square of very pale blackish gray. Two seconds later, we were emerging from the tunnel, and looking up a gradual incline of old granite cobblestone.

The two men stood directly behind us.

"Why don't you two lads go on up and see if it's safe?" demanded Number One. So we did. I had it in mind to spring like hell as soon as I reached the top. It was still too dark to see well. After all I'd been through, all I wanted was to run, find the fence (any fence), and scale the sombitch.

"Up yah go now! Goddamn me, I say!" said the Number One Thug in a very persuasive tone. "I've got six rounds left and will kill the both of you. The only sound they'll be ahearin' is an ounce of lead squirtin' through yer guts like a jet plane. Now up!"

We reached the top of the ramp and didn't get our heads taken off. Gee, tonight was my lucky night. I could see that it was darker to the sides than it was straight above me. We were in one of the big courtyards that opened off the main factory roadway. In a while the other two came up behind us, and we moved on. I assumed the Provos wanted out of Cordage Park as badly as I did, perhaps to slink back to their car and skedaddle. Plymouth was only minutes away from Southie, where an Irishman down on his luck could find a haven for as long as he needed it. And then there was Charlestown. Talk about rough. I believe I would rather parade around in Harlem on a Saturday night dressed in a Ku Klux Klan outfit than hang around some sections of Charlestown. If they elected to hide there until this thing blew over nobody could pry them out. Not even the Marine Corps.

I was saying all this to myself in my mind to take it off the fact that at any instant I could have a whole handful of lead slugs thrown in my direction. And there wasn't a damn thing I could do about it.

We had bunched together now in a tight square of four men. Stephen and I were in front, the two thugs right behind us. All hell broke loose when we reached the roadway. The first thing I heard was a popping behind me. I realized later that the sound must have been from the big. 45-caliber slugs tearing into the factory wall. It was more a cracking-pounding than a popping; it had a hard, staccato timbre to it. Just as I turned, I could see that the wall was smoking. Only it wasn't smoke. It was all the brick dust and powder that had been blown off the old wall and hung like a faint gray curtain in the half-light of first dawn.

The tight group exploded, flung away in different directions by the blast like a clump of tightly racked billiard balls on the break.

I found the ground and rolled over and over, keeping my arms straight down at my sides. There had been no sound except the slugs hitting the wall. Nothing. But on the next burst I heard it. It commenced with a low whistle of almost electronic purity, and with it a sound like sheet metal being ripped behind a thick felt curtain. And then the loud pounding drowned out the weird sound, and it was as if I were in the middle of a buffalo stampede.

I heard a long, drawn-out groan coming from across the roadway.

"Hssssst!" came a whisper. "Adams!"

"Over here. O'Shaughnessey?"

"Naw lad. It's him you hear. My friend's caught a couple too. Come over here… now!"

The whisper had the ring of authority. I had a feeling Thug Number One, the big guy in the Aitec ski mask, meant business.

"No. I can't. He'll kill me."

His reply was swift and direct. I heard the whang of a slug two feet above my head against an iron steam pipe I couldn't see. ."The next one will go through you. I don't have time to fook around, Adams."

I flung myself out from my little nest of safety and rolled along the ground to the opposite wall. I knew this was the safest way to do it. All Schilling would have a view of would be my clothes and my navy watch cap. And not rising higher than a foot above the ground, there would be no way he could detect a flicker of my silhouette. Rolling is also much quicker than belly crawling. When I hit the opposite wall I inched forward. Number One Thug was hunched behind a concrete abutment that sloped out from the wall, providing about two feet of immunity from those big bullets. He half-cradled a limp form in his left arm while he held his silenced Luger in the other.

"Check him."

I pushed my fingers into the man's neck under his jaw. I felt a faint and irregular bumping of the carotid artery.

"Well?" whispered the big man.

"Bad."

"Thought as much."

I pulled open his coat and drew up his sweater. There were four mean entry holes, dark and very wet and as big as dimes, that snaked their way up and around his trunk spiral fashion. He had caught the brunt of the quick burst, with four of those miniature shot-puts hitting him within the space of a tenth of a second. I was amazed he was still alive, and knew he wouldn't be for long. The first hole was in the left side, near the spleen. Then he'd taken one in the lower chest, one definitely in the lungs, and the last one up near the right armpit. He gasped, and I thought I heard him say something but I couldn't understand it. Then Number One leaned over and put his hand on the side of his head, as one does to a child who cannot sleep, leaned over, and said something very soft in the man's ear. It was Gaelic. I don't know what he said. The man whined a little, and I thought I heard a sob or perhaps it was just pure pain. The shock was wearing off now, the enormous energy-like getting hit by four defensive linemen at once-that had stunned him was ebbing. And so was his life. Then he shuddered and relaxed. He said.

"Ahhhhhh… "

I put my hand back into his neck.

"He's gone now," I told the big man.

He turned for a second, made the sign of the cross over the man's head, and said something else in Gaelic.

"Take the medal from around his neck and give it to me. Hurry."

He dropped the small chain and medal into his coat pocket. Then he asked me if I could use a pistol and I answered yes.

"Go get your friend, Adams. He's only about eight feet away. I'll cover you."

I heard O'Shaughnessey groan again and knew that if I didn't manage to get him pulled back behind the concrete he'd be cut in two by the next burst. I crawled around the abutment and hunkered down low. I saw a dark form on the ground, which told me how much lighter it had gotten. I grabbed the fallen man by the arms and dragged him back behind the shelter faster than I thought possible. Fear of getting blown away makes you amazingly strong and quick. I saw then how badly hit he was; there was a dark wet trail sliding out behind him..