James Benn - Evil for evil

No, I decided, he wouldn't have, especially not lugging a BAR around. The damn things weighed around twenty pounds loaded. And he couldn't take a chance on being seen. There had to be a getaway car, close enough to reach quickly but far enough away not to be seen from the station. Time to take another chance. Maybe I'd gotten all the guid forder Adrian had offered up.

I jumped a fence into a small garden. It took up most of the rear yard, except for a stone patio that connected to the house. A woman in an apron standing in the kitchen door held her hand to her mouth. Her eyebrows rose halfway up her forehead in shock as I trampled her chrysanthemums. She shook her head, removing her hand to hold it out, cautioning me to stop. I did. Ahead of me, a bed of pansies spread purple and white, perfect except for two footprints crushed into them. She pointed to the side of the house, to my right, then shut the door and disappeared.

If he was planning to ambush me, he'd probably be at the back, waiting to catch me as I came around either side; if a car was there, he might already be in it. Damn. I ran as lightly and quietly as I could along the left side of the house. I peeked around the corner, watching for the steel barrel of a BAR. It wasn't the best weapon for close quarters like this. He'd have to expose himself to fire it at me. I edged along the house, my back to it and my. 45 in my right hand ready to fire.

I heard a car engine turn over. That had to be him. Maybe he'd cut across the neighbor's yard. I moved to the corner of the house and took a stance aiming down the side. Nothing. I ran out into the street in time to see a car pull out from the other side of the road. Parked on the left side, ready for a getaway in the opposite direction from the station. A perfect spot, I had to admit.

As the car pulled out, a truck rumbled down the road toward it. The road was narrow, and the driver of the car had to hit the brakes and wait for the truck to pass by. I sprinted out into the street and made for it, a small gray Austin saloon, the driver up front, one guy in back, probably cradling a BAR. The Austin wasn't that large, and it would be damn hard to maneuver the BAR out of the window.

"Stop!" I yelled, at both the car and the truck. If the truck stopped, the Austin would be hemmed in. But the truck didn't stop. Instead he leaned on his horn and increased speed, probably wondering what the crazy Yank was going on about.

"Halt!" I was close to the Austin now, close enough to take out the driver if I had to. As it continued to pull out of its parking spot, the man in the backseat leaned out, a revolver in his hand. Two shots cracked in the air as his sparse hair flew around his head. I dove flat onto the pavement and squeezed off a single shot, going for a tire. I don't know what I hit, but with houses all around I couldn't take any chances. I watched the Austin disappear, my only reward a glimpse of the shooter's face. A round, balding head, dark brown hair, a sharp chin, and eyes that darted up at the sides, like an imp. I thought I heard him laugh as he fired.

I got up on one knee, winded, as footsteps pounded the pavement and a whirl of dark green surrounded me.

"Did you see him?" Adrian gasped.

"Yes, I got a look at him. Car was an Austin, gray, four-door, license plate began with FZG, but I couldn't get anything else."

"You're certain it was the fellow who fired at us?" Carrick asked, less out of breath than Adrian.

"One man in the backseat, and he fired at me twice."

"I heard pistol shots. Was the last one yours?"

"Yes," I said as I got to my feet and holstered my automatic. "I went for a tire but I don't think I hit anything."

"That was quick thinking, Boyle, and brave, going through that window. I doubt he thought anyone would give chase so quickly. Well done," Carrick said.

"It's terrible about Sam, terrible it is," said Adrian, looking at his feet as he rubbed a sleeve across his eyes. "He was standing right next to me."

"Anyone else hurt?" I asked.

"Luckily, no," Carrick said. "Let's get back and call out a description of the car. Probably pinched it around here, and they've switched by now, but still…"

But still, it was best to go through the motions, to do something that helped reduce the chaos unleashed by one man with an automatic weapon and the will to kill. There was glass to be swept up, windows to be replaced, bullet holes to be filled, and an All Points to be put out.

Activity to help us return to normalcy what violence had shattered. None of it meant anything to a dead man.

THEY PUT OUT the call, and we waited for the base to send an ambulance to take Sam's body away. He was laid out on a table in the backyard, wrapped in a sheet stained a rusty brown. Two constables stood by him, tunics buttoned and caps on. They nodded as I walked past, grim gestures of acceptance, shared anger, and grief.

Mildred was sweeping the kitchen while Bob pulled pieces of glass from the windowpanes. Another constable came in and put a tin can on the table.

"Twenty shell casings, sir," he said to Carrick. "Haven't touched a one."

"We'll check for fingerprints," Carrick said, "although I doubt there will be any. A good deal of the ammunition stolen was already loaded in clips, if that was a Browning."

"It was," I said. "Very distinctive sound."

"Yes, it didn't sound like a Thompson, which the IRA favors. I think using it may have been a message."

We sat, and a glass of whiskey appeared at my elbow. It was odd how gunfire and death sobered you up. I took a gulp and let myself feel it settle into my gut.

"What kind of message?"

"Leave it alone," Carrick said.

"The hell I will."

"I wasn't suggesting you should. I certainly won't, not when one of my stations is attacked and a guest murdered. But there's something you should think about, Boyle."

"What?"

"Who was the real target? For the past hour or so, constables were passing by windows. If they wanted to kill just anyone, they could have done so at any time. But the person they hit first was in an American uniform. Now I ask myself, was that random or planned? And if it was planned, who did they think they were killing?"

"Me?" I took another drink.

"Simms, did Lieutenant Burnham say if anyone knew he was coming to the funeral?"

"Not exactly, sir, but he gave me the impression he decided to come on his own, to pay his respects."

"So it's likely no one knew officially that he went to the funeral at Dromara. But even if they did, they couldn't have known he was coming here. We decided only at the last minute."

"But I called Thornton," I said, seeing where he was going. "I left a message for him that I was headed here."

"Yes, from the arms depot, where any number of people heard you, including Jacobson, who certainly would have told Brennan if he inquired. Not to mention anyone at the Newcastle base who handled your message."

"And they would have expected to find only one American here, so they didn't even need to know what I looked like. Jesus. If Sam hadn't looked out that window…"

"He might be alive, and you'd be dead," Adrian said, a touch of bitterness catching in his throat.

"Aye, and if you'd been standing close to Billy when he next went to the window, you could be lying outside under my best sheet as well," Mildred said. "You catch yourself on, Adrian Simms!"

"Sorry," mumbled Simms, his face reddening.

"Good lad," Mildred said, and returned to putting the kitchen back together. Bob taped cardboard over the windows, darkening the room. He pulled the curtains before he turned the light on.

"No sense giving them a target, just in case," he said.

"This does give you one advantage, Boyle," Carrick said. "But it won't last long."

"What's that?"