Victor O'Reilly - Rules of The Hunt

Anger flared in McGonigal. He turned and thrust the automatic pistol in his hand at the bald-headed terrorist, then grabbed Kathleen's father by his bloodied white hair and hauled the elderly man to his feet.

"Fuck you," he said. "Fuck all you little people. You know nothing." He placed the edge of his knife under Kathleen's father's ear and cut and pulled, severing his throat from ear to ear.

There was a dreadful, rattling, gagging sound that was mercifully brief, and blood fountained from the severed arteries and cascaded over McGonigal and Kathleen.

When the blood had stopped pumping, McGonigal released his grip on the dead man's hair and the body sagged to the ground. Mary Fleming had fainted. Kathleen looked at him, deep in shock. He slapped her face.

"I have little time," he said. "Your mother is next. It's your choice."

It was several minutes before Kathleen could speak. McGonigal used the time to wash himself off and lay the hospital plans out on a table in the living room. Then Kathleen told him almost everything she knew.

Her fingers still smeared with her father's blood, she outlined the security procedures and marked out the layout of Fitzduane floor and the location of the control zone and other security procedures. She was questioned again and again, and finally McGonigal was satisfied. It all tied together with what he already knew. Kathleen was completely broken. They always broke.

When it was all over, he placed his pistol against Mary Fleming's head, but at the last second took his hand off the trigger. Hostages were handy in this kind of situation. They could be disposed of after the operation had gone down.

Kathleen had stripped off her cloak and uniform and was now huddled in a terry-cloth bathrobe in a state of shock. Her skin was cold and clammy. Her gaze was unfocused.

McGonigal was looking at her and mentally undressing her when the telephone rang for the first time since they had arrived.

Connemara Regional Hospital

February 1

Fitzduane looked at his visitor with affection.

He was very, very fond of the Bernese detective.

The Bear had slimmed a little after he had met Katia – his first wife had died in a traffic accident – but had now reverted to his normal shape. Fitzduane was relieved. Katia was a lovely woman and meant well, but the Bear was not really destined by nature to be lean and mean and to dine off bean sprouts. He was kind of big – well, closer to massive in truth – and round and gruff and had a heart of gold. And he was a good friend. Fitzduane valued his friends.

The Bear gave him a hug – a gentle hug. Fitzduane was not wearing his Skunkworks T-shirt that day, so the visible bandages inspired caution. Even so, a ‘gentle’ hug from the Bear caused him to wince slightly. The main hazard was the Bear's shoulder holster. It contained a very large lump of metal.

"Men don't hug in Ireland," said Fitzduane, who enjoyed the cultural contrasts between the Swiss and the Irish. We're not really a very touchy-feely nation. It's something to do with the church and sex and guilt, I think. What's the hardware?"

The Bear removed the largest automatic pistol Fitzduane had ever seen. "Everybody in Europe tends to use 9mm because that is what everybody uses. The manufacturers are tooled up for it. The ammunition is relatively cheap because of economies of scale. The round is easy to shoot because it has a good range and a nice, flat trajectory and doesn't kick like your mother-in-law. And you can fit fifteen rounds or more in a magazine, so you can generate some serious firepower. Everybody's happy.

"But the problem with the 9mm," he continued, "is that it lacks stopping power. Analysis of actual gunfights in the States shows that a hit on a vital spot puts the victim out of action only about fifty percent of the time where 9mm is used, as opposed to over ninety percent when a. 45 is involved."

Fitzduane was beginning to think that this conversation was somewhat lacking in tact. He remembered that he had only recently been shot. Still, the subject seemed to be doing the Bear some good. "So use a. 45," he said helpfully.

"Aha!" said the Bear triumphantly, "so one might think. But…" He paused.

"But?" said Fitzduane.

"But…" said the Bear. He paused again.

Fitzduane felt as if he was in a slow tennis match and should be flicking his head from side to side to watch the shots. "But?" he said again. He couldn't resist it.

"What that English expression about the importance of detail?" said the Bear.

It occurred to Fitzduane that if any nation should know about detail, it was the Swiss. "The devil is in the detail," he said.

"Exactly," said the Bear. He raised his huge automatic in demonstration.

A nurse came in carrying a kidney basin containing something unpleasant. Fitzduane had developed a profound dislike of kidney basins. Either he was being sick into one or a syringe was being transported in the damn thing, with some part of his anatomy as its destination. He was generally off needles. And kidney basins were what they used, he had been told, to carry away bits of him that had been cut out. These were not nice thoughts.

The nurse screamed and dropped the tray.

The Bear ignored her. "The problem with the. 45," he said, "is that it hasn't got the range or the penetrating power. It is a big bullet with loads of shock value, but it doesn't have the velocity."

The door smashed open. A Ranger stood there with an Aug Steyr automatic rifle in his hands. The Bear ignored him, too.

Fitzduane suddenly noticed that he was in the line of fire. It would be ridiculous to be killed by some gung-ho idiot in the higher purpose of saving his life. Also, he had been shot up enough for one year.

"DON'T FUCKING WELL SHOOT!" he shouted.

"WHY THE FUCK NOT?" shouted the Ranger. Fitzduane looked at him in shock. He couldn't instantly think of a good reply. This was a ridiculous thing to have to debate. He just glared at the Ranger and then relaxed. The man was grinning. It was Grady, who knew the Bear.

"So," said the Bear triumphantly, "I looked for a cartridge which would combine the strengths of the 9mm and the. 45 without the disadvantages. I wanted stopping power, flat trajectory, good penetration, range, and sheer shootability. I wanted a nice big magazine."

He released the magazine from his weapon. "It's a 10mm Desert Eagle. Trust the Israelis to know their weapons."

It was then he noticed the Calico in its holster clipped to Fitzduane's bed. "What's that?" he said. Fitzduane showed him.

"And the caliber?" said the Bear.

"I don't want to steal your thunder," said Fitzduane, who couldn’t help grinning. "10mm."

"Oh," said the Bear, a little sadly.

Kathleen, exhausted from the night shift and the shock of her ordeal, was dozing when the front doorbell rang.

She awoke feeling sick and disoriented, but associating the familiar sound with help, with good news, with some positive development. Visitors were a regular feature of the Fleming household. Neighbors dropping in for a cup of tea were always welcome. Traditional Irish hospitality had not been eroded by television. In fact, they had no television. This was not from some deeply felt conviction. It was merely that the nearby mountains made adequate TV reception impossible.

The chair she sat on and the carpet were saturated and sticky with drying blood. The body on the floor, half covered with a newspaper, was her father. Shock hit her again, and she started to retch.

"Shut up, you cow, if you know what's good for you," said the terrorist by the window.

There was the sound of animated conversation from the hall, which continued for several minutes. Then the door opened and the leader, Paddy, came in. He moved to one side and gestured to others behind him to enter.