Victor O'Reilly - Games of The Hangman

Normally he would have popped the can immediately and taken a long swallow before going to his chair, which was situated, as befitted his seniority, in the center of the row directly facing the screen. But this time an item on the television caught his attention. Unopened can in hand, he went to his chair.

The smell of beer and some other odor was strong as he approached the row of seats. Some sod has puked, he thought, suddenly annoyed at this breakdown of self-control and discipline. People should be able to draw the line between making life comfortable and being downright careless. He looked to see which stupid fucker was responsible, and froze.

All three guards were sprawled in unnatural positions in their chairs, their faces twisted and distorted in a record of their last agonizing moments. Vomit stained their clothes. The beer can in O'Malley's hand had been twisted into an almost unrecognizable shape in the last few seconds of horror before death won out.

Gripped by fear, Brogan stumbled backward, knocking the television set to the ground in a cascade of sparks and broken glass. A figure with the head of an animal stood in the doorway. Brogan's thoughts went to rumors he had heard when he first came on the job. "Students playing games," he had been told. "Keep an eye on them, but don't make too much of it."

Holy Mother of God, he thought, some games!

"Aren't you curious?" whispered the figure in the doorway. "Professionally curious, I mean. Don't you want to know what killed them?"

The figure moved forward into the room, holding a knife in one hand. Brogan reached for his revolver, but a second figure stood in the doorway with an Ingram submachine gun in his hands. A burst of fire smashed into the wall beside him. The gun made little noise. He could see the bulky silencer fitted to the otherwise compact weapon. His revolver had only just cleared the holster. He dropped it onto the floor and slowly raised his hands. He realized that he had never truly believed there was any threat to the college – nor, it seemed, to judge by the tone of the briefing, had his superiors. Terrorist attacks were a media event, something for the television news. They didn't happen to real people. The figure with the knife spoke again. It had moved around to Brogan's right. It was close.

"We used cyanide. Not terribly original, but you must admit it works, and it's quick, though I'm afraid you can't say it's painless. Injecting the cyanide into unopened beer cans took some practice" – there was amusement in the voice – "but I think you'll agree we mastered the art."

Brogan tried to speak, but his mouth was dry. The figure laughed. "Afraid, aren't you? Afraid of a bunch of kids. That's how you thought of us, wasn't it? Very shortsighted. The average age of our band is nineteen: old enough to vote, to join the army, to kill for our country. Old enough to kill for ourselves. You really should have taken us more seriously. You did find out about us, didn't you? We read your briefing files. Your security was atrocious. You thought only of an external threat and even then did not take that seriously."

"Why didn't you shoot me?"

"You've no imagination," said the figure. It thrust the knife under Brogan's rib cage into the thoracic cavity and watched him drown in his own blood.

Another figure appeared in the doorway. "We got both of them."

"Any noise?" said the figure with the knife. He was pleased that it had all gone so smoothly. They had killed six armed men without a shot being fired against them. The remaining faculty and students had assembled for daily review. The entire college would be theirs in a few minutes. Kadar and his force would arrive to find the job already done. He'd be pleased. He rewarded success on the same scale that he punished failure. And if Dick had done well at the castle on the other end of the island…

"None," said the newcomer. "They both drank the tea we brought them."

"Five out of six with cyanide," said the figure with the knife. "Who called it right?" He was referring to the pool they had organized among themselves. There were ten Irish pounds riding on the result.

"I did," said the figure with the Ingram.

Brogan's death throes provided a background to their conversation. His head and torso rose from the ground, and blood gushed from his mouth as he died. The body collapsed.

"Let's take them," said the one with the knife. He removed Brogan's locker key and opened up the arms locker. He loaded an Uzi and put spare clips in his pockets.

Fitzduane's Castle – 1746 hours

Fitzduane – no sexist by most standards – had always had the strongest objections to women being put on the firing line. Seeing dead women in a dozen wars, often leaving orphaned children sometimes still being suckled, had hardened these views. In this case, however, more than a third of his little force was female, and that element was not prepared to be placed in a cellar out of danger. He also had to admit that like it or not, he need the extra manpower: the word personpower stuck in his throat.

He compromised on the basis of training and experience. He wasn't entirely happy with the result. Katia Maurer was no problem. As a nurse she had a clear role, and a medical facility was established in one of the empty storerooms in the tunnel complex. The Bear was visibly relieved. Oona was the logical person to take charge of the meals. She know the castle and the location of all the supplies. She got organized in the kitchens off the great hall.

The Israeli girl, Judith Newman, shot so competently in the target practice they had arranged in the main tunnel (wearing earplugs against the deafening noise), and it was so clear that she wanted a combat role – and had the experience to back it up – that he assigned her along with Murrough, de Guevain, Andreas von Graffenlaub, and Henssen to go with him to Draker.

That left Etan, inexperienced but determined to fight if she had to. The only consoling fact was that under the Bear's expert eye, she had begun to shoot well. Despite the need for combatants, Fitzduane had tried to dissuade her from active involvement. He had pulled her away from the others and had closed the door of his study, and for a few intense minutes he had argued with her. She had waited until he finished, put her arms around his neck, and kissed him gently. Then she had looked into his eyes. "This isn't the Congo," she had said. "I'm not Anne-Marie. It's going to be all right."

Fitzduane had started at the mention of his dead wife's name, and then his arms had tightened around her and he had hugged her to him and held her until called away.

Apart from Tommy Keane, who had relieved Murrough on the fighting platform, the entire party had assembled in the bawn. Everyone's clothes reeked of burned propellant and gun oil from target practice in the tunnel – Fitzduane wanted the existence of their weapons to remain a surprise – and everyone, including Katia Maurer and Oona, he noticed, was armed. He had made them all look at Dick Noble's body. He could see from their expressions that the reality of their predicament was beginning to sink home.

"I don't like splitting our group," said Fitzduane, "but our phones are down and our long-distance radio has been destroyed, and we've got to try to do something about those kids. Several of us here have already had experience of the opposition we're up against, and they are not the kind of people you negotiate with. They don't bluff; they kill. If we don't get to the students before they do, there will be no good ending.

"Draker is too big and sprawling; it's indefensible. My intention now is to head over there and bring the kids and the few faculty members back to the castle, and then hole up until help comes. We can hold out here for an adequate time – that's what a castle is all about – and it's a plan I've already discussed with Colonel Kilmara of the Rangers.