Andy McNab - Brute force

'Early eighties? So he was working for you at the time of the Tripoli job? I thought I'd never had so much int on a job – now I know why.'

'He'd got a bit stroppy by then, so we upped the ante. We said we'd kill his younger brother. Well, someone like you would.'

After that, Lynn said, Liam Duff became quite an asset. He had the ear of hard-bitten players who wouldn't have trusted their own grannies but seemed to take a shine to him.

'Why break cover after all this time? Missed you after your retirement, did he?'

Lynn wasn't going to bite. 'When I left the service, he was still in prison for his part in the Bahiti but was released early as part of the Good Friday Agreement. From what I've heard, the peace process unhinged him. He never forgave Isham and the others for what he saw as selling out. A bit ironic, considering what he'd been up to all those years and the fact it got him early release.'

'Who killed him?'

'That's the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question.' He half shivered, half shrugged. 'Until you turned up, I'd have said the answer was obvious. Now I'm not so sure. PIRA insist it wasn't them, and we're supposed to believe them these days. There are plenty who think British security forces are still trying to undermine the peace accord…'

I lay in my pile of discarded clothes; they smelled like stale margarine. What a dickhead Duff was. Why expose yourself if you don't have to? Money and vanity are more dangerous than a box-cutter. Maybe he'd thought he had immunity in the aftermath of the Good Friday Agreement. Even a couple of years ago, he would have been found in a plastic bag on the Armagh border, leaking badly.

'You know anything more about how he was killed?'

'He got some close attention from an electric drill, and then he was shot.'

PIRA got the Black and Deckers out for at least fifty people it claimed were informers during the Troubles. Duff's disclosure came after they'd formally declared that they were abandoning violence. But maybe in his case they'd been prepared to make an exception.

Northern Ireland might be on the brink of a new era of peace, but someone had clearly decided that Duff wasn't going to live to see it. If he'd left Ireland he might still be alive: plenty of informers and double agents had been spirited away to start new lives abroad. By staying in Ireland, Duff had signed his own death warrant. He'd been living in a remote area of western Ireland, in a run-down cottage with no electricity or running water. But even in Donegal there is nowhere that anyone can completely hide themselves away, as I had very quickly found out.

I nodded. 'Plenty of people have that MO.'

'I really did think it might have been you. That maybe you still worked for the Firm – or perhaps had a few scores to settle of your own…'

He had a point. 'This PIRA traitor Duff was on about – the one who gave up the Bahiti – you know who it was? He had to be pretty high up the food chain to know about the job.'

He didn't even blink. 'That information, Nick, is something that would get you killed.'

'You really think it could have been the Firm?'

'Duff had already revealed there was a Brit on board who killed Lesser. He would undoubtedly have exposed even more details about us. Then, of course, there is the question of a device under your car. It's not too hard to put two and two together…'

'You think it's the Firm tying off a few loose ends?'

'More each time I think about it.'

'But why go to such elaborate lengths to drop us two? There has to be more to this than a bit of spring cleaning.'

I rolled over and looked up at the sky. Whatever – it didn't matter right now. What did was getting out of the UK to reform, regroup and sort our shit out.

Lynn was starting to read my mind. 'Where next, Nick?'

'Not sure yet.'

He sat up and adjusted the pile of clothes to insulate his back against the bricks. 'I have a place in Italy.'

I thought for a second. 'It'll be a known location. They'll check it.'

'You aren't the only one who has a safety blanket, you know. I was about to move there myself – until you interrupted my packing.'

'It's secure? No one knows about it? You can't be found?'

'No one. Not even my children.'

We lay huddled for two, maybe three hours. I wasn't sure and I couldn't be arsed to expose any skin to the cold to check my watch.

The sound of adolescent voices came from over to our left, full of fucks and shits, getting louder as they approached.

There was only room for one of us right behind the bins. I motioned for Lynn to make himself scarce. He shuffled backwards, dragging his bundle with him.

The shouts and laughter came closer, until one of them stopped no more than a few feet away. 'Hold on…'

I looked up at him.

'Oi, mate, get a fucking job.' I was treated to a fourteen-year-old's sneer from beneath a grey hoodie. I'd have had mine up too, if I'd had one.

Four of his mates gathered round to share the entertainment. More hoodies, baggy jeans, trainers. It was obviously a big night out.

'You a mether, or what?'

They crowded round the gap between the bins.

I wasn't going to get up just yet. There wasn't any need.

'No, mate. I'm just here, that's all.'

I thought of myself at their age, doing exactly the same as they were, always in a gang. The only difference was the clothes. These lads were much better dressed.

They were just bored, with no job prospects apart from serving up fries or stacking shelves. No wonder they were roaming about, trying out phone boxes for cash, not going out to do anything specific – if it was there they'd do it. Climb through the window of a house if it was open; try a few car doors. Anything to show the rest of the pack they were one of them. If you've got nothing, you've got nothing to lose.

Even their faces were the same as those around me when I was a kid. Black, white, Indian, mixed. On a housing estate, colour doesn't matter. Everyone's in the same shit. Everyone's parents are unemployed. Everyone's on benefits. Everyone's in the dustbin. Even dogs think the flats are interchangeable.

Another one shouted, 'Oi, mate…'

It was a white lad this time. I could just make out a chin full of zits under his hoodie. 'You got any fags? Give us a fag.'

A couple of them were getting a bit restless. It was time to stand up. Pack mentality: they were starting to think about other things than just taking the piss. I could feel it. I'd done it myself.

'No, mate. I don't smoke. Can't afford 'em.'

These lads were getting more confident.

'Yeah, but you're on the dole, aintcha? You're getting money, aintcha?'

'A little.'

I knew what was coming. The zit-faced one whipped out a blade. 'Fucking give us it then.'

There was no point debating this. I stepped forward and grabbed his hand and bent his palm back towards his forearm. My momentum gave me more power in my grip, and he went down, more with surprise than pain.

The knife clattered to the ground. The others did a kind of war dance, ready to have a go but not sure what to do now one of them was down. But one of them would, eventually.

Zit-face lay there in shock. I folded the knife and put it in my pocket. 'OK, lads, now just fuck off.'

'Cunt!' The first black lad made his move. He aimed a kick at me, but wasn't fast enough. I grabbed his leg and pulled him towards me, at the same time kicking down hard on the calf muscle of his standing leg. He fell onto his back.

The others shouted, 'You cunt!' but no one else was in a hurry to make the mistake he had.

I held onto his leg. I had to do something short, sharp and drastic to stop this from escalating. I stamped down on the side of his knee. I wasn't going to break it; just give him the worst pain he'd ever experienced. He howled like a wounded animal.