Scott Mariani - The Armada Legacy

‘This isn’t the kind of story I’d have expected from someone who was just pointing a Smith and Wesson at me,’ Ben said.

Tara looked at the gun in her hand, then flipped out the cylinder, dumped the six tarnished hollowpoint cartridges into her left palm and slipped them in the pocket of her jeans. She set the unloaded revolver on the tabletop with a clunk. ‘It was his, from years ago. I found it among his stuff once while I was cleaning. I’ve always been scared that one day someone would come looking for him. You know, to settle an old score, ancient history that ought to have been laid to rest. That’s why I need to protect him. Anyone starts poking around asking about my Uncle Ferg, believe me, I’ll hear about it. It was Michael O’Rourke, the barman at the Spinning Jenny, who called me earlier, told me there was someone nosing about asking questions. I went over straight away. Then I heard the shots.’

‘Seems you’re not the only one protecting your uncle.’

She shrugged. ‘If you got yourself in trouble back there, it was nothing to do with me. What did you expect, going into a pub like The Spinning Jenny and stirring folks up with a lot of questions? This is Belfast. The past doesn’t die here. These guys think they’re still fighting for the cause. Fergus Doyle is a legend to them. They don’t see what I see. They don’t know him like I do. They’re just cowboys. But it’s not their fault that there’ll never be real, proper peace in Ulster, not for a hundred more years. It’s thanks to you lot. Thanks to the English who started this whole frigging mess of shite in the first place.’

‘I’m half Irish,’ Ben said. ‘Just so you know.’

She snorted. ‘Well whoopee-doo. You want a medal or something?’

‘I’m glad you brought me here, Tara.’

‘I could have shot you. I’ll kill anyone who tries to harm him.’

‘I appreciate that.’

‘I still could.’

‘I appreciate that too.’

‘But it’s not what I want,’ she said. ‘What I want is for all this to be over, for people to understand that Fergus Doyle is just this poor old man who wants to be left alone so he can die in peace. It won’t be long before he goes.’ A tear began to form in the corner of her eye. ‘I wanted you to see him and know how wrong you were.’

Ben said nothing.

‘The person you said was missing,’ Tara said. ‘I think I saw it on TV. Is it anything to do with that sunken treasure guy, Forsythe?’

Ben nodded. ‘Forsyte. Roger Forsyte.’

‘They said there were women in the car with him. She was one of them, wasn’t she? They took her too?’

Ben nodded again.

‘You love her a lot, don’t you? I can see it in your face. Is she your wife? Girlfriend?’

‘She was,’ Ben said quietly. ‘We split up.’

‘I hope you find her. I hope she’s okay. I really do mean that.’

‘I hope so too,’ he said. ‘Thanks, Tara. You’re the sweetest girl that ever pointed a loaded revolver at me.’

She smiled sadly. ‘I don’t even know your name.’

‘It’s not important,’ he said.

‘S’pose I should give you a lift back into town.’

‘If you could take me back to my car. I need to get moving.’

‘Where will you go?’

‘I don’t know that yet,’ he admitted. He was only just beginning to realise how lost he felt now that his one and only lead had vapourised before his eyes.

‘You won’t tell anyone, will you? Where Uncle Fergus is, I mean. In case anyone might …’

‘Not a living soul.’

By the time Tara drove Ben back to his car, the police had long since disappeared from the scene of the shooting. There would be a few interrogations going on now, but none of the men Ben had left behind him in the alleyways could have any notion of who he was.

Tara left him with a few last words that he barely heard. He climbed into the BMW and watched the Honda vanish into the distance.

Then he was alone again, alone with the pressing knowledge that the trail had gone cold under his feet. He’d never felt so alone; so desolate; so weary.

It was 2.38 p.m. Brooke had been missing for forty hours and thirty-three minutes.

He didn’t think he was ever going to see her again.

Chapter Twenty

‘Get out, bitch.’

Everything a terrifying whirl of impressions, the man’s fingers iron-tight round her arm as he hauled her out of the car. The unwavering gun never more than a few inches from her face. Sam’s whimpers and pleas as the three of them were bundled into the back of the van. The slamming of doors; the rocking, juddering journey inside the hard bare metal shell of the van.

‘Out. Get out.’ More guns. Being prodded and marched roughly away from the road, up a grassy slope to a dark building, echoey inside. The smell of fear and damp earth and the sound of Sam’s crying next to her and suddenly, a dazzling floodlight that made her blink. She was aware of men standing all around, just shapes behind the glare.

One in particular. He stood so close to the bright light that Brooke could hardly see more than his tall outline, but she could tell he was watching her curiously; intently.

Then he spoke, not to Brooke but to Forsyte. ‘The case, if you please.’ His English was clipped, too perfect to be native. What was that accent? Not European.

‘I told you before. It isn’t for sale.’ Forsyte, trying to master his fear and almost succeeding.

Half blinded by the light, Brooke thought she saw the tall figure motion to one of his men. Sam’s cries became shrill and then were obliterated by an explosion that pierced Brooke’s eardrums in the enclosed space.

Sam’s body sprawling lifelessly to the earth floor. The numb shock of disbelief. More screams now, Forsyte’s cries of rage turning to a screech of horror. The men closing on him, grabbing his arms, shoving him down to his knees. The glitter of the blade being drawn from its scabbard. Forsyte shouting wildly out ‘No! Please! No!’ Then the men holding his right arm down on the floor and the rise and fall of the blade. The awful meaty crunch and the inhuman wail of agony. The hand holding the case rolling away across the floor, the steel cuff still attached to the severed wrist.

Then the same again with the other arm. Forsyte’s terrible, animal scream echoing around the walls.

Brooke could feel the pistol at her head and knew it was over for her, too. Waiting … waiting … for the gunshot that was going to put her down there on the floor with Sam.

Then the voice of the tall man behind the light: ‘Not that one. I want her.’

I want her …

Brooke awoke with a sharp gasp. She was breathing hard and covered in sweat. She blinked, blinked again, disorientated by the vividness of the nightmare. Except that it had been no dream. The experience was going to stay with her for the rest of her life.

However long that might be.

As her confusion melted away, she realised she was in a bed: a massive four-poster with drapes and a canopy. The sheets felt cool and satiny to the touch. She swept them off her and saw she was wearing a silk nightdress she’d never seen before and certainly wouldn’t have worn out of choice.

Someone had undressed her. The thought made her squirm.

She sat up straight in the bed. She felt woozy and there was a bitter taste on her lips. She knew why. Whoever had brought her here, taken off her clothes and put her into this damn nightdress, had drugged her. ‘Bastards,’ she muttered, then clamped her mouth shut in case someone was listening.

She swung her legs out of the bed and got up. The floor was cool against her bare feet. She could hear the soft whisper of an air conditioning unit, and smell the scent of flowers. On the little bedside table was a glass of water and, neatly coiled up next to it, Brooke’s little gold neck-chain that someone had removed. What the hell was happening?