He was about to put the walkie-talkie down when it crackled into life.

'He's here . . . but not for long.'

Suddenly there was a loud whoosh outside that sent a fireball mushrooming into the sky. There then followed a brief instant where it seemed as if nothing else was going to happen. But Tony knew the pause was just the blast gathering itself together before ripping the building in two. Suddenly the windows burst from their frames, sending glass and splinters of wood crashing to the ground. Doors slammed against walls or flew off their hinges as the force of the blast tore through the small cottage. The walls of the bedroom erupted in a frenzy of searing flames. Tony shielded himself from the worst of the explosion then scrambled to his feet and stared out at the Drum.

The flames engulfing the van railed and flicked furiously at the night sky.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw a figure in the shadows moving back across the yard towards the cottage. He raised the Heckler to the window and fired off a burst, but the figure had already disappeared.

Tony listened hard to the crackle of blistering paint and the hollow rush of air as the tyres exploded in the intense heat, but there was no sound coming from inside the van.

Tony's mind switched to combat mode.

The first two shots he'd heard must have been for Spider.

With Stevie dead in the kitchen and Jacko in the van it was all down to him.

He had to act quickly.

No time to hesitate.

Tony cleared the remaining shards of glass from the window frame and sprayed the rear end of the van with bullets; clipped in another Mag. and emptied it too. If there was even the remotest chance that Jacko had survived the explosion, he wasn't going to let him suffer for one moment longer. He knew if the positions were reversed Jacko would have done the same.

The walkie-talkie hissed into life again.

'Your turn, soldier.'

Tony didn't respond. Instead he knelt down and pulled three more clips of ammunition from Spider's gun-belt, then made his way over to the door and back out into the corridor. With his weapon raised, elbows tucked and finger resting lightly on the trigger he crept slowly towards the head of the stairwell.

He had no idea who or how many he was up against.

The only thing he knew for certain: he wasn't going down without a fight.

Tony stood motionless at the head of the stairs, straining for the faintest sound.

'Talk to me house, c'mon, talk to me' he said to himself.

The noise of the shower spraying redundantly into the empty bath wasn't helping.

Tony turned as the petrol tank in the van outside suddenly exploded, scorching every wall in the house with a burst of bright light. It briefly illuminated the silhouette of a man standing unseen in the doorway behind him.

Thump!

The first bullet hit him in the shoulder and sent him twisting violently to the floor.

He squeezed the trigger on the Heckler, spraying bullets randomly over the walls and ceiling.

Thump!

The second bullet ripped through his forearm and shattered his elbow into tiny fragments, the force of the impact pushing his arm out at an awkward angle, but that was all . . . there was no pain.

Clinging to the banister for support, Tony managed to pull himself up to a standing position. He wanted to get to his feet and face his enemy.

Thump!

The third bullet punched him in the chest, expelling all the air from his lungs and knocking him backwards onto the floor.

As he lay there motionless, he realised the strange sound he could hear was the blood gurgling in his throat as he struggled to breathe.

Tony recognised him straight away: he recognised the dispassionate face and the dead eyes. Standing there, making sure Tony got a good look; letting him see the face of his killer.

Tony tried to squeeze the trigger one last time, but there was not enough strength left in his hand.

Still no pain.

Then a voice.

'The woman you punched in the face was my brother's wife; the young girl you scared the shit out of is my niece. When you murdered my brother I swore to protect them: keep them safe. That's what I'm doing now . . . Any last requests?'

Thump!

A haze of heat from the burning wreckage blurred the figure's outline as it moved quickly away from the flame-coloured night.

Through the blaze and the blistering paint Danny could still make out the embossed letters of the van's registration plate.

KIB 1024.

Chapter 17.

Dunnaval, Northern Ireland 7.15 a.m. Good Friday

Angela's mother turned down the volume on the radio before looking over at Angela with a puzzled expression on her face. The two women sat staring across the kitchen table at each other until the sound of knocking came again.

'Is that someone at the front door?' asked her mother, stating the obvious: a habit that Angela found increasingly irritating. 'It's too early in the morning to be calling on folk, is it not? The birds are still singing.' She stayed seated and nodded in the direction of the hallway. 'Well, you'd better go and see who it is.'

Reluctantly, Angela made her way out into the hall and headed towards the front door, racking her brains as to who it could be. Her encounter with the guy in the leather jacket outside Danny's had left her feeling nervous and vulnerable, scared even.

She had called for a cab to come and pick her up from his house: an expense she could ill afford. When it eventually arrived, the taxi driver gave her a curious glance as she looked around for the guy in the leather jacket, but he was nowhere to be seen. Even though she was certain the taxi wasn't being followed she'd asked the driver to take a different route home just in case. The longer route had added to the cost.

Angela slipped the brass chain between the stays, then opened the door a few inches.

'Who is it?' shouted her mum from the kitchenette.

Angela felt her cheeks burn.

'It's the fella who stole my car, Ma,' she replied.

'What's he doing calling at this time in the morning? I hope the cur's here to give it back?'

'My ma wants to know if you've come to give me my car back?'

Danny's breath puffed in grey transparent swirls as he stood shivering on the doorstep of the small pebble-dashed bungalow. He shifted his weight uncomfortably before replying, 'Sort of . . . D'you mind if I come in for a minute?'

'Do we mind if he comes in for a minute, Ma?'

'Get the keys off him and close the door, Angela, you're letting all the heat out.'

'How did you know I lived in Dunnaval?'

'Got a pal works for the DVLA, ran your plate through for me. Came up: Greencastle Road, Dunnaval.'

'Is that allowed?'

'As long as you don't tell anyone in the RUC you're doing it,' replied Danny.

Angela shook her head slowly then unclipped the latch and opened the door fully. 'You'd better come in before my ma has a stroke. But don't plan on staying long: I've got to get to work this morning . . . can't afford to take any more time off.' Angela peered over Danny's shoulder at her car parked alongside the kerb. 'I hope you've put petrol in it. The tank was nearly full when you stole it,' she said as Danny edged past her into the hallway.

'I only borrowed it,' he replied.

'You "only" used me to lure those men in the white van away from your house and then stole it. I don't remember handing you the keys.'

Angela was giving him a bit of a ride, but he didn't mind he couldn't explain why, but it was good to see her again. 'You don't need keys for those old Fords. You can get into them and start them up with a penny.'

'Only someone who steals cars would know something like that.'

In truth, Angela didn't care about the car: if anything, she was disappointed to get it back. What was troubling her more was the fact she was wearing her nurse's uniform. She'd had the seams round the waist adjusted to make her stomach look flatter, but the alterations had made the skirt flare out at the back. Her bottom looked huge or so she thought. Why hadn't he brought the car back yesterday when she was wearing her black slacks and fitted jumper: an outfit that showed off her slim figure to its best advantage?

Worse still, Angela didn't put her face on in the morning until she was heading out the door so she was standing there with no lippy, no concealer and worst of all, no mascara. Jesus. Catch yourself on, girl. The guy's married with a child and he nicked your car.

Angela closed the door behind Danny and ushered him into the living room. There was a strong smell of petrol on his clothes.

'What's the scent . . . Eau de BP?'

She could tell he didn't get it.

'You smell like a leaky jerry-can.'

'Do I? Christ, so I do,' replied Danny, finally catching on. 'Aye, it's a new fragrance from Faberge: one pound fifty a gallon. I must have spilled some when I was filling up your car.'

'Aye right,' said Angela with an expression on her face that told him she didn't believe him.

'Check for yourself: cost me nearly fifteen quid,' said Danny earnestly. 'To be honest, it'd have been cheaper getting a taxi.'

Angela's eyes narrowed. 'Well next time why don't you do that? Then I won't have to take the two-hour bus ride to work, because there is no direct service from here into Belfast so I have to change buses and they don't operate on anything even remotely resembling a timetable. Nor would I have to sit up all night wondering what to tell my insurance company or whether or not I should call the RUC, because if I don't tell them it's been stolen the insurance won't pay out and that'd mean getting the bus to work for the next few years until I could save up enough to buy a new car and even then I wouldn't know where to start because I'm not a big fan of cars; another brain-ache. Which make, which colour, how many doors? Should I get one that has better locks? And I know what would have happened. I'd give up and take the bus. I worked out if I did that for the next ten years I'd have wasted over a year of that waiting for, or travelling on, public-bloody-transport. So the next time you're thinking "Should I nick that car or take a taxi?" my advice would be take the goddamn taxi.' Angela paused and smiled.

'You've given it a lot of thought,' said Danny.

'Your mind starts to wander, sitting in a bus shelter for so long. Take a seat but, don't get too close to that fire, you'll go up in a ball of flames.'

Danny made his way round the garish floral-patterned sofa and sat down.

'The number twenty-three goes from here into Belfast.'

Angela let that one pass. 'D'you feel like tea?'

'Aye, that'd be grand,' replied Danny.

'Hungry?'

'Right now, I'd eat shit if it had salad cream on it.'

'We only do bacon and salad cream, but if you hang on I'll ask my ma to nip down to the Co-op.'

Angela headed back to the kitchen, leaving Danny staring at a small pile of coal in the ash-dusted hearth. He didn't really want a cup of tea. He'd said yes so that he could be in her company for a little longer.

Little fissures of orange glow were still visible in what remained of last night's fire. He gave a small shudder as the image of a van engulfed in flames flashed through his mind.

Angela was back, standing in the doorway.

'Ma says we're fresh out of shit. How about some bacon?'

'Bacon'll do fine, but I don't want to make you late for work.'

She felt her cheeks burning again.

'You all right?' asked Danny.

'Fine,' she replied.

There was an awkward silence, then Angela said, 'I didn't realise you wore glasses.'

Danny pushed them up on his nose. It was an action that had developed into a nervous habit they were never in any danger of falling off. 'Well, you haven't known me for very long, I suppose. I only wear them on special occasions.'

'Does returning stolen goods count as a special occasion?'