The two men laughed.

'C'mon, cheer up fuckwit, we're just giving you something to think about for the rest of eternity.'

Danny stared defiantly into the soldier's face as the gun was lifted and placed against his forehead.

'While you were having a wee snooze in the van we went back inside and made her happy. She said it was the first time she'd ever had an orgasm.'

Danny kept his gaze steady, determined not to give them the satisfaction of showing any emotion.

'Any last requests?' said the soldier.

For a moment the wind buffeting against Danny's naked body seemed to subside; the branches of the trees fell quiet, the long grass in the field beyond the hedgerow stood still. Then . . .

. . . Nothing . . .

. . . A long silence as if time itself was holding its breath . . .

. . . The three short clicks followed one after the other: click, click, click.

The soldier squeezed the trigger again for a fourth time then bent over and whispered in Danny's ear. 'That's how easy it would be. Now you're wondering how we know their names? We know everything. Where you live, where rlaith works, what number bus she gets, where Niamh goes to school, how many times a day your mother takes a shit. We could take you out any time we like, you dirty Irish fuck. You ever point a gun at one of our comrades again and you're dead. We're watching you, McGuire.' With that the two men turned and walked casually back to the van, climbed in and drove away.

Danny watched the van disappear from view then smiled faintly.

KIB 1024.

Chapter 9.

Tuscaloosa Maundy Thursday late

Vincent could hear voices in his head: he didn't recognise them as the ones he usually heard, the imaginary ones. These voices were real, using words he didn't understand, like they were talking in code: obviously educated . . . white. Right now he didn't care: the pain in his arm had gone.

Vincent tried to open his eyes. He couldn't understand why his goddamn eyelids wouldn't work, why such a small movement one that happened involuntarily a thousand times a day had become such a pain in the ass to do. Vincent tried to speak ask what the hell was going on but he was so heavily sedated his mouth wouldn't open either. The best he could manage was a long moan lasting the length of a full sentence.

'Looks like he's coming round.'

'Top him up with some more anaesthetic; we don't want him awake before they get here, but no more morphine until we establish who's picking up the tab.'

'Nice,' thought Vincent. 'Whatever happened to the Hippocratic fuckin oath?'

The voices continued. 'He gonna be okay?'

'Concussion, and a few bruises but nothing more serious as far as the crash is concerned. Miraculous!'

'And his arm?'

'Gunshot wound, no denying. Lost a lot of blood due to that, but he's been topped up so he should be fine. Go ask the front desk what's happened to Sheriff Beasley and tell them to get a member of the security team down here as quickly as possible. If he does regain consciousness and wants to go home I don't want to be the one to tell him "no". Maybe give him another squirt of the pentobarbital, but take it easy . . . we do want him to wake up eventually.'

Vincent was confused: on the one hand he was enjoying the vibe: he'd never been a fan of the heavier narcotics preferred a 'smoke to a coke' but if the shit made you feel this good, he could be persuaded otherwise. Trouble was the word 'sheriff' had set an alarm bell ringing in Vincent's head. His dilemma was this: should he keep his eyes closed a little longer and see if he could figure out what the hell these guys were talking about, maybe get another hit of the pentobarb-shit, or should he get himself together and get the hell out of wherever the hell he was?

The effects of the drugs were making it hard to think straight. The last thing he could remember with any clarity was the crowd on the sidewalk outside McHales. Everything after that was a blur.

He needed to focus: get a handle on what was going on. A blood-pressure monitor just to his left was beeping and whirring: every so often it would burst into life and the collar wrapped round his arm would inflate and tighten automatically. It was only after it had inflated for the third or fourth time that Vincent realised he was in a hospital: the carbolic scent and clean antiseptic smells suddenly made sense.

He tried to concentrate on the noise of the machine in the hope that it would help him to stay conscious. All his instincts were telling him to get out of there as quickly as possible.

Someone was standing next to the bed. Vincent realised too late that it was a nurse, increasing the flow of anaesthetic. He let out another moan 'No. No more shit till I can figure out what's going on.' but the effects were immediate: he was falling, floating, comfortable, happy, warm, relaxed, carefree and well and truly fucked all in the same instant.

When Vincent eventually floated to the surface again he found he could open his eyes. His lopsided gaze slowly focused on a large round face hovering just inches above his own.

'Cock-a-doodle-do brother! That sound good to you?' said Sheriff Beasley.

'Shit. I've died an gone to hell?' replied Vincent, still slurring his words slightly from the effects of the drugs.

'Vincent Lee Croll?' asked the sheriff.

A deputy standing by the door had his arms crossed behind his back like he was on guard duty. Vincent stared at him and smiled, 'S'that you?'

The deputy shook his head: had the deadpan look on, like he wasn't going to take any shit.

'Then, as we is the only three in the room and you two's way too ugly to be named Vincent, I guess it must be me.'

The sheriff pushed his face even closer to Vincent's.

'You aware the vehicle you were driving at the time of your incident was stolen, Mr Croll?'

'I wasn't even aware I was in a vehicle. How would I know whether it was stolen or not . . . I is suffering from amnesia, officer: got it so bad I can't even remember what colour I am. Hope to fuck it ain't the same as you,' replied Vincent.

Sheriff Beasley ignored the comment and pressed on. 'We also recovered an unregistered weapon from the vehicle. You got anything to say about that?'

Vincent screwed up his face. 'Man you been eatin way too much red meat. You mind stepping back a bit? If you got private medical you should ask if one of the doctors in here got anything to help you out . . . but as my ole grandma used to say, "halitosis is better than no breath at all". Although in your case: not much better.'

The sheriff tried again.

'You able to explain why you got a gunshot wound in your arm, Mr Croll?'

'Seems to me like you got amnesia too, Sheriff. Seems to me like you've forgotten the co-rrect procedure. How long you been in the law, Sheriff Beasley?' asked Vincent, reading his badge. 'You smell like you been doin it for long enough to know I ain't answering one fuckin thing you gonna ask me, so why don't you get your big, fat, ugly face outta my way and do things the way they supposed to be done. That means I can keep you on my Christmas-card list and I don't sue you and your department for all sorts of shit. Cause the way I'm reading this story in the newspaper is, you an your boyfriend over there came in here an threatened to beat the shit out of me cause I'm a poor nigger-boy . . . Least that's the version of the complaint my lawyer will be workin from.'

Sheriff Beasley raised his hand and struck Vincent hard across the mouth. The force of the blow split Vincent's lip on the crease and spattered dark red blood over the clean, white walls and ceiling.

'Oh man. What'd you have to do that for, Mr Beasley?' spluttered Vincent, playing it all hangdog. 'I just got topped up, on account I lost so much blood in my accident and there you are going and spillin it again all over my nice clean pillowcase.'

'You sustained all sorts of injuries in your motor vehicle, Mr Croll. You think anyone's gonna raise an eyebrow if I do beat the shit out of you?'

Sheriff Beasley aimed another blow: this time at Vincent's arm. It caught him just above the elbow, where the bullet had torn away the flesh. Even with the help of the medication the pain was excruciating.

Vincent let out a yelp.

'Mr Beasley: the first one I could have put down to a lapse in judgement, but now I'm beginning to think you don't like me. What I ever done to you?' Vincent moaned, his face all screwed up with pain.

'My fellow officer and me are just waiting for your discharge papers then we gonna take you over to our place and ask you these questions again. See what smart-ass answers you can think of there, see how chirpy you are when the medication wears off.'

Vincent smiled up at the sheriff. '"Chirpy"? . . . "Chirpy"? What school you go to teaches you words like "Chirpy"? You got a good right hook for a fat-boy sheriff, but you got to get a bit more street with your chit-chat, man.'

Sheriff Beasley looked like he was about to punch Vincent again. As he drew his hand back, Vincent suddenly reached up and grabbed him by the throat. He still had enough strength in his good arm to hold the sheriff up. In the same movement he'd unclipped the sheriff's gun from its holster. Despite the searing pain Vincent managed to swing the pistol in a tight arc and smash it into the underside of Sheriff Beasley's chin. The sheriff stumbled backwards and fell to the floor, blood pouring from a gaping wound just below his mouth.

The speed of the attack caught the deputy off guard. As he fumbled to draw his weapon, Vincent shot him twice: once in the chest, and once in the throat.

The deputy stared at Vincent with a look of disbelief as he clutched at his throat, but thirty seconds later his eyes lost focus and he was dead.

Vincent tore the blood pressure cuff from his arm and unhooked himself from the various monitors he was attached to. Alarms started sounding. He tried to pull the power cords from the wall but that only made matters worse. Vincent kicked out, sending the monitors crashing to the floor.

Sheriff Beasley sat up suddenly and threw a punch, catching Vincent hard in the groin. Vincent winced and stumbled backwards. As the sheriff tried to pull himself up on the side of the bed Vincent started kicking. The first blow caught the sheriff on the side of the face, snapping his head back violently. There was a cracking sound as his skull glanced off the metal bed-frame.

'Mr Beasley, you gotta stop fuckin hitting me man,' said Vincent as he stamped down heavily on the officer's face. Sheriff Beasley's arms flailed around in a vain attempt to hit back at Vincent, but he was starting to lose consciousness. Only the sound of people banging at the door stopped Vincent from kicking him to death.

The deputy's body was slumped against the door, preventing it from being opened. Vincent pointed the gun at the door and fired off a couple of rounds.

There were screams from the corridor.

No one was trying to get in any more.

It was time to leave.

His clothes were on a table just under the window, folded neatly in a clear polythene bag. Vincent tried to pull on his trousers as quickly as possible, but they were so soaked through with blood they kept sticking to his legs. His shirt wasn't any easier, but he had no choice: there was nothing else to wear.

Vincent looked out of the window and was relieved to find that he was on the ground floor.

'Something going my way at last.'

He took a step back and fired again.

Glass exploded onto the lawn outside.

As he started to clamber through the broken window a hand reached up and caught hold of his foot.

'Shit, man, you don't know when you is whipped.'

Sheriff Beasley's blood-drenched face was staring up at him, his arm outstretched as he gripped Vincent's leg like a vice.

'Let go of my fuckin leg, man, you messing up my strides,' said Vincent with a scowl.

'You got a couple of bullets left in your gun, Mr Beasley . . . you want em back?'

Two loud bangs marked the end of Sheriff Beasley's life.

Chapter 10.

Armagh, Northern Ireland Maundy Thursday dawn

To the south of him lay Chimney Rock Mountain and to the north he could just make out the small coastal town of Newcastle mirrored on the shimmering waters of Dundrum Bay. If he was right, he was on Kilkeel Road, some way north of Bloody Bridge: An Area of Outstanding Natural Beauty.

His lips cracked a thin smile.

It was small consolation, but at least he knew where he was.

Danny had barely enough strength left to stay upright. Each faltering step left him struggling to balance and several times his legs buckled underneath him: like a drunk, but without any of the fun. The exertion of reaching the main road had used up the last of his reserves.

He knew of a safe-house nearby: a cottage used by volunteers to lie low after carrying out what were referred to as 'military operations'. The cottage was only a few miles north from where he was standing: a thirty-minute walk if he was fit. But in his present condition, he'd never make it that far. It had taken almost half an hour to travel less than fifty yards. At this pace it would take him nearly three days to reach the cottage. If he didn't find shelter soon he'd be lucky to survive three more minutes. There was no option but to keep walking in the direction of the nearest town . . . and pray.

The sound of a car engine in the distance made Danny turn sharply, his hand already in the air in a pitiful attempt to wave it down, even though the car was still hidden from view by the bend in the road. The sudden exertion made him lose his balance and he stumbled backwards against the sea wall. By the time Danny had scrambled back to his feet it was too late. The car sped past and continued on into the dim, grey mist rolling down off the hills. Danny thought he glimpsed the driver's eyes in the rear-view mirror staring back at him, but he could hardly blame the guy for not stopping. If he'd been behind the wheel he wouldn't have stopped. Picking up strangers in these parts wasn't recommended at the best of times. No one with any sense would pull over for a half-naked guy covered in blood and stumbling around like a drunkard.

The possibility of rescue had lifted his spirits momentarily and galvanised him against the sharp-toothed breeze that had started to blow in off the Irish Sea. However, the sense of elation quickly turned to disappointment, then from disappointment to an overwhelming feeling of desolation, as he tried once again to move forward.

Danny was in real danger of dying and there was nothing he could do to stop it.

After three more steps he collapsed heavily to his knees.

Being surrounded by death from an early age was one thing but Danny had never once imagined how his own life would end.

Certainly not like this.

A strange noise a loud, distressed screech, like the sound of a baby crying echoed off the hills. Danny twisted round and scanned the surrounding countryside. There was nothing to see but the shadows of gorse bushes jostling each other as they set themselves against the stiff breeze. The sound came again, this time much closer. Danny's eyes strained for signs of movement, but still nothing. Suddenly there was a commotion of rushing wind above Danny's head, followed by another harrowing squeal. Danny threw his arms up instinctively to protect himself from the invisible attacker and felt a series of blows smacking off his raised forearms. A moment later a large black crow landed in a flurry of beating wings on the verge just a few yards ahead.