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Back Arkhangel Save as PDF
Chapters (44)
  1. Cover
  2. About the Author
  3. By the same author
  4. Dedication
  5. Epigraph
  6. Prologue: Appointment in Arkhangel
  7. 1
  8. 2
  9. 3
  10. 4
  11. 5
  12. 6
  13. 7
  14. 8
  15. 9
  16. 10
  17. 11
  18. 12
  19. 13
  20. 14
  21. 15
  22. 16
  23. 17
  24. 18
  25. 19
  26. 20
  27. 21
  28. 22
  29. 23
  30. 24
  31. 25
  32. 26
  33. 27
  34. 28
  35. 29
  36. 30
  37. 31
  38. 32
  39. 33
  40. 34
  41. 35
  42. 36
  43. Epilogue: Appointment in Arklow
  44. THIS IS JUST THE BEGINNING

I closed and locked the door and turned back into the hallway. No movement in the house. I twisted the handle to the drawing room and stepped inside. Doc’s chair was pulled up by the fireplace, back towards me. The smell of peat and whiskey mingled with the smell of iron. I skirted the chair, eyes fixed on the floor, heart banging in my chest.

Face it, damn you. Face him.

I looked up and into Doc’s eyes. He’d been shot. A single silenced bullet to the heart. I reached out to him and my phone rang. I knew who it was. Only Frank had that number. It wasn’t until I went to answer him that I realized I was still holding the Browning and my breath. I put the phone to my ear. The line clicked and buzzed. And then a voice distorted by the failing signal said simply:

‘Run.’

Penguin walking logo

4

The first car arrived as I pulled my boots on.

I’d taken the stairs two at a time, the tear in my thigh burning with the effort. I stood at the bedroom window. Half a dozen more sets of tyres bit into the gravel below – unmarked, armoured BMW X5s of the Garda Emergency Response Unit. An ambulance followed them in, too close. Above, the fast chop-chop-chop of an inbound helicopter reverberated around the old pile – carrying, most likely, a Special Forces sniper looking for runners. A runner. I watched the police debus. Twenty-four operators in full, black battledress, assault rifles up, respirators on, combing the front of Doc’s country house. Within seconds a shotgun was taking the front door off its hinges. Classic fortress assault. Capture or kill: I wasn’t planning on finding out which.

In any combat situation there are only two choices: do something, or do nothing. I didn’t want to start shooting cops. But convincing them we were on the same side before they shot me looked unlikely. And if I broke cover or got on to the roof while a sniper was airborne, I was a dead man. The house was laid out like a wide, grey horseshoe: the front of the main building ran north–south, with the front door opening east; there was a converted stable block at the north end; and, to the south, a newer wing – and my bedroom. The buildings enclosed the wide expanse of the driveway and lawn on three sides. There was no vehicular access to the back of the house, and the entire demesne was encompassed by a high stone wall.