FORTY-TWO

Three Shots in the Dark

We spotted the bodies minutes later, after Caeli steeled herself for the possibility that her uncle, the Archbishop of Armagh, might be among the dead men inside the Mutton Island cave and Leonard grabbed the second Maglite so that he and Elmore could both lead the way into the darkness.

“You look. I can’t bring myself to do it,” Caeli said as we approached.

The two flashlights were pointed at the base of the wall, maybe 50 yards inside the cave’s entrance. Three blue tarps, the kind you’d use to secure cargo on a ship, covered the inert forms.

“Just like I found ’em,” Elmore said when I silently moved in beside him. “Each one shot in the back of the head at close range – definitely an execution.”

Terrific, I thought. Dead bodies in a cave so dark you can wave your hand in front of your face and not see a damn thing.

“You’re sure the place is empty?” I asked.

“Yeah. It goes on for a long ways, but there’s nobody else home – just these three, plus the crates of guns,” he said, rolling his head toward the far wall, swinging the Maglite in the same direction.

The area was lined with wooden crates, four stacks high and a dozen boxes across … 48 crates in all.

“And how many guns are in each crate, Elmore?”

Yeah, I was stalling, and Elmore knew that I was stalling, and Caeli sure as hell knew that I was stalling, but I couldn’t help it. I didn’t want to be the guy who told his fiancée that her uncle – the uncle she adored; the one she’d been searching for, hoping to find him alive and well and the whole sorry business nothing more than a mistake in timing or communication – had been killed, execution-style, and was now lying under a blue tarp in a smuggler’s cave on Mutton Island, a mile off the Irish coast, with the sounds of the crashing Atlantic and howling winds and screeching gulls echoing throughout the darkness of his final resting place.

Elmore shrugged his shoulders and returned the light to the tarps.

“Only opened one and didn’t make a count,” he said. “The one I looked at was filled with AKs … a couple dozen of ’em anyway, I guess – maybe more. Looked new. Maybe Russian-built, but maybe not. Nice guns for starting a revolution.”

I couldn’t put it off any longer, and I stooped over the closest tarp and pulled back the edge. My training kicked in, both from my days as an investigative reporter and my current job as a private detective, and I became at once the impassionate observer, a mere witness to the passing scene.

Male. Mid-20s, maybe. Beard, longish hair, neck tattoo, fat gold chain – definitely not a robbery victim.

“No,” I said aloud. “It’s not him … nobody I’ve seen before.”

I moved to the middle tarp and repeated the process of pulling back the upper edge and examining the ruined face that was staring back at me, trying not to concentrate on the single ragged hole that brutalized the features.

Male. Late-20s, maybe early 30s. Scruffy beard, pierced ears with diamond studs, a St. Christopher medal pulled lose from the neck and lying close to the top button on a flannel shirt.

“That didn’t do him any good,” I muttered.

“Is it him, Max?” Caeli asked.

“No, Caeli. It’s not Uncle Jack – never saw this one, either.”

Two down … one to go … and please, god, don’t let it be Jack …

I slid down the line and tugged at the edge of the final tarp and pulled it back to expose the face of a man I recognized, and the sudden realization startled me for an instant.

Thirties again, mangy hair, unkempt beard, scar on the left side of his cheek, a broken nose …

It took me a second to place it, after I looked at the scar once more.

“This is one of Liam Gallacher’s boys,” I said, standing upright and stretching out the muscles in my back. “Saw him once or twice, maybe – back at the castle.”

Caeli drew close and grabbed my arm, out of relief or for support or just because she needed some human contact in that instant, I can’t say. But I placed my left arm around her shoulder and pulled her close, and she leaned in and I could feel the tiny sobs that momentarily shuddered through her body.

“Thank god,” she said. “Thank god it’s not …”

She didn’t finish the thought, and she didn’t have to. Three mothers somewhere in the world would eventually cry when they learned the fate of their sons, executed and abandoned in a dark, damp cave on an island off Ireland’s western coast, but they wouldn’t be from Caeli’s family.

Elmore drew closer to us.

“I recognized him, too. He was one of the guards stationed around the castle – when we first got there,” he said. “What’s he doing out here?”

“Good question,” I said. “An even better question is what he’s doing out here with a hole in his head, along with two of his mates, and right along with the other one of Gallacher’s crew that we left behind in that dead car in Limerick.”

“So these other two are Gallacher’s men, too?” Leonard asked, peering over Elmore’s shoulder to get a better look, shining his flashlight from left to right on the now-exposed faces of the three corpses.

“I don’t recognize them,” I said. “Elmore?”

“No – they don’t look familiar,” he said. “Can’t say I’ve seen ’em before now. Just this one” – he pointed again.

Leonard shifted past Elmore this time and focused his flashlight on the faces again, one after another.

“Yeah. Just him,” he said, leaving the light on the same face I’d recognized. “I remember him, all right – but just that first day.”

I glanced at Caeli, but she shook her head, an indication that she didn’t want to look at the dead men, and I sure as hell couldn’t blame her for that. She gave me the gentlest of kisses on the cheek and a quick squeeze on my arm before pulling away.

“Maybe they used that boat we saw in the cove and had Corbin’s phone on them,” she said. “Corbin might not be here at all – just his phone.”

“Maybe,” I said. “But these guys didn’t kill each other and neatly cover themselves with tarps. Whoever did that is likely still on the island. My money’s on Corbin.”

Caeli considered competing scenarios, weighing likelihoods and variables, once again the consummate operative on a delicate mission.   

“Either way, we’ve got some hunting to do,” she said.

“You’re right,” Elmore said, and he started toward the stack of crates. “We need to secure the island.”

Leonard was already thinking strategy.

“You see any ammo in there?” he said, directing the question at his partner.

“Way ahead of you,” Elmore said. He’d already pulled out one of the Army knives and began working on one of the top crates, trying to pry open the lid to determine exactly what kinds of treasure it contained. “Give me a hand.”

Which is all Leonard’s got right now, I thought.

I grabbed Leonard’s good arm as he started forward.

“Let me have the knife,” I said. “It’ll be easier for me. You keep watch on the opening – make sure nobody surprises us.”

He stared at me for a time, his eyes dark and soulless in the eerie glare of the bobbing Maglite, which seemed to rise and fall with his breathing. I thought for an instant that he was going to give me a hard time, or accuse me of either stealing or questioning his manhood, or at least grumble about the nature of fate and circumstance that had brought us to this place. But he tucked his Beretta under his arm and handed me the knife without a word.

It wasn’t exactly a victory, but the old line about old dogs ran through my head … even if I didn’t say it aloud. I’m not crazy – not when it comes to pushing Leonard’s buttons.

“Come on, Leonard. I’ll keep you company,” Caeli said, and she had her Walther in her hand, already double-checking the magazine as she moved quickly toward the cave’s mouth.

Elmore and I began digging into the crates in earnest, and the eighth one down the line produced box after box of 7.62x39mm FMJ ammo, designed specifically for the full-auto AK-47 assault rifle.

Elmore, who made the discovery, grinned at the sight.

“Bingo. Did I mention a revolution earlier?” he said as he opened up a box and spilled its contents into the crate. “There’s enough ammo to start a war and a revolution both. Hot damn.”

“Hey,” Leonard called out. “Get stuffing, ’cause I got a feeling that whatever’s out here, it ain’t good.”

With Caeli’s help, we began loading – stuffing, in Leonard’s parlance – banana mags, at 50 rounds to a magazine, and finished off eight in the course of 10 minutes or so.

“That’ll give us a hundred rounds each,” Caeli said. “You think it’s enough?”

“Depends on what’s lurking, but it’s good for starters,” I said.

“Still quiet out here,” Leonard called, brushing his hand toward the cave’s yawning mouth. “Let’s do it right and load up a few more – just in case.”

We went through four more in short order, which would provide each of us with 150 rounds in three mags – one in the rifle, with the other two carried in a pocket.

“Let’s just hope we don’t run into an army,” Elmore said.

“I don’t care who or what we run into, so long as Corbin’s there,” Leonard said as he holstered his Beretta and latched onto one of the rifles. “I want another shot at that bastard before we leave this place.”

“You gonna be all right with that thing?” Elmore asked him, motioning the obvious. It generally takes two hands to effectively shoot a rifle, especially one capable of automatic fire.

“Watch me,” Leonard said, and he pulled his right arm from the sling that he’d worn since the arrival of Irish physician Bartol O’Dwyer. “We see Corbin, I get first crack – just so you know.”

It was good to see Leonard talking with confidence, shrugging off his sling, hiding his pain.

Things are looking up, I thought.

But I was wrong.

Again.

As Caeli and I began walking toward the cave’s mouth, toting our freshly loaded AKs and mentally preparing to find Michael Corbin somewhere on the island’s rocky surface, our position was strafed by gunfire, a dozen rounds or more crashing into the opening.

Yeah. You read that correctly.

And while it may seem obvious, especially if your only experience with gunfire comes from a TV set or movie screen, there’s nothing quite like the sound of real bullets whizzing past your ear or over your head to get your heart pumping.

Take it from someone who knows.

I was on Caeli’s right and pushed her hard toward the wall, tugging her downward at the same time, and we spilled onto the damp floor with a thud and waited for the firing to cease and the ringing sound to subside.

“Everybody OK?” Elmore yelled out a moment later.

We all gave him a quick shout-out, and it surprised me – to this day, in fact – that one of us didn’t catch a bullet. The serendipitous nature of gunfire still floors me. How is it that a drive-by shooting will unerringly take the life of a sleeping toddler, tucked away in a crib inside a nearby house, while missing the intended target on the street?

Random chance? Fate? The luck of the draw? A just and angry god, or a god – both in lower case – playing the Joker again?

Who can say for sure? Surely not Caeli’s Uncle Jack, despite his title. Sure as hell not the idiot who was indifferently tossing bullets our way, not caring who or what he hit.

“What do you see?” I yelled at Leonard, who was lying just inside the cave’s mouth, his body tucked into the rocks, his rifle pointing toward the open sea.

“Boat – looks like Corbin’s,” he said. “One man – maybe two, a few dozen yards off shore. Can’t really tell with the waves.”

“Stay low,” I yelled. “He’s got the advantage.”

“Screw that,” Leonard said.

He opened up with his AK. The rifle was set for full automatic, and the sounds of the ratcheting, staccato bursts were deafening as Leonard sprayed the bobbing boat for what seemed like an eternity.

God in heaven, I thought, burying an ear into my shoulder and clamping my free hand over Caeli’s left ear – not that either effort did us much good.

“He’s moving off,” Leonard yelled a moment later, oblivious to the lingering echoes that reverberated off the rock walls. “Can’t tell if I hit him or not, but he’s on the move.”

Another burst of return gunfire strafed the cave’s mouth, with the bullets whining and ricocheting and skipping and thudding into the granite walls and the wooden gun crates.

Leonard opened up a second time in response, cursing loudly.

“You OK?” I whispered in Caeli’s ear.

“Yes,” she said, though she was shaking – from the same fear that I felt, perhaps, or maybe it was just the dampness from the cave’s rocky floor. Caeli is the strongest person I know – no question about it. But we’re talking about automatic weapons fire here, and a lot of it.

“We’ve got to give this life up,” I said. “It’s nuts. Somebody’s gonna get hurt one of these days.”

Then I laughed at the absurdity of the comment, and she must have sensed the irony in that moment and joined me. Her own laughter was soft and melodious, a welcoming whisper in my ear.

Elmore called out to us, assuring us that he, too, was safe, and we’d all somehow dodged the bullets again.

“Let’s get out of this mess first – find Uncle Jack and get the hell out of here,” she said. “Then we call it quits.”

“You mean that?”

But she didn’t answer. She was already plotting our next move.

Leonard edged out of the cave’s mouth, crawling on his belly, and started firing again at the departing runabout.

“We need to sink that boat,” she said. “He can stay out there and keep us pinned down for who knows how long.”

She was right. Leonard could keep the runabout at bay, perhaps, but it’s a hell of a lot easier to hit a cave’s gaping mouth than it is to hit a rolling, bobbing boat in angry Atlantic waters.

“Let me have your phone,” I said, and Caeli reached into the windbreaker and produced the compact device that had kept us in touch with each other, with our bodyguards, with Vinny and Freddy Fierro and our other friends in Oregon, with the world.

I asked Caeli for the speed dial number she was using to connect with my own phone, then punched it and waited through five rings until Mickey O’Halpin, the captain of the Mary Kate, answered.

“Aye,” he said. “All done, are ye – ready for me to swing around and collect ya?”

“Not quite, Mickey,” I said. “How do you feel about ramming the runabout?”

“Ramming, is it? Did I hear that right? Ramming as in … sinking it?” he answered after a slight delay.

“Exactly,” I said. “That boat we saw in the cove has us pinned down at the cave’s entrance.”

“Pinned down, did ya say? Jaysus, boyo, pinned down with what, is it? There’s no clotheslines out here. Too bloody windy.”

“Gunfire,” I said, as though the answer were obvious, an everyday occurrence. 

“And you want me to take the Mary Kate straight at a boat that’s shootin’ off a gun – do I have ya clear then, Yank?”

“Stay inside the cabin, Mickey,” I said. “You’re a hell of a lot bigger than he is.”

“Jaysus, man – ye must think me daft.”

“I’ll pay for damages,” I said.

“You gonna buy me a new head, should he shoot me there?”

“Just stay in the cabin, with your head down,” I said.

“How can I run ’im through if me head’s down and inside the cabin?”

It was a good question, and I didn’t have a ready answer.

“Don’t do anything crazy – no unnecessary risks, Mickey,” Caeli called out, directing her words toward the phone.

We got the long pause again while he thought it over.

“All right then, lassie. I’ll have a bit of a go at it, just for you. But you’ll have to hang on a bit while I swing ’er around,” he said. “I might just surprise him by sneaking up from the lee side – maybe he won’t see me ’til it’s too bloody late.”

“Be careful, Mickey,” Caeli called out.

“Aye – good advice, that. And if I don’t make it, well, have a pint in me honor and make sure you bury me next to me mum. Course, you’ll have to find me first.”

He clicked off, and I handed the phone back to Caeli with a shrug.

“I hope to hell he keeps his head down,” I said.