Chapter 67

 

Northern Ireland, 1984

 

“We’ve been hijacked!” A scream carried in from the coach and a multitude of frightened voices picked up the cry as people suddenly flood the aisles.

“A bomb! A bloody bomb!” The masculine howl added to the panic while nearly trampled attendants attempted to restore order.

The speakers crackled with the Captain’s voice, “Please. Return to your seats. There is nothing to be alarmed over. There is nothing wrong. We overshot Dublin.” The grumbling was still apparent but passengers began to filter back to their seats, as he continued. “We received permission for a short landing at Belfast. Please, everyone, return to your seats, fasten in, do not, I repeat, do not attempt to leave the plane. We will only be on the ground a few minutes.”

“What’s it all mean?” Megan was studying Seamus whose mouth was compressed in an angry frown.

“SAS,” he answered. “I’m for betting they’re in that cockpit.”

“SAS? British Secret Service? What could they want?”

“That lad wasn’t giving me the evil eye for nothing. But it’s God’s own wonder what the hell they want with me?”

“They can’t just take you off the plane?”

“Suppose? If the Brits are of a mind too.” Then as if sensing the fear he’d created in the young woman, he reached over and squeezed Megan’s hand. “It’s probably nothing.” He grinned but it was forced. There had been several messages from Jack Walsh left for him at his New York hotel. He had attempted to return them but was unable to reach the man. Since the messages had been left the two previous nights when he’d been occupied and not returned to the hotel, and nothing had been left that morning, he figured it wasn’t that important and could wait.

Since Seamus O’Donnell was careful never to be actively involved in anything illegal, he wasn’t concerned—until he saw that look on the flight attendant’s face.

The plane had barely settled on the runway, when the pilot, flanked by two men in business suites, stepped from the cockpit. The sight of them heading so obviously in his direction convinced O’Donnell he was their target. Fully aware of the danger he might be facing if taken into custody on this side of the border, he bolted for the emergency exit and slammed its lever as the crowd, spurred on by a male character’s yelling, “Hijackers!” again took to the aisles. Seamus was outside before the two men could force their way through the crowd of passengers.

He leaped from the plane and broke into a run.

At the window Megan watched him, screamed a warning he could not possibly hear, and her camera filled her hands as the uniformed figures converged on the running man.

She stifled a cry when she witnessed a rifle butt slam across Seamus’ back. A baton came down on his shoulders while a blow from a second rifle caught him on his neck. A knee came up into his belly and as he doubled over several more batons connected with his head and back until he fell face first on the cement runway. Leather boots now found targets on the helpless man and a woman at Megan’s elbow screamed while several men voiced their disgust as O’Donnell’s body arched from the kicks before it flopped back in the dirt.

The last action Megan captured on her film was the uniformed men literally dragging their prisoner across the ground.

Without a conscious thought of what she was doing, Megan dropped the camera back in its case and shoved through the crowd. At the emergency door, guarded only by a young copilot, she flashed a press card with the added announcement, ‘Press’ and escaped before he could intercept her. She never saw the man who followed her nor heard as he assured, “My daughter’s just panicked. I’ll bring her right back.”

Megan picked up bits of conversation that sprouted from the bystanders who seemed to be enjoying the spectacle.

 “Must be IRA?”

“Serves him right! Bloody bastards!”

The soldiers were finding it difficult to load an uncooperative Seamus into an army lorry. Megan was headed to confront them, when someone took a firm hold on her elbow.

“Can’t help him now. Only get yourself lifted,” was a soft whispered warning. “Seen ya coming off that plane hollering ‘press’. Not a smart thing to be announcing right now.” He gave a slight wave to lead Megan’s sight to where several army uniforms were now quick stepping towards her location. “That camera you’re toting, they’ll be oh so sorry, it happens ta break, the film gets ruined.”

“They’ll get me at Customs—”

“Not if you come with me, lass.” He tightened his grip on her arm and not knowing why she took off on a run with him. Taking the soldiers by surprise they were able to round a corner well in advance of them.

The sign read ‘men’. He shoved her through the door. Her face pinked in embarrassment while the males, engaged at the open urinal, didn’t utter a protest nor attempt to adjust their britches. The gun thrust into her benefactor’s hand by a man who held a similar piece had everyone’s full attention.

“Come on, lass.” Her companion jerked her arm and pulled her to a window to give her a hike up. She was caught on the other side by a character whose blue eyes flashed in surprise through the holes in his ski mask. Half carried, she was rapidly ushered into the rear of a small black Ford.

The gunmen leaped in with her and fear invaded her mind. What the hell am I doing? A foreign country. Running from their law with three strange men.

She tried to sit still and found it impossible. The car leaped into high gear without an attempt at second. She bit at her lower lip as the driver took off at top speed; he swung the car around the corner of a building barely missing it. People scattered in front of them. She drew deeply on a dwindling supply of air. They were headed directly towards the plane! Megan squeezed her eyes shut. Preparing for the screech of brakes, the sound of crashing metal, their total disintegration, she chewed painfully on her lip.

Nothing happened. Cautiously she opened her eyes. The plane was moving but away from them. A glance out the rear window showed her they had succeeded in attracting a convoy. Her head hit the roof as they left the runway and cut across the bumpy grass to the road.

Megan kept staring out the rear window. Their driver changed roads by driving over fields. She didn’t see him make a single turn at an intersection. He maneuvered the car through small patches of trees and quickly managed to put some distance between them and their pursuers. Then her heart stopped for an instant as he drove the small Ford into the back of a large shipping van without slowing down. When he jammed on the breaks, the doors were already being slammed shut, closing out the light. She was instantly grateful for strong kidneys and the knowledge the men couldn’t see the horror in her face.

“What’s your name, lass?” Jack Walsh had just finished introducing himself and the others as casually as if they were out for a pleasure drive.

“Megan O’Donnell,” she stammered between gulps of air.

“Damn!” Walsh cursed. “That lad never could keep his britches buttoned. You be begging my pardon, lass. But him bringing his worthless self, back a Yankee bride and us none the wiser.” Megan neglected to correct this cover story he had so conveniently given her.

“Wrong timing.” The driver, Megan now knew to be a David Martin, was apparently angry about something. “Mor’n likely brought himself back a widow.”

“Shut yourself up, Davy,” Walsh ordered. “Don’t be frightening the girl. Don’t you worry none, Megan, Seamus will be fine. Ain’t likely they’ll hold him more’n a few hours.”

The air in the dark enclosure was just becoming uncomfortable when the van deposited them at a truck terminal. Megan looked out over the city spread before them and instantly recognized Belfast. How, she wondered, it had been years and she’d been only a little girl. Perhaps it was some kind of racial memory or rebirth. Had she traipsed along this way or rode in a horse-drawn cart in another lifetime?

She hadn’t conversed much with her companions although Walsh assured her she was headed for a safe house and didn’t need to worry. They’d see to her until Seamus was released. Since she didn’t have much choice, she went along.

At the terminal they picked up an ancient Volvo and headed again for a highway. At a point about three miles outside the city, they pulled over to trade the Volvo for a BMW and exchanged one companion for another.

~~~

 

Mr. Monaghan’s clothing, like his car, was expensive and well-kept and Megan instantly felt more respectable in his presence. Though she wasn’t too thrilled by the information he was passing on to Walsh. They spoke quietly in the front but she overheard enough to realize something dreadful had happened to Seamus’ nephews.

Colin! My God, she thought, he’s still a child. Beside her in the rear seat, David Martin patted her hand and assured, “Lads are safe back home in Bray. I personally saw to them.” As the car headed up twenty five towards Killyleagh, Megan lay her head back and prayed.

~~~

 

Several of Megan O’Donnell’s prayers were answered for an hour later she was still alive and basically uninjured. Oddly enough, she wasn’t really frightened of these unsavory men the respectable Mr. Monaghan again abandoned her with. The room could definitely do with some cleaning up—but at least it was stationary.

Twisting off the cap, Jack Walsh sucked thirstily on stout while Megan toyed with her ale. “You’ll be wantin’ that film developed?” he said. And suddenly it occurred to her she had ditched the camera in her bag before she left the plane.

Suspicion tightened her features, as she demanded, “How did you know about the camera?”

“Hate to be telling you this, Megan,” Walsh said as if apologizing. “I was on the plane, in coach. It was sure me those blokes wanted not Seamus O’Donnell.”

“You?” Megan’s tone lifted with the accusations. “You mean they were after you. You let them take Seamus? You didn’t try to help him?”

“Saints be praised! You think my mother raised an idiot son. What could I do?” Seeing the tears rapidly filling the young woman’s eyes, Jack Walsh’s upset gave way to compassion. “Sorry, lass, wish I could have helped the lad. Got word in New York there might be trouble. Figured they’d make some kind of move on him. Tried to reach him. Damn youngun, begging your pardon lass, you being his bride, where in hell was he for two nights?”

“How should I know I wasn’t with him?”

“What, you just after being married? Him off?”

“You don’t understand. I’m not Seamus’ wife.” His jaw fell open so she quickly added. “It’s not like that. My name is O’Donnell by benefit of my father. I was born to the name. And just happen to be a reporter on a story who was sitting next to Seamus on the plane.” She decided it might still be better to maintain some secrecy.

“Damn!” Walsh took a deep pull on his Stout. “You sure got into a mess of sorts. How can we fix this up?”

But their conversation came to an abrupt end as the door burst its lock and hinges. Megan screamed while Walsh leaped at the first invader only more followed. One of the men grabbed her. A shove sent Megan spinning out of the demolished door to land on her knees in the dirt. Attempting to stand, a boot caught her on the right ankle and before she could finish the yelp of pain hands had latched on to her left arm and were dragging her to her feet.

“Cut it out!” she yelled. “What in hell do you think you’re doing?”

“It’s her all right.” Her assailant growled. “A fuckin’ Yank, she is.”

Megan kicked backwards and was instantly pleased by the answering squeal of pain. She threw her head sideways to roll with a blow that broke against her cheek. Snapping her head back she sunk her teeth into the man’s shoulder and though he yanked on her hair she held on.

Several guns barked. A man fell over in front of Megan. Then suddenly her bruised arms were free as her abductor also pitched foreword and she saw the back of his head turning a shiny red.

“Should of used handguns,” Walsh was bellowing. “Look at all the friggin’ blood. Some of you lads best get ta digging gotta turn all this bitching dirt for dawn.”

They killed them! The realization began to invade Megan’s brain. Just plain killed them! She was trembling as David Martin wrapped his jacket around her. “You’ll be fine,” he said. “Just a bit banged up.” He touched a hanky to her bloody lip.

She heard a rough voice say, “Walsh, this fucker’s still breathing.” And she stood in frozen fascination watching as Jack Walsh dropped to knees beside the injured man.

Grabbing the hair he used it to raise the man’s head. When the prisoner begged, “Get me ta hos—” it vanished into Walsh’s open palmed slap.

“How did ya bastards find this place?” Walsh punctuated his question with several more slaps.

“Hospital…”

And Walsh’s words, “Forget it,” held no hope. “You’ve bought it; you’re already dead. It’s the easy way out, or hard? Bobbie, open me one o’ them shells.” As it was handed to him, he motioned and two other men drop down to yank the captive’s hands away from his stomach. The guts swelled out from the uncovered wound as Walsh demanded, “How did ya find this place? What branch are ya with?”

Suddenly coming out of her shock, Megan attempted to pull away from Martin’s hold. “You can’t do this?” She struggled helplessly against his strength.

A hideous howl of raw agony accompanied the stench of burning gunpowder. And Megan’s scream mimicked the victim’s. Then there was sobbing and mumbled words and a single shot.

And still Martin restrained Megan with her face pressed into his chest. “It’s over,” he said. “No one else knows you’re here. They were just running a check on the area. Stumbled on this place and heard you talking—accent gave you away. You’ll be safe up at Monaghan’s shortly; he just wanted to prepare his wife.”

If this was intended to make her feel better, it fell short. Freed, she spun in mounting hysteria on Jack Walsh. “You—Murdered him! Tortured—” Casually Walsh’s hand cracked across her mouth and she crumbled against him. Her legs trembled in weakness as he held her from falling.

“With a hole that size in his belly he’d not last till morning. So hush now, girl.” Walsh handed her back to Martin and turned to help lift the still body.

“UDA,” he said as if that vindicated his actions and Megan pushed her palms against her lips as the vomit gushed forth.