The revolver’s crack silenced the dogs for just a second. Fegan turned to the butcher, the black-haired woman and her baby. The woman gave him her small, sad smile.
Fegan nodded and walked past Bull O’Kane, who kept his gaze on the ground. He walked towards the yard, where the farmhouse waited. He stopped just inside the barn, leaning out to see it. The world had taken on the strange blue light of early morning as the rain thinned to leave a dull sheen on the farmyard. Low growls and whines came from the stables.
He breathed the tainted air for a moment, savoring the vivid clarity in his mind and the steadiness in his hands. His senses rang with life amid the smell of death. The chill at his center had become a bright flame, incandescent in his chest. Fegan studied the windows, looking for any sign of activity.
McGinty and the others would have expected shots, but not a fire-fight. They would be watching.
The Clio remained where he’d parked it, in the middle of the yard, between Fegan and the house. He had to get to it and the plastic bag taped under the passenger seat. He gave the windows and door another scan and set off at a crouching run.
The kitchen door opened inward and Fegan dropped to his knees, just feet from the car. A shot came from the doorway and something cut the air above his head. The dogs started howling and barking and scratching again.
It was Malloy. Fegan had just caught his stocky frame through the Clio’s windows. He listened for footsteps on the concrete. The noise of the dogs made it hard to be sure. He crawled towards the car, the wet concrete cold on his hands and knees.
Another shot rang out. Fegan heard the bullet pierce the barn’s corrugated metal shell. It sounded like it came from the doorway. Malloy was still inside. Fegan reached the Clio’s rear driver’s-side door and edged up to the glass. The kitchen door was cracked open and he could see a disruption in the shadow beyond.
He ducked down, his mind running in all directions. He didn’t want to kill Malloy, but he had to get past him.
Fegan inched back up to the glass and peered through. He saw a hand appear from the shadows. It held a pistol. A shot blew glass around him as he covered his head.
“I don’t want to kill you,” he called.
He waited. No reply.
“I only want McGinty. You can go if you want. I won’t hurt you.”
“You’re a dead man, Fegan.” Malloy’s voice had the glassy edge of fear as it echoed round the yard.
Fegan chanced another quick glance through the Clio’s windows, and ducked down again when he saw Malloy peering back through the narrow opening of the doorway. “You don’t have to die with McGinty. Not if you go now.”
A bullet struck the Clio’s bodywork, somewhere on the other side of the car.
“Please,” Fegan called. “I don’t want to kill you.”
“Go fuck yourself!”
Fegan sighed and closed his eyes. “I have to,” he whispered.
He crawled along the Clio’s flank, from the rear to the front, keeping his head low as he approached its nose. He edged around the front, still hidden from the doorway. Looking up, he realised he would be visible from the upper floor on that side of the house. He watched the damp-stained net curtains for any sign of movement.
Just a few more inches and the doorway would come into view. If Malloy still had the door only slightly open, Fegan would be obscured by the wood. He crept forward until he could see its flaking green paint. Malloy’s pistol appeared and a bullet struck the Clio’s rear quarter.
He thinks I’m still there, Fegan thought.
He came up over the Clio’s hood, steadying his arms on it, and put four shots through the wooden door. He listened, keeping the revolver’s smoking muzzle trained on the doorway.
After a second or two he heard a weak cry and the sound of a body sliding down a damp wall and hitting the floor.
Fegan cursed, bitter anger at the waste rising in him.
He moved back behind the shelter of the car and edged his way round to the driver’s door. He hadn’t locked it. It creaked open and shattered glass spilled out. Fegan lay flat across the driver’s seat, dropped the revolver into the footwell, and reached down under the passenger seat. His eyes stayed on the house, at least what he could see of it through the cracked window. He found the plastic bag with its cold, hard contents, and pulled the tape away. It tore and he felt nine-millimeter rounds spill through his fingers onto the floor. There was a heavy clunk as the weapons fell away.
Somewhere beneath the frantic barking and scratching of the dogs, Fegan caught the hint of voices from inside the house. He studied the windows as he drew his Walther from under the seat, followed by Campbell’s Glock. A net curtain in a window above the doorway swayed, disturbed by some passing shape. He threw himself backwards, a gun in each hand, just as a hole was blown through the car’s roof and a bullet gouged the upholstery where his head had been.
The dogs’ whining and howling rose to a new pitch and blood thundered in his ears. But through that clamor came a sharper, more frightening sound. A high, terrified crying.
“Ellen,” he said.
“Stay away, Fegan!”
McGinty’s voice, shrill and jagged.
“Stay away or I’ll kill them!”
Fegan clung to the side of the car, listening to the girl’s cries. His heart threw itself against the walls of his chest; his stomach sank low inside him.
“Ellen.”