Falling Glass Part 46

It had to be Sean.

Tom must have found out where they were from Sean.

Sean knew him better than anyone.

"Tell me, Sean, if Killian was going to hide somewhere, where would he hide?"

Sean knew there were only a dozen Pavee campsites in Ulster. From then on it was merely a process of elimination. Tom had known from this morning and he'd sent his boy posing as a DSS officer to confirm it.

And now he'd sent Ivan.

It was clear that Ivan's mission was only to murder Rachel.

He himself was irrelevant.

After she was dead Sean had probably told Tom that he would play ball.

"Killian? Nah, he isn't in the grudge business, mate."

f.u.c.ker. But now was not the time to think about the insult.

He had foolishly emptied the Heckler and Koch's magazine after kneecapping the other attackers, but he checked it just in case.

Nothing.

"s.h.i.+t."

This would have to be hand to hand.

Rachel was hugging Claire tightly, both of them wrapped in a crimson shawl, her back to him.

Her back to Ivan.

Ivan was twenty feet away. Walking deliberately so as not to draw attention to himself.

His instructions would be to spare the kid.

He would shoot her in the head from point-blank range.

Killian was sprinting.

Ivan was fifteen feet away.

Ivan's big cannon was equipped with a silencer.

Deliberately pacing the way a tiger might, paw in front of paw, head completely still.

"Rachel!" Killian screamed but there was too much chaos. Too much noise.

Ivan heard something though and looked to his left and right.

It was okay, no one was nearby.

Ten feet away he pulled down the ski mask, raised the .45 ACP and pointed it.

Eight feet away he sighted her along the barrel.

Six feet away he began squeezing the trigger and Killian slammed him into like a Samoan prop forward into a visiting scrum half.

While they were still in the air Killian smacked the gun out of Ivan's hand and the Russian stuck a finger in Killian's eye.

They landed hard on the wet sand.

Searing pain along Killian's cracked ribs and, still on the ground, the Russian headb.u.t.ted him.

"The game's up, pal," Killian said, pus.h.i.+ng him off. "It's all over."

Ivan got to his feet and scrambled for the gun.

Killian grabbed his ankle and pulled him down.

"Give it up, Starshyna," Killian said, attempting to engage him.

"My name is Markov, remember it," Markov said, ripped his ankle out of Killian's grip and kicked Killian in the chest with a full-force roundhouse kick.

Killian winced and rolled away, attempted to stand, lost his balance and sat backwards on the sand.

Markov attempted another roundhouse to Killian's neck but this time Killian got up a block.

With his big powerful hands Killian grabbed Markov's calf and wrenched the Russian off his feet, punching him in the gut with two quick right jabs before he could recover. Very fast for a big guy, Markov thought, as he rolled to the side and got to his feet again.

Rachel saw everything and began yelling for the others but no one could hear her over the fire. Markov launched a crescent kick at Killian which he dodged.

"We don't need to do this," Killian muttered, scrambling to his feet.

"You talk too much," Markov said, kicked Killian in the s.h.i.+n, grabbed the drawstrings of his hoodie and pulled Killian forward into an elbow punch that broke his nose. Markov hit him again with a right hook and a left uppercut.

Killian reeled.

Blood poured from his nostrils.

He gasped air and breathed more blood.

His eye was partially closed and couldn't see but he could feel the punches raining in.

He put his hands over his head, stepped back, pulled the hood from his forehead and tried to open his eyes.

Markov did a knifehand strike to Killian's throat and if it had connected properly that might have been it but Killian got up a partial block on pure instinct alone. His heart was racing. He was in full panic mode.

This guy was destroying him.

In a second or two he'd think to look for the gun again while Killian couldn't see. And if he had a blade Killian was a dead man.

Killian had one play.

It was it or nothing.

He ran at Markov, picked him up bodily in a bear hug and kept running until they reached the sea.

Markov punched and hit him but Killian kept going until he could feel the surf about his knees and then he dumped the Russian in the water.

Killian shoved Markov under the breakers and pushed down on his shoulders.

He squeezed with those big butcher-boy fingers, holding Markov just beneath the surface while Markov punched and kicked and even screamed.

Killian began counting in his head.

Ten, twenty, thirty, forty.

Markov looked up through the waves.

He didn't want to die here.

In Ireland.

So far from home.

So cold.

With this horrible man's face the last thing he would ever see.

He didn't want to die.

"Marina!" he screamed.

So cold.

So very cold.

Like Volgograd in winter.

Like Grozny.

That stupid Irishman, so slow, so old. Look at him.

Look at him.

I should never have killed that priest.

So cold.

Marina...

When Killian reached 150 in his count he pulled Markov out of the water.

A crowd had gathered.

Killian dumped the dead Russian on the beach.

Rachel was up on the dune with Claire and Sue. As soon as she'd been able she'd gathered her girls and run. Good la.s.s. He was proud of her.

"Is he dead?" Donal asked from behind him.

Killian turned, nodded.

"I suppose now we'll have to call the peelers," Donal said.

"Or just leave. Now," Killian said.

"Was he local?" Donal asked.

"Russian. He was an iceman. He was going to kill Rachel. This whole attack was just cover for him," Killian said.

Donal nodded and said no more.

Pavee didn't pry Killian fished out Markov's wallet which contained a Nevada driver's licence.

"You think we should up sticks and go?"

"Leave him here," Killian said, his brain cooking. If I'm fast enough I can pin it all on Markov. This and what comes after.

"Aye. We'll go," Donal said. "We'll go to Donegal right now."

Donal gave him a handkerchief for his nose.

"Thanks, mate. I'm sorry for all the trouble," Killian said.

"Brother, think nothing of it, we're all still alive and more or less in one piece," Donal said.

"More or less," Killian agreed.

Killian offered Donal his hand. Donal shook it, smiled.

"I'd be grateful if you'd take Rachel and the girls and look after them," Killian said.

"What about you?" Donal asked.

Killian spied the Russian's gun and used Donal's handkerchief to pick it up out of the sand.