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Echo leaned
on the bonnet of the red Lexus surrounded by a wall of broken cars, his
breathing was tight, on his shirt was the growing stain of blood.
On the
ground next to the car lay a body with no head, or little head, the rest of it
had been scattered over the ten or so feet behind by the shotgun now lying
across the bonnet behind Echo.
They had
taken him here to kill him. This was where the money was, stashed in the back
of a car waiting to go into the big crusher on the other side of the breakers
yard.
They’d used
him, and in doing so had tricked him into breaking his most inviolable rule: do
not get involved with paramilitaries.
It was IRA
money.
He was
fucked.
They had
been sloppy in what they were doing. Over-confident, thinking two shotguns made
them immortal. The guy with no head, his first barrel had fired a hasty shot
when Echo made his move and struck his companion dead centre of the chest, Echo
had the gun turned on him and took his head off with the second barrel.
It was a
lovely gun, Echo held it now, admiring the lines of the swan neck stock. It was
something that you didn’t see often on over-under shotguns. It was elegant. It
was a shame that it would have to go in the back of the car with the two
bodies.
He knew the
yard, outside the Moy on the way to Armagh. There weren’t too many neighbours,
he could only hope that no one had heard the shots.
This area
was in Armagh jurisdiction, they had tighter police coverage than Tyrone, if
the police had been called they’d be here in five, maybe ten minutes tops.
He needed to
get going.
He stashed
the headless corpse in the boot of a broken Volvo and threw in the swan necked
Browning.
The
companion groaned as he was hoisted into the back of the car, blood gurgled
from his mouth. Echo dumped him on the body of his friend, and then retrieving
the other shotgun, a heavier Krieghoff affair, he emptied both barrels in quick
succession into the body and dumped the gun.
He didn’t
feel guilt, he didn’t feel anything. He pressed the green button and the heavy
press began to crush down on the Volvo. By the time the police got here there
wouldn’t be any evidence worth collecting.
He tossed
the duffle bag of stolen money into the back of the Lexus, he couldn’t just
give it back to the IRA, that was a death sentence for himself. His only option
was to sort out the motherfucker who got him into this in the first place.
He gunned
the Lexus through the gate, turning right for the Moy with the tail of the car
swishing out behind him the engine roared.
In the rear
view mirror he saw in the distance the flashing blue lights of the PSNI. He was
out of sight by the time they got to the yard.
It was only
a few miles to Dungannon.
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