Souls At Zero (A Dark Psychological Thriller) (35 page)

But as the Satnav on the dash of his car finished directing him to his destination, thoughts of holiday homes became quickly banished from his mind, replaced by thoughts of what he now had to do. Of the blood he had to spill to protect what he already had.

He pulled into the driveway of the bungalow belonging to Gemma McGuire's parents and parked his black Range Rover alongside Nigel McCann's white BMW 5 Series. Before he got out of the car, Rankin reached into his coat pocket and took out the small revolver there. It was a Ruger LCRx .38 Special. The gun was unregistered, so it couldn't be traced back to him. He flipped open the cylinder and checked the gun was fully loaded, which it was. Then he put the revolver back in his pocket and exited the car. The wind blowing off the lough opposite was strong, and it blew Rankin's greying hair around his face. He didn't bother to gel it back this morning before he left for Fermanagh, and he used his hand to sweep his fringe back from his eyes.

Nigel greeted him at the front door. "Alright, John," he said, stepping aside to allow Rankin into the hallway. "Bit of a change from Belfast, eh?"

Rankin smiled at the bodyguard. "It is indeed. I wish I had these views outside my house."

Nigel smiled back and led Rankin into the conservatory where Gemma McGuire sat. "Hiya, Gemma," Rankin greeted her. "You doing okay?"

Her smile was forced. Rankin wasn't sure if she disliked him or she just wasn't in the mood for friendly greetings. "I'm fine," she said. "There was no need for you to come up here."

Ignoring her bluntness, Rankin said, "Harry insisted. Not to take anything away from Nigel and Kieran, but Harry wanted me here."

"Surely it would be better if you all stayed instead of just you?"

It was Rankin's turn to force a smile. "These guys have done enough."

"We don't mind staying," Nigel said. "It's no problem."

"Right," Kieran McCormick said, now standing beside Nigel. "It's no problem."

Fucks sake.

"Thanks guys, but I'll take it from here," Rankin insisted. "Get your gear and head back to Belfast. I'll give you's a call later."

The two bodyguards looked at each other, then nodded at Rankin, before leaving to pack up their stuff. Five minutes later, they were gone, and Rankin was alone with Gemma McGuire in the conservatory. He sensed her discomfort as she got up off the couch she was sitting in and offered to make him coffee. He thanked her and she went to the kitchen.

The conservatory was wide open to the main road, Rankin noticed. He didn't want any passing cars seeing what he was about to do. He headed into the kitchen. Gemma was there, the kettle boiling in the background.

"So where's young Kaitlin?" Rankin asked, as he stood next to the large American style fridge/freezer.

Gemma hardly looked at him, as she busied herself preparing two cups, spooning instant coffee into each of them. "In bed. Resting. Sugar?"

"No thanks."

Rankin continued to stand casually as he reached inside his coat pocket and wrapped his hand around the handle of the revolver.

Gemma stirred the two cups of coffee, and turned around to offer Rankin his.

Rankin had the gun out. It was aimed at her head.

Eyes widening in shock, Gemma dropped the coffee cup from her hand, and the cup smashed on the tiled floor, steaming hot coffee splashing around her bare feet. "I knew—" she began to say.

"I'm sorry about this, Gemma."

He pulled the trigger on the .38 Special and shot Gemma McGuire in the face. The noise was deafening inside the kitchen, and the bullet went through her left eye socket, exploding out the back of her head, not stopping until it punched a hole the size of a man's fist in one of the kitchen cupboards behind her. The redhead's blood and brain matter splattered all over the glass of the kitchen window, and the cupboards behind her, before she dropped dead to the tiled floor, a huge amount of dark blood pouring out from the massive exit wound in her head.

The smell of gunpowder hung thick in the air as Rankin stared down at the corpse for a long moment.

Pity. She was a nice woman.

He put the gun back in his pocket and stood listening for any signs of the daughter coming to see what was happening. She had no doubt heard the huge bang of the gun going off. When he heard nothing, he assumed she was electing to sit terrified in whatever bedroom she was in. He thought of her sitting in there, curled up in fear perhaps, unable to move.

A familiar sensation passed through him.

Excitement. Anticipation.

That's not why you're here.

His eyes lit on the block of knives on the kitchen worktop.

Just kill her quick and be done with it. Plenty of time later for play.

The ex-military cop walked forward, stepping over the corpse of Gemma McGuire. He reached out and took one of the knives from the wooden block. A small paring knife with a three inch blade.

No sense wasting a good opportunity.

He walked out of the kitchen to find Kaitlin McGuire.

CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

At shortly after 8:00 a.m. Edger woke a sleeping Paul Black from his slumber in one of the armchairs in the living room of the cottage. Black had spent the last few hours snoring and spluttering in his sleep by the warmth of the fire while Edger had checked over all the guns to make sure they were in good working order, which they were. All of the weapons were military grade, of a standard he hadn't seen since he was in the Legion. Even in Iraq, he and his team always used the Kalashnikov AK-47, leaving the high tech rifles to the likes of the Blackwatch guys. Edger wondered how the hell his brother had even managed to acquire such weapons in the first place. Aside from the rifles and handguns, remote detonated plastic explosive devices were not easy to come by outside of the military. Edger could only assume that Declan had stolen, or had been supplied, with the weaponry by those who ran the Red Falcon Country Club. If that was the case, it gave a good indication of what Edger and Black would be up against when they stormed the castle, so to speak.

When Black opened his eyes, the now former police detective immediately began to cough uncontrollably, sounding like he was going to vomit up a lung. Edger could only watch with a pained expression as Black fumbled a white handkerchief out of his trouser pocket and covered his mouth with it until the coughing subsided. When he removed the handkerchief from his mouth, Edger noticed it was now stained red. "Jesus Christ," Black wheezed as he rested while trying to catch his breath.

"Bad?" asked Edger, stating the obvious.

Black nodded. "My fucking lungs are on fire."

Edger wondered what Black would do if they survived what was to come. He got the impression Black was treating all this as some kind of suicide mission, it seemed. A way to end his life with valour and dignity rather than go through the torture and humiliation of painfully and slowly dying from lung cancer. Edger thought if he was in Black's position that he might elect to go out the same way. "When you're ready, we need to get going."

Black nodded as he took out his cigarettes and lit one, the first drag causing him to start coughing all over again. "Ah, Jesus…"

"Them things'll kill you."

Black made a face. "Very funny, Edger."

"Sorry. Bad taste."

When Black had gathered himself again, he stood up and put his suit jacket on, then grabbed his overcoat from off the back of the chair. "Where we going?" he asked.

"We need to find one of those club members, find out when the next big meeting is," Edger said. "We'll decide on the way back to Belfast which one we're going to go after. In the meantime, I need to call in and see my daughter on the way. She's staying in my ex-wife's parent's house in Fermanagh."

"Fair enough."

"I'll leave the Fiesta there, and we can take your car the rest of the way. I've already loaded the guns and stuff into your boot."

Before they left, Edger went around the back of the cottage to the grave he dug for his brother the night before. He hunkered down by the rectangular patch of freshly turned over earth and placed a hand on the cold, damp soil. "Goodbye, brother," he said. "Rest in peace."

About an hour and a half later, Edger pulled the Ford Fiesta into the drive of his ex-wife's parent's house, frowning as he spotted the black Range Rover parked there, recognising it immediately as John Rankin's vehicle. No sign of Gemma's parents' car or even Nigel's BMW. What was Rankin doing there, and where was everyone else?

Black pulled up behind the Fiesta in his red Audi A3 just as Edger got out of the car. Edger told him to wait, and went to the front door of the house. He knocked on the glass before pushing down on the handle and opening the door. "Hello?" he called. "It's Harry."

There was no reply as he stepped inside the house, closing the door behind him. The house felt eerily silent as he first checked the living room and then the conservatory. No one there. "Gemma? John, you here, mate?"

Still no answer.

What the hell is going on? Where was everyone? It's not like they can't hear me.

A bad feeling came over him as a thought hit him: What if the Red Falcon Club had tracked Gemma and Kaitlin down?

The thought made him sick to his stomach, and he reached inside his jacket and took out the Beretta, slipped the safety off as he walked slowly down the hallway towards the kitchen. "Gemma? Kaitlin?"

He stopped when he noticed the bloody footprints on the white tiled floor of the kitchen.

No
.

Edger raised the Beretta and walked into the large kitchen, stopped in horror when he saw all the blood.

Saw the body on the floor.

"Gemma, oh Jesus Christ…"

She was lying in a pool of her own blood, a gaping hole in the back of her skull. He knelt down beside her and stroked her face, clenching his teeth to prevent the tears that wanted to come. "Oh Gemma…I'm sorry…"

Then he remembered Kaitlin.

Please not her as well…not her…

He shot to his feet.

"Kaitlin!" he called out as he left the kitchen to check all the bedrooms. "Kaitlin, answer me!"

Where the fuck was John? Where was Nigel and Kieran? They were supposed to protect Gemma.

The first bedroom he checked was empty. He quickly moved to the next one. Empty.

Then he heard a muffled sound coming from the smallest bedroom at the end of the hall.

There was someone in there.

His heart thudding against his chest, Edger walked down the hall with the semi-automatic held out in front of him, his finger on the trigger.

Pausing by the door, his hand on the handle, Edger listened for a second, hearing muffled sounds from within. Someone was in there.

Someone holding Kaitlin.

Edger took a breath, and pushed down on the door handle, before bursting into the bedroom, the Beretta out as he prepared to shoot.

The shock of what he saw caused him to freeze.

It was Rankin. The man was naked from the waist up, and he was standing at the other side of the double bed in the centre of the room. Kaitlin was with him. He held her against him with one hand covering her mouth. His other hand held a small kitchen knife, and he had the blade up against Kaitlin's throat.

Edger was sickened when he noticed his daughter was completely naked, and that there was blood running down her chest from a long slash wound that went almost shoulder to shoulder.

Shaking his head, fighting back tears, Edger trained the gun on Rankin's head.

"Don't, Harry," Rankin said, clearly shocked that Edger was even there in the first place. Rankin had clearly expected to be alone for a while. "I'll cut her throat. I will." He pressed the edge of the blade harder against Kaitlin's throat, and she screamed, or tried to, as Rankin still had his hand over her mouth.

Edger shook his head in utter disbelief as he tried to make sense of the scene before him. "What the fuck?" he said, screwing his face up in disgust and disbelief.

"What can I say, Harry? We all have our secrets. You've just discovered mine."

Edger trained the gun on Rankin's head. Rankin positioned himself behind Kaitlin. She was so tall he could easily hide most of himself behind her, making a head shot too risky.

"Drop the gun, Harry," Rankin ordered him. "Do it now, or I'll cut your daughter's throat."

There was a look in Rankin's eyes that Edger had never seen before. A look of cold, predatory intent. The look of a cold-blooded killer. Edger knew he would slit Kaitlin's throat without thinking twice about it. As much as he wanted to blow the man's head off for what he was doing to Kaitlin, Edger knew he couldn't risk it. "Alright, John," he said, trying to keep a note of calm to his voice, which was difficult, given the anger boiling inside him. He held the gun away and threw it on the bed.

Without missing a beat, Rankin leaned around the side of Kaitlin, dropped the knife he was holding and snatched the Beretta off the bed, before pointing it at Edger. His hand was gone from around Kaitlin's mouth now. His arm was around her throat.