‘Let’s all just drop the weapons now, shall we?’ said a deep Northern Irish voice in his ear.
‘Who’s there?’ demanded Rufus, the torch’s beam flashing wildly about.
The shot was almost deafening in the deep country silence. Rufus reeled back, clutching at his shoulder, staggering, dropping the thing in his hand – not a gun, Max noted, what the hell was that? There were other men here now, four of them, big hooded bruisers, all armed. Rufus collapsed to the ground.
Slowly, Max dropped his gun, took off the goggles and let those fall too. Alberto, Steve and Sandor did the same. The four hooded men snatched up everything. The man who had jammed his pistol into Max’s side went over to where Rufus lay, gasping, on the ground. Max watched him in the faint light from Rufus’s fallen torch. He had a stick and leaned on it heavily as he walked. Max thought he looked very ill, like he had something going on inside, a cancer eating him. He’d been a big man, you could see that, but the flesh had dropped from his bones and he was thin across the shoulders now.
‘Rufus,’ said Big Don Callaghan, looking down at the man on the ground.
Max could see that Rufus’s eyes were open, staring up at the man who’d shot him.
‘Don,’ said Rufus, panting. He almost seemed to be grinning. Then he winced, stiffened. ‘Ah, you just couldn’t let it go, could you?’
‘And why would I? Little Peter lying in a cold grave, burned to a cinder.’
‘I did penance for Pikey, Don,’ said Rufus, fighting to get the words out.
‘Not penance enough,’ said Don, leaning heavily on his stick. ‘But now you have.’
And he raised the pistol in his hand and shot Rufus straight between the eyes, three times.
Now what? wondered Max. These Irish had the drop on them. They had the guns, the sights. He looked over at Layla hugging Annie to her. Fuck’s sake. There was nothing he could do. If the frail old geezer with the stick wanted no witnesses, they were all toast.
Max started walking towards Annie and Layla. To his surprise, the men with the guns let him.
‘She OK?’ he asked his daughter.
‘I’m absolutely fine,’ slurred Annie.
Max glanced at her curiously. She sounded drunk, but that couldn’t be. Then he stood over Rufus. He was dead, no doubt about it. He turned and looked at the man who’d shot him.
‘I’ve no quarrel with you,’ said Big Don Callaghan.
Close to, by the light from the torch, Max could see that he had the pallor and sunken cheeks of the terminally ill.
‘Nor me with you,’ said Max, moving in front of Layla and her mother.
Don looked down at Rufus. ‘It’s done now. Finished.’