Jack Higgins – A Prayer for the Dying

“Perhaps he does, but there won’t be a thing he can do about it.”

Jenny said in a whisper, It’s murder. Cold-blooded mur-der. You can’t do it.”

“Shut your mouth!” Dormer said.

She backed away fearfully and then she noticed an extra-ordinary thing. Fallon’s eyes seemed to have changed colour slightly, the dark flecked with light, and when he looked up at her there was a power in him that was almost physical, a new authority. Somehow it was as if he had been asleep and was now awake. He glanced across at the other two. Harry was examining the old cart, his back to them, and Rupert stood beside the stove fingering the shotgun.

“That’s it then?” he said softly.

Dormer shook his head in mock sorrow. “You should have stayed back home in the bogs, Fallon. You’re out of your league.”

“So it would appear,” Fallon said.

Donner leaned across to help himself to another cigarette. Fallon got both hands to the butt of the Browning he had taped so carefully to the inside of his leg above the ankle, tore it free and shot Donner through the heart at point blank range.

The force of the shot lifted Donner off his feet, slamming him back against the ground, and in the same instant Fallon shot Harry in the back before he could turn, the bullet shattering his spine, driving him head first into the cart.

And as Jenny screamed, Fallon knocked her sideways, on his feet now, the Browning arcing towards Rupert as he turned in alarm, already too late, still clutching the shotgun in both hands.

His mouth opened in a soundless scream as Fallon’s third bullet caught him squarely in the forehead. Blood and brains sprayed across the grey stones as the skull disintegrated and Rupert was knocked back against the wall, his finger tighten-ing convulsively on the trigger of the shotgun in death, dis-charging both barrels.

Jenny sprawled protectingly across the child, still deep in her drugged sleep. There was silence. She looked up fearfully and saw that Fallon was standing quite still, legs apart, perfectly balanced, the Browning held out in front of him in both hands. His face was very white, wiped clean of all expression, the eyes dark.

His right sleeve was torn and blood dripped to the floor. She got to her feet unsteadily. “You’re hurt.”

He didn’t seem to hear her, but walked to the cart where Harry sprawled on his face and stirred him with his foot. Then he crossed to Rupert.

Jenny moved to join him. “Is he dead?” she whispered, and then she saw the back of the skull and turned away, stomach heaving, clutching at the wall to steady herself.

When she turned again, Fallon was on his knees beside Donner, fumbling in the dead man’s breast pocket. He found the key he was looking for and stood up.

“Get me out of these things.”

The stench of that butcher’s shop filled her nostrils, seeped into her very brain, and when she walked towards him, dazed and frightened, she stumbled and almost fell down.

He grabbed her by one arm and held her up. “Steady, girl. Don’t let go now. I need you.”

Tm fine,” she said. “Really I am.”

She unlocked the handcuffs. Fallon threw them to one side, dropped to one knee again and took the buff envelope from Dormer’s inside pocket.

As he stood up, Jenny said wearily, “You’d better let me have a look at that arm.”

“All right,” Fallon said.

“I76

He took off his jacket and sat on the edge of the bed, smoking a cigarette while she did what she could for him.

The arm was a mess. Three of four nasty wounds where steel buckshot had ripped into the flesh. She bandaged it as best she could, with the handkerchief from Dormer’s breast pocket. Fallon picked up one of the bottles of Jameson, pulled the cork with his teeth and took a long swallow.

When she was finished, she sat on the bed beside him and looked around the bam. “How long did it take? Two – maybe three seconds r” She shivered. “What kind of man are you, Martin?”

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