Dead Men by Stephen Leather

empathise.’
    Shepherd took out a packet of Marlboro and popped one into his mouth. He offered them to Button but she declined. He lit the cigarette and blew smoke into the air.
    ‘How are you getting on with those?’ asked Button.
    ‘At least I can inhale without coughing now. I just hope I don’t get addicted before the job’s over.’ Button was looking longingly at the cigarette and he offered her the packet again.
    She wrinkled her nose,then sighed and took one. ‘I suppose it doesn’t count if I didn’t buy it,’ she said.
    ‘One won’t hurt you,’ said Shepherd. He lit it for her.
    Button inhaled deeply, held the smoke in her lungs, then blew it out. ‘Disgusting habit,’ she said.
    Tears sprang to Willie McEvoy’s eyes and he blinked them away, not wanting to die like a crying baby. ‘There’s half a kilo of cocaine upstairs,’ he said, ‘and money. There’s thirty grand under the bed. It’s yours. Take it.’
    The barrel of a gun was pushed against the back of his neck. He heard the click-click-click of the hammer drawn back.
    ‘Look, if I’m on your turf, I’ll leave,’ said McEvoy, his voice trembling. ‘I’ll up and go. I’ll leave Belfast. There’s no need to do anything stupid, okay?’
    McEvoy stared at the wall in front of him. There was a small wooden cross with a figure of Jesus next to a framed photograph of the Pope. ‘Please, Jesus, don’t let me die like this,’ he whispered. ‘I’ll do anything, anything, just don’t let me die.’
    McEvoy heard a rustle and a gloved hand reached over his shoulder, holding a photograph. McEvoy recognised the face in the picture and his heart sank. Robert Carter, in his RUC uniform and cap. McEvoy had been hoping he was being robbed, that all he had to do was to give up his money or his drugs and he’d escape with a beating or, at worst, a bullet in the leg. Now he knew this wasn’t about drugs or money.
    Tears rolled down his cheeks. ‘I only drove the car,’ he said. ‘That’s all I did. I drove the sodding car. I didn’t even have a gun, they said that at my trial. I didn’t even have a gun.’ McEvoy put his hands up to his face and sobbed. He knew what had happened to Adrian Dunne and Joseph McFee. ‘I’ve got money in the bank and I own three apartments in the city. Two apartments in Liverpool. More than a million quid’s worth. I’ll get the money for you tomorrow and I’ll sign the apartments over to you.’
    The gloved hand took the photograph away from his face.
    ‘I did my time,’ said McEvoy. ‘I didn’t shoot him. I didn’t have a gun. I drove the car. I waited and I drove them away. That’s all.’ McEvoy felt a warm wetness spread round his groin and smelt his own urine. He’d pissed himself. He was crying like a baby and he’d pissed himself. Anger flared through his system and he lowered his hands, his tear-filled eyes blazing with hatred. He clenched his hands into fists. ‘I’m not going to die like this,’ he said. ‘Fuck you, I’m not going to . . .’
    The gun barked and McEvoy felt a searing pain in his left leg, as if he’d been hit with a hammer. He staggered to the right and almost immediately there was a second bang and his right leg buckled. McEvoy screamed. He lurched forward, arms flailing. His knees felt as if they were being pierced by red-hot pokers and the strength drained from his legs. ‘This isn’t fair . . .’ he said. He didn’t hear the shot that blasted through the back of his skull and tore through his face, spraying his brains and blood across the wall in front of him.

It took Shepherd less than twenty minutes to drive to the ferry terminal. He was directed to one of the lines of cars waiting to board, and an hour later he was sitting in the cafeteria eating an egg-mayonnaise sandwich and drinking coffee as the ferry headed across the Irish Sea. The Norfolkline ship took just over eight hours to make the crossing and he had booked a cabin so that he could