jacket pocket. The round struck the police inspector straight in the gut and tore its way in.
When the man grabbed his belly in shock and unbelievable pain, theboy withdrew the pistol and fired two more times—hittinghim once in his chest and once in his face.
He then wiped the pistol off, dropped it next to the body, and walked out of the field house—just like he had been told to do. Ditching the jacket, he found the man from the pub waiting, his engine running, a block away.
“How did it go?” he asked as the boy got into the car.
“He’s dead.”
“You did a good thing. Your father would be proud of you. I’mproud of you.”
The boy didn’t know what to feel. He had taken a life. Based on everything the church had taught him, he should have felt remorseful. Yet, he didn’t. He felt nothing, really.
They didn’t return to Belfast. At least not right away. The man from the pub drove for quite some time. During the trip, they didn’t speak. That was fine with the boy. He didn’t feel like talking.
In a smallvillage in the middle of nowhere, they parked behind a nondescript building and knocked on a thick, secure door. A pair of eyes looked out through a slot. Words were exchanged. Then the door was opened.
It was a social club of sorts. One he would get to know well over the next couple of years. The men inside would become his comrades in arms. He would drink there, laugh there, plan there, andeven mourn the loss of some of those very same men there.
On this first visit, his new IRA handler had only one mission—to get him a bit drunk and to celebrate his first kill. It was a rite of passage.
Big men, important men he would later learn, came by the table to shake his hand and congratulate him. They were also “proud” of him, they said.
He drank three bottles of cider before his handlerlooked at his watch and said that it was time for them to be getting back to Belfast.
The boy was still not interested in chatting, so like the ride from Portadown, they made this last leg of their journey in silence.
When they rolled to a stop several blocks from his home, hishandler gave him a final talking-to. It went without saying that he shouldn’t tell anyone what had happened—not hismother, not his uncle, not his priest—no one. Not even his mates. If he did, there’d be hell to pay and his handler made it quite clear that he’d be the one delivering the bill.
After giving him an alibi and explaining what he should say and do in the unlikely event the police came around asking questions, he handed him an envelope.
“What’s this?” the boy asked.
“Open it.”
He did. Inside wasseveral hundred pounds sterling.
“You’re one of us now,” his handler said. “We take care of our own. You’ve earned that.”
It was his first, rudimentary taste of the dark arts. Like losing one’s virginity, it had been quick, anxiety-inducing, and somewhat clumsy. But it had been successful. He had gotten the job done—which was all that mattered.
The boy didn’t know it at that moment, but hehad just been introduced to a profession he would show an incredible aptitude for and grow quite comfortable in.
His handler had run the best assassins the IRA had ever fielded. The boy, in time, would surpass them all.
The British would both hunt and fear him. They would publicly declare him a savage, but privately marvel at his abilities. His kills would be the subject of lengthy newspaperand magazine articles. Then, one day, he would simply vanish.
It was Christmas 1999. The Good Friday Agreement had been signed, voted on by the citizens, and put into effect. The Troubles, for the most part, were finished. The demand, locally, for men of his vocation had practically collapsed overnight.
There was also a rumor that he remained at the top of a very secret “most wanted” list. Withthe ground shifting under Northern Ireland, new political parties and new allegiances were being forged. There was a dirty,
When the man grabbed his belly in shock and unbelievable pain, theboy withdrew the pistol and fired two more times—hittinghim once in his chest and once in his face.
He then wiped the pistol off, dropped it next to the body, and walked out of the field house—just like he had been told to do. Ditching the jacket, he found the man from the pub waiting, his engine running, a block away.
“How did it go?” he asked as the boy got into the car.
“He’s dead.”
“You did a good thing. Your father would be proud of you. I’mproud of you.”
The boy didn’t know what to feel. He had taken a life. Based on everything the church had taught him, he should have felt remorseful. Yet, he didn’t. He felt nothing, really.
They didn’t return to Belfast. At least not right away. The man from the pub drove for quite some time. During the trip, they didn’t speak. That was fine with the boy. He didn’t feel like talking.
In a smallvillage in the middle of nowhere, they parked behind a nondescript building and knocked on a thick, secure door. A pair of eyes looked out through a slot. Words were exchanged. Then the door was opened.
It was a social club of sorts. One he would get to know well over the next couple of years. The men inside would become his comrades in arms. He would drink there, laugh there, plan there, andeven mourn the loss of some of those very same men there.
On this first visit, his new IRA handler had only one mission—to get him a bit drunk and to celebrate his first kill. It was a rite of passage.
Big men, important men he would later learn, came by the table to shake his hand and congratulate him. They were also “proud” of him, they said.
He drank three bottles of cider before his handlerlooked at his watch and said that it was time for them to be getting back to Belfast.
The boy was still not interested in chatting, so like the ride from Portadown, they made this last leg of their journey in silence.
When they rolled to a stop several blocks from his home, hishandler gave him a final talking-to. It went without saying that he shouldn’t tell anyone what had happened—not hismother, not his uncle, not his priest—no one. Not even his mates. If he did, there’d be hell to pay and his handler made it quite clear that he’d be the one delivering the bill.
After giving him an alibi and explaining what he should say and do in the unlikely event the police came around asking questions, he handed him an envelope.
“What’s this?” the boy asked.
“Open it.”
He did. Inside wasseveral hundred pounds sterling.
“You’re one of us now,” his handler said. “We take care of our own. You’ve earned that.”
It was his first, rudimentary taste of the dark arts. Like losing one’s virginity, it had been quick, anxiety-inducing, and somewhat clumsy. But it had been successful. He had gotten the job done—which was all that mattered.
The boy didn’t know it at that moment, but hehad just been introduced to a profession he would show an incredible aptitude for and grow quite comfortable in.
His handler had run the best assassins the IRA had ever fielded. The boy, in time, would surpass them all.
The British would both hunt and fear him. They would publicly declare him a savage, but privately marvel at his abilities. His kills would be the subject of lengthy newspaperand magazine articles. Then, one day, he would simply vanish.
It was Christmas 1999. The Good Friday Agreement had been signed, voted on by the citizens, and put into effect. The Troubles, for the most part, were finished. The demand, locally, for men of his vocation had practically collapsed overnight.
There was also a rumor that he remained at the top of a very secret “most wanted” list. Withthe ground shifting under Northern Ireland, new political parties and new allegiances were being forged. There was a dirty,
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