Fragile Lives by Jane A. Adams Page A

the same way. No one gets hurt, no one even knows we’ve been until the boss makes the call. This is a business deal, not a killing spree.’
    Stan listened to the good-natured grumbling, the reassurance of men who knew the score and didn’t need further instruction. Coran eyed them all, double-checking equipment, readiness, attitude. His gaze fell upon Stan and he frowned, sensing the doubts.
    They skirted the field, keeping to firmer ground but not needing to worry about any tracks. Their visit would go unreported, no one would be looking, no forensic examination that might identify their number or their boots or the additional weight they would carry back.
    Access to the house was easy. A gate led to a footpath at the side of the garden. Stan took up his post just inside. Coran led the others on, pausing by the French doors. A faint thump as he bumped the lock, two men slipped inside, Coran waiting beside the door.
    Looking up, Stan could make out the pink glow from the children’s night light, then the shadow crossing in front of the window. Moments later and the men were back down, unconscious bundles in their arms, the little girls had not even woken, would not wake until they were in the safe house.
    Coran slid the door closed, Stan checked the path and then eased the gate wider.
    Back to their vehicles and away. A half-hour drive.
    He stood with Coran beside the vehicle as the kids were carried inside the remote farmhouse.
    â€˜This isn’t right.’
    â€˜They won’t be hurt.’
    â€˜Like the Duggan boy wasn’t hurt?’
    â€˜His dad was warned. He should have backed off, thanked God his son was safe and left it at that.’
    â€˜And if their parents don’t play? You going to be the one to put a bullet in
their
heads?’
    Coran shook his head. ‘Nah,’ he said. ‘He likes to do all that himself. Gets a kick out of it.’ Then he moved closer to Stan, glancing towards the house to be sure they were not observed. ‘Look, I told you, there’s more to this than you know about. Haines will get his and we can all walk away with what we earned, free and clear and in full knowledge that the bastard’s dead.’
    â€˜You hate him so much, why have you stayed so long? Why drag me into it?’
    â€˜You needed the cash, don’t tell me you didn’t. Easy money so far, just like I told you it would be. Now, don’t go soft, not now, right?’
    Stan nodded, accepting the implicit threat.
    The other men returned to the vehicle and Coran drove, Stan taking careful note of the route.

Five
    T he autopsy on Patrick Duggan had been scheduled for nine thirty and by eleven Mac was ready to leave, disappointed that he’d not seen Miriam Hastings.
    There had been nothing new to report; tox results were expected later that day but, apart from the bullet hole in Duggan’s head and an inventory of the damage that could be attributed to tide and rock and hungry fish, Mac had learned little.
    Patrick Duggan was in generally good health. The smashed leg had come courtesy of a motorbike crash in which he’d suffered broken ribs and other incidental damage. Unfortunately for Duggan, he’d not been thrown clear of the bike when he lost control and his leg had been trapped and dragged. Seeing the damage on X-rays sent through from the hospital and the repair exposed during the post-mortem, Mac shared Miriam’s admiration for the surgeon.
    Pity it was now wasted, Mac thought as he took his leave, reminding himself that Patrick Duggan had been only twenty-four. Interesting too that Duggan had not followed his father straight into the family business but had taken a degree in sports medicine and gone on to start an MA.
    Did Duggan senior approve? Or was this a source of friction between them. Mac was to get the opportunity to ask sooner than he thought.
    The morgue was attached to the local teaching hospital, housed in a purpose-built,