Seventy Times Seven by John Gordon Sinclair Page B

kept you?’ he asked.
    Marie stared at him for a moment.
    ‘I was having a little “me time” in the lobby,’ she replied. ‘And I couldn’t find the off button for the sheriff.’
    The guy held up the brown paper bag.
    ‘You hungry?’
    His voice was familiar, but somehow didn’t match the face.
    ‘Is it Indian?’ asked Marie.
    ‘Thai.’
    It was only then that Marie realised.
    ‘Do you know how to mix a whiskey sour?’ she asked.
    ‘No,’ he replied. ‘Do you know how to pour a beer?’
    Marie started to get the keys out of her bag.
    ‘You’ve had a shave. Makes you look . . .’ She paused for a second and smiled. ‘Older.’

Chapter 8
Newry‚ early hours of Maundy Thursday
    Four intruders.
    Danny knew they were coming long before he felt the cold, hard barrel of a Browning L9A1 pressed firmly into his cheek.
    He’d been expecting a response. Holding a gun to the head of an E4A operative in the church – even if he’d had no intention of pulling the trigger – wasn’t the smartest thing he’d ever done. It was bound to provoke a reaction.
    Seeing Lep McFarlane again had thrown him; made him drop his guard and act like an idiot. He’d lost control and that wasn’t good.
    Not only would there be a reprisal, but it opened him up to the possibility of charges: ‘possession of a firearm’, ‘threatening a member of Her Majesty’s security forces’, any other shit they wanted to throw in the mix. But Danny knew that’s not how it worked in the real world: he was fairly certain the security forces – particularly the covert ones – preferred hand-to-hand in the street, rather than face-to-face in a law court. Prosecuting him would take too long, with no guarantee of a conviction, and the E4A operative – the guy in the church – wouldn’t want to make an appearance in court. Not only would it be an admission that they were conducting close-surveillance operations, but the officer’s cover would be blown, and that was not an option. Far better to send in a team: deliver an unofficial response in person and let him know the security forces weren’t to be messed with.
    Danny reckoned that’s what was happening now. It was confirmation that he was under surveillance – otherwise, how did they know he was staying the night at Órlaith’s?
    He heard the front door crack open, and the sound of footsteps as they padded swiftly up the stairs. He heard the warning creak from the top step as each of them passed over it.
    The bedroom door eased open and three of the men entered the room. The fourth he guessed had gone to the bedroom next door where his sister-in-law lay sleeping with her seven-year-old daughter Niamh.
    Through half-closed eyes he could just make out their shadowy outlines as they moved quickly to take up positions, strategically placing themselves so as to prevent any means of escape: one by the window, one by the door, and one holding the Browning against his cheek.
    On an invisible signal, the two others raised their weapons and pointed them at Danny.
    His 9 mm was just a few inches away under his pillow, easily within reach – but Danny knew if he made even the slightest movement they would shoot him.
    The three men had Heckler sub-machine guns fitted with suppressors clipped over their shoulders; all were wearing balaclavas pulled down over their faces and none of them was in uniform.
    If – as Danny suspected – they were SAS, he was in the shit. E4A were police: what the hell were the army here for?
    He’d been arrested plenty of times over the years, always in the middle of the night: questioned well into the early hours, and always released without charge. Special Branch in particular were determined to get something on him, but never could. The authorities had very little to go on except their own suspicions. The reason for the arrests had changed from pragmatism to harassment, with no specific purpose other than to intimidate him – but Danny knew instinctively that