Ammunition by Ken Bruen Read Free Book Online

said:
    ‘Don’t ever… ever question me. You want to live in fear, huddled under the sheets, or do you want to be a man?’
    There was a stunned silence, then Bill said:
    ‘We’re with you, Boss.’
    McDonald liked that, liked it a lot.
    The four old men, McDonald watched them as the time ticked away and the noise from the street intensified. There was the guy in the tartan scarf who seemed gung ho, especially after the pint of cider. Next, was a guy with thick glasses, and McDonald tagged him as the owl. He might be useful if he could actually see anything. Bill, of course, and sitting beside him was a solid-looking man, who might have been a docker in his day. McDonald reckoned he’d be fine.Then was there the librarian, you just knew he’d never swung anything more wieldly than a book.
    McDonald went through the strategy again, insisting they not waver from this, the whole fuel being… fast and dirty.
    He popped a tab of speed and told them to suit up. In the balaclavas, dark clothing, they seemed a touch more formidable but not really up to close scrutiny. He nodded and as they moved to the back door, the librarian halted, said: ‘I can’t… I can’t go out there.’
    McDonald wanted to knock him on his arse, the whole deal could fold right there, he said:
    ‘Okay, that’s fine. You go and gather up some serious booze, you can be the provisions officer. We’ll need fortifying.’
    And then they were moving along the back garden, McDonald held a thick length of pipe in his hand, they came round the street, McDonald in the lead, the four close behind.
    Gathered round a minivan were a loud, boisterous group. The centre was a small guy in his twenties, swigging from a bottle of vodka, giving it large. Trick
    As arranged, they waded in immediately, swinging bats, hammer, and not uttering a sound. They felled most of the gang in the initial assault, and McDonald was cheered to see the docker give a few extra kicks to the guy he’d dropped. Then McDonald was in front of Trick, whose jaw had literally dropped, he gasped:
    ‘The fuck is this?’ McDonald swung the pipe, crushing the guy’s lower jaw, and kicked him in the balls as his headsnapped back, McDonald knelt by him, grabbed his hair, twisted, said:
    ‘You ever appear in this street again, we’ll kill you and everyone belonging to you.’
    He heard a groan behind him, Bill had taken a knife in the gut, the knife holder was standing now, professional stance, his mouth leaking blood, he glared at them, growled:
    ‘C’mon, you wankers, who’s next…?’
    They’d had the initial advantage of surprise and had done really well but it all hung in the balance, a moment when all could go down the toilet, and he could sense his crew on the verge of flight.
    He shot the knife holder, in both knees, said:
    ‘Troops disengage.’
    He had to drag Bill along, blood seeping from his stomach, the docker grabbed his other arm and they were down the street, circled behind the houses and back thorough the gardens. McDonald could hear the wail of sirens. It struck him that for the first time in his career, that sound was the enemy. They were back inside the house, the librarian waiting, his face chalky white. McDonald ordered:
    ‘Hit the lights, we’ll stay in the kitchen.’
    There were three bottles of Glenfiddich on the kitchen table, McDonald got Bill onto a chair, let his head rest on the table, and grabbed a bottle, tore the seal off it, drank deep, passed the bottle to the docker, and then examined Bill’s wound. It was nasty, and Bill had gone into shock. McDonaldgrabbed another bottle, got the top off, and poured the whisky on the gash, Bill howled in anguish, McDonald commanded:
    ‘Get me something to bind this.’
    He was handed a pile of bandages and some towels and sweat pouring off him, he managed to bind the wound. The docker said:
    ‘He’ll need hospitalization.’
    McDonald nodded, said:
    ‘Give me five minutes to get clear, then call an