The Dead Yard by Adrian McKinty Read Free Book Online Page A

yourself scarce, mister Carrickfergus postman," he whispered

slowly, measuring out every word.
    "I’m heading just as soon as I finish my beer," I said.
    "No, no, maybe you should split right now, if you know what’s good for ya," the assassin

said.
    I was touched. Fair play of him to spare me the coming unpleasantness, but I couldn’t go.
    "I’ll be heading soon," I said.
    The assassin opened his mouth to insist that maybe I should leave right now, but before he

could the outside door opened.
    In walked the bodyguards. The first one I noticed was "Big" Mike McClennahan. Of course, Big

Mike was about five foot five. Bald, skinny, wearing a black polo shirt and blue jeans. He was

from Boston, ex-cop, gunrunner, bookie. Next, Seamus Hughes—fifty-two, five nine, sallow-faced,

wearing a tan jacket and a 5-0 shirt. Another Bostonian, another ex-cop in fact, twenty-five

years, full pension, tough nut.
    A heartbeat behind them, Gerry McCaghan.
    Fifty-five years old. Six foot, a good three hundred pounds, pale, ursine, red hair, a really

nasty smear of scar tissue under his left eye where he’d gotten hit by a rubber bullet at a riot

in Derry. He was wearing sunglasses, blue corduroys, a Hawaiian shirt like Seamus’s, black

loafers, and rather surprisingly he had a gun showing in a holster on his left hip. The gun

visible only for a moment as the draft from the door wafted up his shirttail.
    "Mr. McCaghan, the usual?" the kid behind the bar shouted.
    Kit looked over, smiled at her dad, and waved.
    The feds tensed.
    The assassin put down his pint. Too late now to warn his compatriot about the upcoming

slaughter.
    I got off the bar stool, began walking toward Kit.
    Here goes, I thought. She was hovering over a table, clearing away the drinks. The table was

between the exit and a toilet, so I could always say I’d been heading for the toilet if she ever

asked why I had suddenly started walking toward her when all hell had broken loose.
    About fifteen paces from me to her. How long did I have? A few seconds?
    Three paces, four, five, six, seven.
    I knew it was the wrong thing to do but I couldn’t help but half-turn and look at the

assassin. His pint was on the bar now, his cigarette in the ashtray, both his hands free. He slid

off the bar stool, stood, legs apart, steady.
    Nine, ten, eleven…
    Gerry, slightly behind Hughes and McClennahan, nodded at someone in the far corner of the

room.
    Kit picked up an empty glass, put it on her tray.
    Twelve, thirteen, fourteen…
    The assassin reached in his coat, pulled out a sawed-down AK-47 assault rifle. He hooked in

that big curved magazine, lifted the gun, and aimed it. I leapt at Kit just as someone

yelled:
    "He’s got a gun."
    My hands reached Kit’s shoulders.
    Seamus went for his revolver. McCaghan reached for his pistol.
    The assassin leveled the AK at McCaghan, pulled the trigger.
    Nothing.
    A blank look on the assassin’s face.
    I hauled Kit to the floor. Her body warm, slender, slight. A pint glass fell out of her hand

and I pushed it away in midair before it smashed on top of her.
    "What the fuck—" she began saying to me while her father ducked and the assassin, looking

baffled, pulled the AK’s trigger again.
    Then a dozen people stood and yelled "Drop your weapon" and "Put the gun down" and "This is

the FBI."
    And at the same time, the blond-haired kid in the corner took out a 9mm pistol, leveled his

arm, took aim, and fired two quick rounds at Gerry McCaghan. Put off by all the noise, confusion,

and yelling, he missed Gerry by ten feet and the bullets sailed through the upper windows and out

into the back bay.
    Panicking, one of the FBI agents fired his weapon, hitting the effectively unarmed assassin at

the bar, nailing him in the left shoulder.
    The blond-haired kid fired again, almost getting McCaghan this time, missing him by a few

inches, hitting a bell hanging from the ceiling just above his head. Seamus