Hometown

By Martin Hughes

Ryan Bradley, an ex-IRA driver, is on the run from the British and Irish police after a botched cross-border smuggling run that killed two British army officers and his best friend. He ends up in Amsterdam, where he meets Kim and gets recruited into joining an international criminal gang. His subsequent training and a job in the Middle East eventually brings him full circle to his hometown in Ireland. As he tries to keep from getting caught by the local police, he fights for his life and the secrets from his past.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse UK
• Release date: Jun 14, 2013
• ISBN: 9781481798228

Martin Hughes

Martin Hughes was born in Ballybay, County Monaghan, Ireland. He has lived in Bahrain since 1988 and is currently the music and drama teacher at Naseem International School. This book is the sequel to his first successful publication, HOMETOWN.

Book preview

© 2013 by Martin Hughes. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 06/12/2013

ISBN: 978-1-4817-9821-1 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4817-9820-4 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4817-9822-8 (e)

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Contents

Acknowledgement

1 Hometown

2 Undercover

3 Surveillance

4 Mr Philippe M. Balladur

5 Amsterdam

6 The Offer

7 Changes

8 Training

9 Jassim Karim

10 Weapons and Terrain

11 Marco

12 The Real Deal

13 Alternative Christmas

14 Job Plan

15 Kim Adriaans

16 Prep

17 The Job

18 Sunday

19 Monday

20 Tuesday

21 Wednesday

22 Baqal

23 Thursday

24 Ram

25 Friday

26 Saturday

27 Drugs

28 Capture

29 Escape

30 Reunion

31 Revenge

32 Shoot-out

33 The Chase

34 Revelations

35 End Game

Acknowledgement

Firstly, I’d like to thank Patricia Berry and Jonathan Wilson for reading the first draft of this novel and giving me the encouragement to start the publishing process. To all my dear friends, for their support and patience while I hibernated in my home for the last year, writing this. To Mohammed Saleh for helping design the front and back covers. To my dear sister Anne for the final edit and to all my family whose love and support I will always cherish.

1

Hometown

September 10th 2012

It was very cold, and the damp, depressing, icy wind cut through him like a knife. Ryan always hated this weather! However, he was going to stay a while longer, seeing as how he had come all this way and climbed so far into the hills on this cloudy, midnight hour. He stood at the highest point at the back of the valley; it was his vantage point and always had been. He could smell the sea air from here, coming over the coastal cliffs three kilometres away. He looked back down to the bottom of the valley at the empty, dark home he had grown up in and spent eighteen years of his life. ‘Strange thought, that,’ he said softly, as if someone might hear him. It all seemed so unreal, but it was real. After so much change, he was back from abroad and dipping into the past. He felt so lonely, and of course all the guilt came flooding back, especially about his father. He turned around and looked down the other side of the valley to the big lake, Lough Avaghon, and across it to the forest edge, where he could make out the small church steeple at the edge of the village. All the years he spent going there—the praying, the sermons, the singing, everyone knowing everyone else and their business, but with a real sense of community. These people would do anything to help you. So why had he not been able to stay?

It didn’t bother him now; he was well past caring, or so he told himself. It seemed such a waste that he’d spent so many years trying to fit into the community when he could have been away, doing other things. He had so many different interests compared to his friends. They were great buddies, but they always thought he was strange with his new ideas and thoughts of travel and mountain climbing. He remembered his dad and mum, who were buried at the little cemetery, and he softened at the thought of them. His father, who was always so kind and understanding, and always making excuses for other peoples shortcomings. Everyone said this about loved ones who’d passed on, but Ryan thought he was the real thing. Ryan used to get angry with him for always being forgiving, whatever the circumstances. There were still many questions he didn’t have the answers to about his father, and he guessed he never would.

A few drops of rain hit his face and broke his reverie. It was time to trek back down the valley to his car, before anyone came along and checked it out. On the way down, he remembered all the times he had played on these very hills, and the long walks to the lakes to go fishing and swimming. The hot summer days spent in the fields with jam jars, catching dragonflies and bees.

After a time he reached his rental car, saw nobody was around, reversed out onto the road from the small laneway, and drove east towards the old house. The heating was full on in the car, but it still didn’t warm him up. He’d forgotten how cold this place could be. When he got to the house, he turned the car into the driveway and looked up at his first home, now dilapidated and dark. He left the headlights on and took in the sight. No emotions would come. He had never cried when his dad died, and he could never work up anything more than an emptiness and sadness about this whole place.

As he turned the car, he reached over and felt the heavy, oblong case in the passenger seat under his raincoat. In the case was a Weatherby Vanguard rifle assembly with the latest tech: laser, night vision, silencer, and so on. It had a ten-shot, detachable magazine, but he usually only needed one attempt to achieve his goal. He had two more days to check things out and lay the final plans. As he drove away, the house and everything else was forgotten, and his mind raced to the coming days and his plans. He needed to keep undercover and still try to get the timings on his target’s comings and goings. He had a contract to make a hit on a man called Philippe Balladur, an American business tycoon running a fishing empire but trading millions of dollars in drugs. So, he could not get caught by the Gardaí (the local police) now, after so much had happened and with so much at stake.

He had argued bitterly about being selected to take out this target. His logic was that it was his hometown and he might easily be recognized, thus jeopardizing the whole operation. Their argument was twofold. One, he was very well trained now and had an array of disguises to help him stay undercover and secure his identity. Two, if the hit went pear shaped, he’d have the knowledge of the terrain with its vast wetlands, forest, and coastline to assist in his escape. It was a big county. They did have a point.

Ryan Bradley was born in 1979 in the small, beautiful town of Kilkerran, County Cork, Ireland, six kilometres from Kinsale. His parents were middle class, and his father, Ali (called Al by everyone), had retired from the NYPD and worked as a part-time consultant manager with the local and county Gardaí, till his untimely death. He had two older sisters and one brother four years his junior. He remembered all the fighting he used to have with his eldest sister, Kathy; for a long time she had been settled down with three children. The odd time they did meet now, she would fuss and bother over him, and then after a few gins, she’d start on at him about the ‘wild living’ and tell him it was time he settled down and make a family. His second sister, Sharon, had moved to Canada not long after he had moved away. She lived in Toronto and was doing well, the last he had heard. She was Ryan’s favourite, and he often thought of her and the laughs they used to have growing up, out fishing, setting snares, smoking, and swimming to the islands near the shore on the big lake. How had they survived! Buying single cigarettes from the local country shop and smoking them before reaching home. The time she had borrowed a neighbour’s motorcycle and took him for a spin in the field beside their home; he was only eight at the time. He remembered trying to stand up on the foot rests only to slip off, jamming his foot between the spokes. Both of them fell down in the wet grass. He still had the scar where the hot exhaust pipe had burned into his leg as his sister desperately attempted to lift the bike off him. His younger brother, Alan, always seemed to be left out of things. His mum, Joanna (Jo), had spoiled Alan because he was the youngest. He was now a primary school teacher living near his job in Cork City, was engaged to be married, and was doing everything by the book in the Irish country way.

Ryan wondered what he was doing back in the place where he was now a wanted man. He remembered why he had left in the first place, and he shook his head in wonder at how he had never been caught or killed. He thought at the time that he was clever, a rebel and had been well trained—what a joke! A couple of long weekends running about on remote farms; shooting targets with ancient, single-barrel farmer’s rifles; and driving fast on country lanes while trying to do handbrake turns and all the stunt stuff. Driving in the dark without lights, which was part of the deal on the small country roads when they were on a smuggling run. Learning how to load and unload small and large packaging into a van or car in minutes; it was all about speed and timing. It was a job they had done the previous winter, smuggling crates over the Northern Irish border at night.

He had been doing this work for two years and planned events very carefully with his two mates. The pay was very good, but he never liked the thought of being under a general or other appointed people. He was very aware of their ruthless punishment for those who took it upon themselves to do a night run without permission, or to keep payments back from them. He was witness to a brutal knee-capping once, and he was sickened by it. He always told them that he would do the driving and delivery, even though he never knew what was in the crates. He never wanted to know what else they did or get further involved. As long as he delivered every two weeks and kept his nose clean, they were fine with that.

But as always happens, one night things went wrong—badly wrong. It was December 29, and they were bringing a van full of alcohol and kegs over the border from Northern Ireland. Tax in the Republic was crippling on booze and cigarettes, so big money would be paid at this time of year for extra supplies. They were on a dark side road in the middle of the country with the trees overhanging on both sides. They knew they were about one kilometre from the border and that there were often random security checkpoints on these roads. However, they thought they had it figured because they had a friend listening to the police wavebands, and he would warn them if they were setting up on the road they were planning to use; they had made many detours thanks to this system. What they didn’t know was that a sting team had arrested their man that afternoon in Armagh City, and now they were being told by their friend, who was in police custody, that everything was okay. The police knew where they were and what they were smuggling.

At the border they came around a bend at high speed and without their lights. Suddenly, right across the road in front of them was an army Jeep patrol with police cars behind them, manning the checkpoint. A spotlight switched on, blinding them for a second. Ryan had nowhere to go, and he swerved as hard left as he could, but it was too late. Their heavy Hi-Ace van slammed sideways into the checkpoint vehicle, skidded off it, and plummeted down a steep embankment and into a river. The impact crushed the two police officers who had tried to get out of the way. One of them died instantly, and the other died in hospital six hours later as they tried in vain to amputate his second crushed leg. Ryan, who had always worn his seat belt, was saved, but his friend, Kevin, in the passenger seat had gone halfway through the windshield, impacted with the side of the Jeep, and got carried on to the river.

Ryan came to his senses after the van stopped. He thought he was looking out at a field through the smashed screen, but it all became real when he felt icy black water flooding around his ankles; he was in the river. Blind panic took over, and he tried to get out but realized his seat belt was holding him fast. ‘Oh no, oh no, not like this!’ He shook Kevin, but the man was either dead of still unconscious as he lay halfway through the windshield. The van then began moving out into the current, and as the engine weight pulled the front of the vehicle, it gradually sank. The water was now flooding in fast on all sides through the old van. Ryan pushed and jerked at his seat belt connection and finally got it free. He then tried to open the door, but it was wedged shut due to the external pressure from the water. Everything was in darkness now, and the river began pouring in through the open windscreen. Ryan knew he was not going to get out through the incoming torrent, so he made a terrifying decision and waited until the water flooded into the whole cabin.

He took his jacket and shoes off despite the freezing water. He would never be able to swim with the heavy wet clothes and knew they would pull him down. His heart was racing with fear and adrenalin. He was terrified of drowning, and he waited as the water quickly rose up to his chest, pushing him back into the seat. ‘Oh no… oh fucking no,’ he kept repeating. Ryan took loud, deep breaths in preparation to go under; just as it went above his chin, he took his last breath and pulled his head down. The water numbed his head instantly, but he was free to move now, and for the first time he remembered the full moon. It gave him enough light as he climbed out of the half-broken windscreen. He had to push between Kevin and move the rest of the glass with his forearm before he was free but as he pushed through he felt a shard of glass rip along his back. He almost screamed out with the pain but managed to keep holding his breath till he reached the surface.

The river was deep, freezing, and flowing fast, but he had escaped the police and drowning in one go. He felt terrible about his friend. Was Kevin dead or just knocked out? He couldn’t have done anything to save him. The van had already gone under, and Ryan knew he had to get out of the river and get dried and warmed as soon as possible, or else he would die from hypothermia. The river was wide, and the current brought him midstream, so Ryan lay on his back with his feet facing down-river. This position would save him energy and protect him if he hit some rocks or sunken branches. He’d seen this on the Discovery Channel, and amazingly, even in these circumstances, he clearly remembered Bear Grills’s name and the program, Ultimate Survival. Well, this was his ultimate survival.

After five long minutes he approached a bend in the river, and Ryan decided he was far enough away from the accident and the police to get out onto land. He knew with the flow of the river that he had to be in the Republic now. He turned, began swimming through the current, and was washed up onto the bank. He waded out of the water onto the grass, and it was only then he felt the pain in his chest; it was like a hammer blow every time he inhaled. He knew he could not sit and rest even though he was exhausted, so he got up and tried to run up the field, to get warm, just like he’d seen Bear Grills do after he jumped into the Arctic waters. His teeth were chattering, and he mumbled words to himself as the pain over his body grew in intensity. As he crossed the brow of the hill, he saw the lights of a small farmhouse in the distance. He just had to get there and get help. At this stage he didn’t care if he got arrested. His soft feet were bleeding as he trudged through the almost frozen field of dead potato roots lying over the surface.

He finally reached the farmhouse, and a collie dog raised the alarm in the silent night with its furious barking. This brought out three other dogs that were about to attack him, when the back door to the house swung open and an old farmer stepped out. ‘Out-the fuck, ya mutts,’ he roared. The animals dropped to the ground and stopped instantly. ‘What the hell happened to you, lad?’ It was then that Ryan noticed the double-barrel shotgun under the farmer’s arm.

‘Well… I had an accident,’ Ryan tried to say, but he couldn’t continue. His teeth chattered violently, and then he collapsed.

‘Good God, man,’ the farmer said, dropping his gun. ‘You need a hospital.’ His wife was now standing at the door in her nightgown, looking on. ‘Bridie, phone the hospital, will ya? Monaghan town would be the nearest. Tell them it’s an emergency.’

2

Undercover

Ryan suddenly heard a car and quickly reversed out of the lane from his old home, where he had decided to wait for a while. He pulled in to let the vehicle go by. The car slowed down as it passed, and Ryan made sure the driver saw him. God, he hated these kinds of people—always had to get a good look at you, something to talk about! He felt the urge to blow the man’s face away with his shotgun. He knew the driver wouldn’t recognize him, with Ryan’s newly grown beard, dyed generously in grey to enhance his age. His hair was always short, but he had several professional wigs with collar-length hair indifferent styles that he could use if he wanted to change disguise. His dark brown eyes gave him more options to blend into any disguise, and he always liked being in character.

He drove away. It was four in the morning, and it was time he got back to his hideaway—not quite a hideaway, but a rented cottage at the edge of the forest and on the opposite side to his target’s residence, three kilometres as the crow flew.

He always loved forests. This one, called Tennison’s, was old, a thousand acres of mature and varied tree species such as alder, ash, birch, elm, hazel, and oak. On the north side of the forest was a large area of poplars that were spread all along the edge, as if to protect it; their leaves made quite a noise in the wind. There were also two small lakes within the forest, making it very beautiful. Most of the forest was privately owned, but that had never stopped Ryan from wandering its entire area since he was a boy. He used to love the idea of being a spy and having to hide from every person, tractor, or bicycle that came along the trails.

He wouldn’t raise suspicion at this cottage because it was rented out to tourists from an office in Dublin, and at any time of year one could always see cars or pick-ups parked around with plenty of activity going on. Only one couple had met him, and luckily they didn’t recognize him at all. He had almost run into them. It was eight in the morning, very late for his run because he usually ran at six, but he knew it would still be quiet. He had planned a training run through the forest to the north-east side, to continue surveillance of the large fortress-like bungalow and his target. He had his woolly hat on, the kind that could pull down and become a balaclava, and he was donned in black: hooded sweatshirt, strong cotton leggings, and his old marathon runners. He had just turned the side of the cottage and begun running when they appeared from his left. ‘Oh, hello, Mr Carbin. We’ve been wantin’ to meet you!’

He stopped and slowly turned around, deliberately squinting to age his face some more. He was a little nervous because this was his first encounter with the locals, and he wasn’t sure how well his disguise would hold up. He peered through his clear lenses, the small John Lennon type, which also helped protect his eyes from branches and briars while running though the woods. Two elderly women stood looking him up and down, taking in everything about him. ‘Good morning, ladies,’ he said in a soft English accent. Then he waited.

‘Well, eh, my name is Mrs Johnson; I’m the chairperson of the Women’s Committee on Local Affairs and founder of the Ladies Morning Golf Society,’ she said with some pride. ‘And this is Mrs Sweeney…’ There was another pause. ‘We were just wantin’ to welcome ye to the cottage and hope ye have a nice holiday here with yer family.’ She looked past him, expecting to see the wife and several children in tow. ‘‘Tis a lovely time of year to tour around here ya know, just lovely.’ Again she glanced around, expecting to see something.

‘Yes,’ Ryan said. ‘I’ve heard so much about it that I feel like I already know the place.’

‘Off for a jog, then?’ inquired the more elderly and less talkative Mrs Sweeney.

Before Ryan could answer, Mrs Johnson was back in control. ‘Careful of them wet patches on the trails, now, and be sure ye don’t get lost,’ she said with a laugh. ‘Oh, and remember to keep well away from that Yankee house with all the wire around it. Like a bloody jail, ya know. They’re really not nice people—I’ve heard from Tommy down at the post office, and he should know.’

‘Don’t worry yourself, I won’t,’ Ryan replied impatiently.

‘Now, down to business, young man,’ Mrs Johnson said just as Ryan was moving to go. He sighed and waited, trying to keep his cool. ‘Do ye want Mrs Sweeney here to keep