Minogue turned when he heard the scrambling behind. Freeman was gone There were more shouts, some from himself, Malone. Two shots rang out in quick succession, then two more. The running footsteps stopped and he heard something hit a panel, scrape on the cement of the footpath. Malone began shouting Freeman’s name now too.
There was another shot and then Minogue heard someone running. Minogue tried to get his feet under him better for a sprint. One of his knees wouldn’t bend enough. A car began to rev high — the Golf, he thought. Someone was shouting, “Let’s fucking go!” More shots now, a steady, measured volley from one gun. A car window went out with a pop nearby, pieces hesitating and then cascading in bunches to the roadway. Malone fired: to keep them at bay, Minogue knew. How many were in a clip on those new automatics, he thought. Did Malone carry — The revving gave way to tires squealing and a door being pulled shut.
“Freeman, are you there?” he heard himself call out.
“Stay down,” he heard Malone shout. The driver of the Golf made a racer’s gear change into second.
“Are they gone?” Malone called out. Minogue peered around the bumper. It was a Peugeot he’d been hugging, he realized. Behind him, a Starlet, close to being a clapped-out banger. His palm was beginning to sting. He looked down at the cut. And there was a rip at the knee of his newish trousers, bought in that shop in… The weakness flooded into him in an instant. Was he going to faint now?
“Are they gone?” Malone was asking.
“I don’t know,” he managed. Malone, his face red and contorted, was backing toward him on his haunches, his gun trained on the gap between the cars.
“Where’s Freeman?”
Minogue’s jaw seemed to be locked. He shook his head.
“Where’s Freeman?”
Still Minogue couldn’t find the words. Tires squealed one street over. The hum and background hush of the city seemed to come back louder than ever. Malone began to take quick looks around the bumper at the two cars in the middle of the road. The driver’s door on the Mondeo still hung open.
“Did they take off in the other car?” Minogue heard him ask. There was a sharp smell in the air that Minogue recognized all too well. Malone was standing in a crouch now, looking through the window of the Starlet. Minogue heard him talking but couldn’t hear the words. Malone hunkered down again, gasping.
“He’s over by the footpath,” Malone said and gasped again. “Boss?”
Minogue scrambled on his knees over to the edge of the footpath. He put his hand out on the bumper to steady himself and took a quick look down the path. Those boating shoes Americans seemed to be in love with, he thought first, not wanting to take in the sight. There was something dark on the footpath beside where Freeman lay. A line led crookedly out from it to the edge of the footpath.
Malone’s hand grasped his upper arm but he hardly noticed. He looked up to where Malone was crouched above him now.
“They went after him,” Malone said in a whisper. “They went after Freeman. What are we going to do?”
“There he is,” said Dolan. “The boss man himself.”
Minogue turned his head slowly. Even at this distance, he recognized O’Leary stepping out. Tynan was out then, putting on his hat. Something about the way he put on the hat seemed ridiculous to Minogue. He watched the television crew pushing forward by the cordon at the end of the street behind. Tynan stooped to get under the tape.
Minogue shifted in his seat and exchanged a glance with Malone. Malone sighed and stared at the fluttering tape, the small crowd milling behind the squad cars drawn up at the end of the street. Minogue tried again to stretch. No go. In the half hour since Sergeant Malachy Dolan had shepherded them into the unmarked car at the far end of the area, his neck and shoulders had gone stiff.
Dolan hadn’t annoyed them much with questions, especially after Malone’s angry reply to a question asked more than once: he didn’t know if the other fella or fellas had all jumped into the frigging Golf, because he was busy ducking bullets from one of them to cover their getaway, for Jases’ sake. Dolan didn’t seem to take this badly at all, and had sat behind the wheel, monitoring the radio for news of the Golf with them. Nothing was showing up.
Minogue fingered the plaster on his palm and tried to flex his knee again. It wasn’t swollen, but it had gone warm and numb. He watched Tynan study the footpath, incline his head to listen to Murtagh.
“Let’s have our say, Tommy,” he said, and opened the door. “And get out of here.”
The handle felt odd: tight, well-made, too springy maybe. The strangeness of everything now. He felt the beginnings of a laugh, then panic. Dolan looked over when he didn’t step out
“Are you all right?” he asked.
His chest was still full of that airy, swollen feeling. Maybe he should have gone in for observation for a few hours. Malone was waiting for him to step out too.
“Boss? We’re not carrying the can for this, right?”
Minogue was up now. Tynan had spotted them, and had ducked back under the tape and was heading toward them
“They knew,” Malone went on, “they knew, there was something else going on with all this. Right? And they didn’t say a fucking word to us, so they didn’t. It’s all up to them then, isn’t it? The bastards.”
Minogue nodded. Malone’s bastards were Hayes and company, he supposed. Tynan covered ground quickly, he thought. The handshake, unexpected, reminded Minogue of the loser in a close bout.
“Matt?”
“Well I’m on me feet.”
“Tommy?”
Malone shrugged, took the handshake. Tynan stared at Minogue.
“At least get a lie down, will you?”
“No. I’m okay.”
Minogue stared at the crowd standing by the tape. Dolan had followed them from the car. He stood back now.
“No.”
Tynan looked back at the sheet covering Freeman, Murtagh writing something.
“You knew straightaway?” he asked. “After the shooting?”
Minogue nodded.
“Can you tell me what happened? The lead-up.”
“The fella behind was tracking us,” said Malone. “He was good. I only spotted him later on.”
Minogue shivered.
“But they definitely went after Freeman,” he said.
Tynan frowned.
“You don’t think they put him as one of yours? Ours, I mean. A Guard?”
Minogue waited for Tynan to out with it.
“Smiths?” he murmured finally.
Minogue shrugged and looked over at Malone, who shook his head once.
“They’d know us,” he said.
“I’m still going after each and every one of the Smiths’ crowd,” Tynan said. “Every last little hanger-on and gofer, every little worm that ever had anything to do with them.”
Tynan turned to Dolan.
“Can we clear these two to go?”
“Yes, sir,” said Dolan. “We can get a car in for them soon’s we get the word.”
“Please,” said Tynan. “And would you go into that bashed-up Nissan there and take out an envelope, a big one, with some fancy letterhead printed on it, and get it for us?”
Tynan watched him quickstep it back to the car. Minogue looked over at the Nissan and the roadway beyond. The chalk circles around the bullet casings looked like eyes.
“Did you sign over your pistol?” Tynan asked Malone.
“I did. To John Murtagh, he bagged it.”
“Good,” Tynan said. He threw a glance Minogue’s way. “I won’t bother asking you. Have you changed your bloody mind after this, then?”
Minogue said nothing.
“Now,” said Tynan. “We need to clear the decks sometime soon here. We’re going to sit down very shortly and sort out, try and sort out, what happened in that hotel room.”
Minogue tugged at the edge of his plaster again. He was aware that Malone was standing very still beside him. He didn’t want to look over at him for a reaction.