“If you want out, I’ll find a way to open the doors,” I said, nodding in their direction even though I knew she couldn’t see me.
“I don’t want out,” she replied. “I just want it noted on the record that I think this is mad.”
“Duly noted,” I said, and we spent the rest of the journey in silence. The stop-starts and sharp turns of the city gave way to long, uninterrupted runs and gentle curves, and I guessed we were on country roads. The rumble of the engine rose above the pounding thump of dance music coming from the cab, which helped mask our whispers and the sounds we made as we struggled to keep from sliding around on the metal floor.
“Do we fight if we’re found?” Andi asked, as the vehicle slowed.
“We have to,” I replied. “These people are dangerous.”
There was a squeal of brakes and the truck shuddered as it went over a cattle grid. It accelerated briefly before coming to a halt a short while later.
The engine stopped and the radio fell silent.
“You get the lift and I’ll open the wagon,” one of the men said.
I heard the two of them jump from the cab and land on gravel. One set of footsteps moved away, while the other came along our side of the truck and went to the back.
A moment later, the rear door opened, letting in the gray light of dawn and a blast of cool, fresh air. Andi and I eased ourselves to our feet carefully as the man in the plaid shirt got busy opening the second rear door. We moved to the very back of the truck, behind the first pallet of boxes.
“Don’t be such an eejit,” the man at the doors said. “Here, I’ll do it.”
He hurried away to wherever his companion was, and I sensed an opportunity.
“Come on,” I said, nudging Andi.
We crept to the mouth of the truck and I peered round the open door in the direction the man had gone. There was a large barn about thirty meters to our left. The double doors were open, and I could see industrial machinery standing idle inside.
To our right was an old redbrick watermill that looked as though it had been converted into a family home, although the twelve high-performance muscle cars in the driveway suggested either the occupants were having a party or there was more than one family living here.
“This way,” Andi whispered, pointing at some lights that were on in one of the first-floor rooms of the converted mill.
I jumped out of the truck and followed her toward the three-story building, which still had a working waterwheel. The sound of the river rushing as it was forced through a narrow channel toward the wheel masked the noise of our advance. We moved along a gangway that ran alongside the house, around the wheel, and then behind the property.
There were more lights on at the back. We approached a low window and peered in to see that the old mill floor had been converted into a narcotics lab. Boxes of the sedative were being turned into a dry powder, and there was a chemical cooking bench where a suspension of the powder was being turned into something else.
“Synthetic opioid?” Andi suggested.
“Or a highly concentrated sedative. Plenty of demand for that on the street,” I replied.
There was no sign of Sam Farrell or Raymond Chalmont, but I was in little doubt that this was the sort of enterprise our targets would be involved in.
I used the camera slung over my shoulder to take photos of the interior of the room, which contained four people in clinical gowns and protective N95 respirator masks. Identification would be difficult, but the photos would be useful as evidence to encourage the Garda to investigate this location.
“Hey, you!” a man’s voice yelled. “Stop right there!”
I glanced at Andi, neither of us in any doubt that he was shouting at us.
“Run,” she said, and we immediately started sprinting back the way we’d come.
Chapter 49
We ran toward the waterwheel.
The man who’d shouted at us was on the other side of the concrete channel, an indistinct shape beyond the reach of the house lights. His silhouette was large and menacing, and I saw the shadow of a gun in his hands as I glanced back.
The first crack of gunfire echoed against the stone channel and the side of the house. The bullet ricocheted off the brickwork, chipping away flakes and sending dust into our faces.
He fired again, and this time he hit the waterwheel, with the noise of wood splintering to our right. Andi and I ran around the gangway, bringing us closer to the shooter. We couldn’t have been any more than eighteen feet away.
He shot again, and this one zipped past my ear with a sharp rush of air that was unmistakable. We heard the projectile thud into the rear side panel of an Audi parked in the yard.
I saw shadows and movement in the house. Even with the noise of the waterwheel, the sound of gunfire would be audible inside. We needed an escape route and fast.
The shooter was running across a metal bridge that would bring him to our side of the river, and I had no doubt the occupants of the house would soon join him in trying to capture or kill us.
“Try the cars,” I said to Andi, “and pray at least one driver is careless.”
She nodded and we immediately ran along the row of parked vehicles trying to open the doors. The first two were locked, but the third was open.
Andi tried the push start button, but the car was unresponsive, so I ran to a black BMW M5 and did the same.
The engine roared to life as half a dozen men burst through the front door of the mill and yelled at us.
“Jump in,” I shouted to Andi, who bolted to the passenger side.
The gunman rounded the waterwheel and started shooting.
“Hey! That’s my car,” one of the men by the front door yelled as bullets struck its bodywork.
The shooter stopped for a moment and Andi jumped into the passenger seat. I settled behind the wheel, flipped the paddles that controlled the semi-automatic gearbox into first. The engine growled as I stepped on the accelerator and the car shot forward, shooting gravel into the air behind us as we sped away.
Chapter 50
We shot down a bumpy country road, and the long grass growing in the middle whipped at the undercarriage of the fast car. We swung left and right as the engine delivered power to the rear wheels. I accelerated and felt the push against the sports seat at my back.
Behind us, lights and activity in the yard signaled that this wasn’t going to be an easy getaway.
“I count two... no, three... vehicles coming after us,” Andi said.
I nodded. “See if you can figure out where we are and find a way for us to lose them.”
She produced her phone and opened a map application.
I swung the car around a tight left bend, into the glow of the rising sun. Light cast on the folds of the green valley deepened the patches of shadow in places. I followed the road round to the right, away from the direct sunlight, and swerved just in time because we’d come face to face with a large John Deere tractor. The green monster shuddered as the driver tried to stop, and I swung the BMW onto the verge, where the wheels chewed up the turf as they fought for traction. We shot past the giant machine and bounced back onto the road with a series of crunches and clanks that sent sparks flying up behind us.
I thanked the guardian angels watching over us when I saw the tractor was going to buy us some time. The three vehicles pursuing us, an Audi SUV, a silver Mercedes E-Class and a Range Rover, were all forced to a stop when they met the tractor at a narrow section of the road, where the dry-stone wall to either side was no more than a couple of feet from the tarmac. There was no way for the cars to get round, and the driver of the lead vehicle, the Range Rover, yelled at the man behind the wheel of the John Deere.