|Blood Money (chapters three and four.) (standard:Suspense, 4034 words) [2/18] show all parts|
|Author: Hulsey||Added: Sep 15 2011||Views/Reads: 1525/895||Part vote: 0.00 (0 votes)|
3 BALLYMENA COUNTY ANTRIM NORTHERN IRELAND The Range rover accelerated along the mud-rutted road, scattering the flock of sheep and angering the old shepherd, who waved his fist at the driver. Terry Keenan ignored the protests and expertly manoeuvred his vehicle over the cattle grid. He sang along to the haunting lyrics of Madame Butterfly, his love of classical music seemingly inappropriate for the big man. Keenan was back in his beloved homeland and he smiled at the rolling hills and the green meadows, his admiration for the countryside unwavering. Wearing his sleeveless jacket, the numerous tattoos on his arms proudly displayed his loyalty. On his bulging forearm, a snake was coiled around a bloody dagger, the words, OUR DAY WILL COME etched clearly in red. Keenan had such a friendly face, his gap-toothed smile, turned up nose and his floppy brown hair contradicting his violent past. After shooting down in cold blood two RUC officers in 1995, he was sentenced to life imprisonment. Suspected of being involved in major bombing campaigns in Britain, Keenan was deemed a high security risk. Along with hundreds of other Irish terrorists, Keenan was later released from prison, courtesy of the Good Friday agreement. The thirty-five year old former IRA assassin had sampled freedom now for almost six years, the infamous Maze prison no longer his home. He was thought to be behind the £26 million pounds Belfast bank robbery and was constantly under surveillance. Rumours were rife that the hard man had joined the Real IRA. Braking suddenly, Keenan stared ahead at the emaciated, pitiful creature that blocked the road. The red Irish setter whimpered at the approach of the driver, too exhausted to bark at the stranger. Kennan stooped down and stroked the unfortunate hound, grimacing at its protruding ribs and filthy coat. “Who did this to you boy?” He straightened up and looked around him. Picking up the dog, he carried it along the uneven muddy path towards the farmhouse, the pouring rain cooling his hot body. Reaching the farmhouse, Keenan put down the dog, who now cowered behind him. He rapped loudly on the door and was greeted by a toothless, bald man. “What do you want, stranger? Don't you know you're on private property?” Keenan pointed to the dog. “Does this creature belong to you?” The man ran the sleeve of his grubby cardigan across his runny nose. “The fucker's no good to me. He's yours if you want him.” Keenan removed his 9mm Browning from his waistband and pressed it against the man's forehead. “You're a fucking animal! Get on your knees, cunt!” The farmer eyed up the tattoos on the stranger's arms and wet himself. “T...T...The dog went missing, he did. I looked everywhere for him.” Keenan prized the barrel of his weapon between the man's yellow teeth. “Be Jesus, I must be getting fucking soft in my old age. Maybe it's because we now live in peaceful times, so this is what I'm going to do. You are going to take...what's his name?” “Beano,” gasped the man, after the barrel was released. “Beano, eh? Well you're going to take old Beano in, feed him and nurse him back to health. If I see any more wounds or signs of cruelty on him when I return, then I'm going to skin you then bury you alive, do you hear?” The farmer nodded rapidly. “I'll return a week from today and check on him... Oh, and don't try to Click here to read the rest of this story (471 more lines)
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