chapter 20

ii

Michael Dunnican crawled through the warehouse’s narrow window having made his way across the roof without being seen. There’d been a guard of sorts standing alone under the scattered shadows of a distant light, but really, the man wasn’t paying any attention to what was creeping up behind him, so a quick knife in the neck ended it for him. He’d made certain to cover the man’s mouth so he couldn’t cry out, but the knife had been quick—merciful--an in and out thrust next to the windpipe which pretty well guaranteed a severed something-or-other. He'd forgotten what it was called, never having paid attention in class when they taught him which was the best way to kill a man. He’d simply smiled and nodded his head—all the while thinking how he’d like to have stabbed the instructor in the neck just to see if he’d understood the problem.

Short, thin, wiry, he crawled in through the window with an effort, pulling his Enfield rifle in behind him. He’d tied the rifle to the end of a short rope as he made his way in through the window. Once he was through, he found himself standing on a large joist, looking out over the gun crates thirty-eight feet below. That’s what he was here for, a voice inside his head told him, and he stepped back into the shadows. There were voices approaching, and he looked up at the small halo of light from the bulbs overhead. He reached up, unscrewing several of the bulbs within reach. He looked at the many crates around him, stacked up almost to the beams and joists, and looked at the shadows they made. There were dark pockets of space that from a distance made it look as if the crates were holding the roof up, he thought. Securing the short rope to the rafters in case he needed to get to the window in a hurry, he lowered himself into a position offering him a clear view of the guns. He leaned back against a wooden beam, pulling a magazine-box out of his coat pocket. He waited to hear the beat of his heart slowing down before he finally pushed the magazine into place. He was careful not to push too hard, and so give away his position, but still, hard enough so that it snapped into place with an audible click. He leaned back against the beam when the two men below him stopped talking. One of the men had stopped, and was looking up, surveying the tops of the crates where they met the roofline. He told himself that was the man he’d have to target. He looked down from the shadows and lined the man up where he was standing, knowing that a clear shot now would mean little half an hour from now. He’d liked to have taken the shot right now, but they told him to wait for the Russians.

Dunnican was a member of the Irish National Army created by Michael Collins shortly after the bitterly fought Irish Civil War. He’d never been one to understand the politics of the Irish Troubles, except to know that the farm house he’d been born in had been burned by the British in retaliation for something he never understood. There’d been an uprising at Easter some years ago, and again, he’d had no knowledge of it, having volunteered and served on the Front during the War. It would be another two years before he heard anything about the Uprising, and by then, he was bitter enough to understand what had to be done. He had no loyalty to either the King, or his Crown, only the Cause.

He took his coat off and lay it down on the crate in front of him, bundled it up as if it was a small package, and then took a piece of charcoal out of a pocket and crumbled it in his hands. He rubbed his hands on the rifle’s barrel, as well as the stock and his face. He had a small black cap and he turned it backward as he leaned the rifle on the jacket. He liked the idea of limited lighting. But they were sure to hear the flashing bullet. He’d take the opportunity to move, and looked to his left.

There was a jump of several feet down to a separate row of crates and he wondered if his weight would take it. The jump couldn’t have been more than six feet across. He wondered if his momentum would take him over the edge. How many fools never asked themselves that question? He leaned back and looked to the right. It was too dark to see, and he supposed if it was too dark for him to see, it would be too dark for them.

He crawled to the right.