Private Dublin

Chapter 72

The two men from his close protection detail were easy to spot. They followed me through the crowds gathered between the main grandstand and the winners’ enclosure. The first race was underway and the clamor was deafening. I weaved around groups of excited racing enthusiasts, some of whom were holding betting slips, others with drinks in their hands. Some racegoers were cheering the leading horse, which, according to the commentary being broadcast over the public address system, was called Graham’s Legend. Others were booing.

My two pursuers, a tall blond man with a closely shaved head, and a thick-set muscular man with a crop of dark wavy hair, were pushing their way through the throng of people, suit jackets flapping wide to reveal flashes of the holsters they carried at their sides. They couldn’t have guns, could they? Lawrence Finch wouldn’t be so reckless or so bold, would he? Sidearms weren’t legal for private security in Ireland.

I couldn’t run the risk of finding out when I wasn’t fully in control of the situation, so I veered toward the main grandstand and went through the nearest entrance, joining the crush of people heading for the concessions, bars and bookies.

I slipped into a corridor to my left, heading for a door marked “Toilets,” and when I went through it, found myself in another corridor. There was a line for the ladies’, but the men’s room had no wait. I loitered behind the door I’d just come through and the moment it opened, and my two pursuers stepped through, I attacked them. The women immediately around us scattered, looking bewildered as I drove the squat man’s head against the opposite wall and knocked him senseless. The taller, blond guy reached into his jacket, but I grabbed his arm and swung him back into the wall. The women in the line retreated and cried out. One started calling for help as the tall man and I fell over his accomplice’s motionless body and tumbled to the floor, rolling over and grappling together.

I scissored my legs and pulled him into a rear triangle chokehold to stop him struggling. I kept the pressure up until he fell limp. When he was unconscious, I reached into his jacket and freed a Beretta M9 pistol from its holster. These men were armed.

“Make sure the cops find their guns,” I told the three women who hadn’t fled into the ladies’ room.

I pushed the pistol toward them and it skidded across the floor. I got to my feet and left through the main door, joining the crowds of people in the corridor beyond. I peeled off once I was on the main thoroughfare and headed for an exit.

Outside, I caught a cab and used it to take me near the cottage on Pigeon House Road. I took every precaution to ensure I wasn’t followed and opened the front door with a sense of relief.

Lawrence Finch would act soon to neutralize the threat I posed, and with Mo-bot and her team tracking his comms, he was sure to make a mistake we could exploit. All I had to do was wait, and I intended to do so with a cup of coffee in my hand.

I walked into the kitchen and stopped in my tracks, my heart suddenly thundering in my chest.

There, sitting at the kitchen table, was Andi Harris, and she was pointing a Walther PDP pistol at me.

“Sit down, Jack,” she said nonchalantly. “And keep your hands where I can see them.”

I had no choice but to comply.