The Forgotten Holocaust

Chapter Fifty-Seven

Finn McCrory smiled as the line went dead. He turned off his phone and tucked it into the pocket of the fancy hand-stitched jeans he was wearing, along with a cool white shirt and his favourite tooled cowboy boots. The jeans were tight around the middle, cinched with a silver-buckled alligator belt on which was riding his .44 Magnum Smith & Wesson revolver in a custom John Bianchi holster. The gun was a special order in mirror-finish nickel plate, with scroll engraving and cocobolo hardwood grips by Hogue, monogrammed with his initials in mother-of-pearl. It felt pretty good there on his hip. Made him feel invulnerable.

It was a beautiful afternoon. Finn stood by his still-ticking Mercedes and gazed up at the sky, an unbroken azure dome above the green pastures of Arrowhead Ranch that stretched for miles in three directions, a world of peace and tranquillity as far from anything as a man could ever want to get. The thoroughbreds were grazing in their neatly fenced paddocks. The birds were singing in the old oak trees that pleasantly shaded the big whitewood century ranch house. Yes, a beautiful day — one that might not have started so well for him, but which was now turning out just fine.

Hadn’t he said it? Hadn’t it been his brainwave that the woman was the key to getting Hope? Finn was pretty pleased with himself. And soon, very soon, the rest of the plan would fall into place as nice as pie.

An approaching dust cloud on the long private road that wound up to the ranch turned out to be the white GMC van. Finn walked out to greet it as it rolled up. Ritter and Moon sprang down from the cab while the side door slid open and Meagher, Lukas and Strickman got out. Strickman was wearing a thick makeshift bandage covering one ear and the side of his head, and looked like death. Moon’s chest slogan for the day was ‘I DON’T CALL 911’.

‘This all you could get?’ Finn asked them, surveying the crew through narrowed eyes. Never mind, it would be enough.

‘This is all that’s left,’ Ritter said. ‘She here?’

‘Any time now,’ Finn replied, and shielded his eyes with his hand to scan the horizon. Moments later, a second dust cloud appeared in the distance. They watched the two faraway cars turn off the road and grow steadily larger. Chief Liam O’Rourke’s silver Mercury Grand Marquis led the way, followed by an unmarked Crown Victoria.

The cars crunched to a halt up next to the other vehicles. O’Rourke stepped out of the Mercury, jacketless in a shoulder holster rig and accompanied by fellow Irishman Mike Corcoran. Finn knew all three cops in the Crown Vic: Lou Wylie, Dixon Coyle and Cliff Duhame. All three were on his payroll.

Duhame got out of the back seat clutching their guest of honour by the arm. She was still protesting as violently as she’d been when they’d hauled her from her cell for an unauthorised ride out into the country.

‘Spirited little thing, ain’t she?’ O’Rourke grunted.

Moon was almost salivating.

‘Afternoon, Miss Hayes,’ Finn said with a broad smile. ‘Welcome to Arrowhead Ranch. Pleasure to have you with us.’

‘Rot in hell!’ Erin spat back at him.

‘See what I mean?’ O’Rourke said.

‘She’ll soon cool down.’ Finn motioned to Ritter and Moon, who stepped forward and took Erin from Duhame, one arm each so that she was powerless to fight them. Finn led the way from the house to the stable block around the side. Most of them were unused nowadays, since the old man had laid off the ranch-hands and drastically scaled down his stock in latter years (hopefully a sign of age finally catching up). So was the brick-built tack-room at the end of the stable building. ‘In there,’ Finn said, and Ritter and Moon shoved Erin inside.

‘See ya real soon, sugar tits,’ Moon said to her, and then lolled his tongue obscenely.

The door banged shut and Finn double-bolted it, snapping the padlock shut and giving the key to Moon. ‘You’re the jailer.’

‘My pleasure,’ Moon said with a wolfish smile.

Back at the house, the mixed group of gangsters and bent cops were eyeing one another warily. ‘Hope doesn’t stand a chance,’ Finn said, surveying his little defence force.

‘So this Hope guy is the one who’s been causing all the trouble, huh?’ O’Rourke said.

Finn gave a dismissive wave. ‘He’s nothing.’

‘He’s a little more than that,’ Ritter said. ‘You called down the thunder. Storm’s coming.’

‘He won’t be so tough when we start peeling his girlfriend’s skin off,’ Finn said.

‘All the same, boss, I think you should find somewhere to take cover when he gets here.’

‘You worry too much, Ritter.’ Finn laughed, and the cops laughed with him. But Finn stopped laughing before they did, and his hand found its way to rest on the butt of his revolver.

Ritter looked at his watch. ‘He could be here any time. Dave, break out the gear.’ Meagher nodded and opened up the back of the van. Coyle peered inside. ‘Crap. You boys bring enough hardware?’

Moon tossed him an M4 battle rifle. ‘Gonna need it. This guy ain’t easy to kill.’

‘Why, Billy Bob, I do believe you’re afraid,’ O’Rourke said. He and Moon had crossed paths on a few previous occasions.

‘Up your ass,’ Moon replied, giving him the finger. ‘Sonofabitch I’d be afraid of ain’t born yet, and his mother’s dead.’

The next couple of minutes were taken up with the unloading of weapons from the van and the cars. Corcoran and Wylie had raided the police armoury for a couple of Remington twelve-gauge pumps. Everyone had brought their sidearms for backup, too. Conversation dropped to a minimum amid the pre-battle sound of magazines being loaded and inserted, bolts being clacked and general tooling up.

Moon smirked as all five cops put on their bulky Kevlar vests. ‘Now who’s pussy?’

‘Let’s go inside,’ Finn said, ignoring him.

The interior of the ranch house was traditional Okie, the way the old man had designed it. He liked big rooms, big furniture, sumptuously varnished wood and acres of steerhide leather. The walls were decorated with mounted animal heads, racks of antlers and pictures of Big Joe posing with all manner of stuff he’d killed on scores of hunting trips. An original Wells Fargo stagecoach wheel had been made into a chandelier. A section of the enormous living room was fashioned after a western saloon bar, complete with cow horns and a spittoon. Cherokee spears and tomahawks hung above doorways and antique six-guns and Winchesters were everywhere. Finn had grown up with all that Roy Rogers shit and didn’t even look at it. He threw himself into a deep leather couch while the others stood around or sat in chairs or leaned against the walls, biding their time.

They waited. And waited. Finn got up and began pacing. Ritter sat completely immobile with a blank thousand-yard stare, nursing his rifle as if it were a part of his flesh. Moon smacked gum and thought about Erin Hayes.

‘How ’bout a drink?’ Coyle suggested, eyeing the spirits cabinet. It was hot sitting about in those damn bulletproof vests.

‘I’d stay sharp if I was you,’ Ritter said, without moving his eyes.

More time passed, and nothing happened. The sun sank in the west and the sky turned golden-red and then purple.

‘Why ain’t he here yet?’ Mike Corcoran asked. Nobody replied.

Evening slowly merged into night, the stars came out. Still nothing. They drew the blinds so that Hope couldn’t see inside the house. A coyote yipped and howled in the distance and Coyle and Duhame exchanged uneasy glances. The cops hadn’t reckoned on this. They had anxious wives and hot dinners and TV and warm beds waiting for them at home. The silence and the waiting had them rattled.

‘Maybe he ran,’ Finn said, breaking another long, tense silence. ‘Hell, maybe he won’t come at all.’

‘He’ll come,’ Ritter said.

Twenty more minutes had passed before they saw the approaching car lights shining brightly through the gaps in the blinds. Everyone moved nearer the window, tense, listening hard. Soon afterwards, they heard the growl of a big V8 getting closer.

‘This is it, boys,’ O’Rourke said, assuming command as befitted his rank. ‘He’s here.’