I stayed at Flannigan's office for six days, popping Vicodin and passing out on that uncomfortable sofa. Flannigan stopped by a few times to check up on me and remind me that I owed him money. He wanted ten thousand American dollars for fixing me up, plus another seven hundred for his wife's car. I told him he was an opportunistic son of a bitch, but that just made him smile.

After six days of resting, the pain had subsided, but just barely. It was Friday night and I figured it was about time to leave. I needed to get back to my safe house and start cutting my losses. Losing McCaffrey was going to cost me more money than I had prepared for. Plus, Flannigan's office wasn't exactly my idea of comfortable.

I was a mess. I went into Flannigan's coat closet where he had some dress shirts hanging. I put on a white one that was far too small. Through clenched teeth, I struggled to put on my coat and then gathered my bloody clothes and vest and walked out the door.

Throwing the clothes and vest in the trunk, I lit up a cigarette. I surveyed the damage to the front end of the car. "Rental agency isn't gonna like this," I thought taking a drag. I got behind the wheel and opened the glove box. Pulling out a black container, I loaded my .45 and revolver before I pulled away from the curb.

My safe house was on Belfast Road and it wasn't a long drive from Flannigan's. I had time for another cigarette and time enough to think about what I was going to do to save something from this fucked up trip to Belfast. I was trying to decide if I should call some of my old contacts in the IRA to try to track down McCaffrey. I had my fair share of friends and enemies in the IRA, but McCaffrey definitely had more enemies than friends.

In the 70's, he ratted out some IRA boys he was supposed to be working with. They were planning to fire bomb a Belfast police station and McCaffrey traded that information to the Brits in exchange for a clean record.
After pulling that, the IRA had put quite the price on his head.

That's the reason I don't take political jobs. You take a job from a political group and you always end up getting more than you bargained for. There's a difference between killing for money and killing for a belief. The second you mix convictions with violence you're fucked, plain and simple. It's bad for your sanity and it's bad for business.

I pulled up to the apartment complex and put the revolver on my ankle and the .45 in my coat. I swallowed another Vicodin as I stepped out of the car. Holding my ribcage, I made my way up to my room. I let out a groan as I felt the broken ribs grinding against each other.

I slid the key into the deadbolt and turned it. Opening the door I noticed the window on the far side of the room was open. "Something's not right," I thought. My eyes widened as I realized what was happening. I reached into my coat pocket for the .45 but I was too late. McCaffrey came running around the corner from the kitchen with a bat. "Oh, Shit." He swung the bat into my left knee.

I heard the bone break as I fell to the floor. My hand was wrapped around the grip of the .45, but as I was pulling it out McCaffrey's size twelve boot hit me in the ribs. I coughed blood onto the floor, adding the deep crimson colour to the otherwise boring, beige carpet. The pain was too intense, I couldn't think straight. Booze kicked my feet out of the entryway and closed the front door.

I finally managed to pull the .45 from my jacket pocket, but I was moving to slow. McCaffrey stepped on my hand crushing my fingers into the ground. 'I'll take that,'� he said as he reached down and picked the gun off the floor. Hurling it into the kitchen, he bent down on one knee and grabbed me by the shirt.

He jerked me up until I was face to face with him. His face was as hard and ugly as always. His breath reeked of cheap whiskey and he was still wearing the bloody pants he had on when I shot him. 'How's the knee?'� I said, trying to smile mockingly.

A crooked, insincere smile tore across his face like a festering wound. He made a fist and pulled his right hand back.

Crack.

The blow rocked my skull. 'That bad, huh?'� I never shut up when I should.

Crack.

He hit me again and I felt a tooth in the back of my mouth come loose. His smile disappeared, 'Doc says I'm gonna have a permanent limp, ye filthy cocksucker.'� He swung again.

Crack.

Through blurred vision I could see McCaffrey's fist was getting bloody. I couldn't tell if it was his blood or mine. It's not that it mattered, but that's the stuff I always end up thinking about when I'm getting hit in the face. Whose blood is whose and whatnot.

Crack.

That one was the hardest I think. But my perception of reality was starting to slip. Blood was pouring down my chin and though I was hoping he would get tired of hitting me and take a break, I don't think it was going to happen.

'Heh, I've always wanted the chance to slap ye around, Murdoc. Ye know that?'� he hissed. 'Always walkin' around wi't that 'holier than thou art' attitude. Tryin' to tell a person how to do they're job an' how it'll be done yer way or not a'tall.'� He must have been referring to a job we worked on together in Romania.

It was almost five years ago. The target was the head of an eastern European terrorist cell named Anton Petrescu. Petrescu was scum of the insane variety. He was the type of scum who'd put a bomb on a school bus and think it was justified.

McCaffrey and I got into Petrescu's compound and made it into his bedroom. We killed him, but right before we left, Petrescu's wife walked in. Long story short, McCaffrey grabbed her, gagged her, and started pulling off her skirt. I shot her dead before he could have his fun. Booze was less than pleased. But back to the story at hand.

'We get paid to kill people, not rape 'em, asshole,'� I mumbled before spitting blood in his face. That pissed him off. I could see his anger growing as the blood decorating his ugly grimace almost started to boil.

Thud.

McCaffrey hit me in the chest, right on the bullet wound. The pain was too much to bear. I puked all over him, so he threw me down onto the ground. I sat sprawled out, covered in sweat, blood, and vomit, looking up at the lumbering man. McCaffrey pointed the bat at my face, 'It's gonna be a gas killing you, Murdoc. Rest assured, I'm gonna make hash o'ye.'�

Tok.

He jabbed the bat into my jaw, knocking out at least one tooth. I slumped over onto my side, blood pouring out of my mouth into a pool on the floor. There I lay, wild-eyed and gasping for air. My mind wandered.

"This is certainly not the way I wanted to go. At this rate, there's no way I'd get an open casket funeral. Not that anyone would go to my funeral . . . Goddamn it, focus," I thought. As I said, my mind was reeling.

McCaffrey smiled another unsightly grin. Christ, was he revolting. He turned his focus from me to a bottle of cheap whiskey he had sitting on the coffee table behind him. If I was going to get a chance, that was it.

Still gasping for air, I reached to my ankle and drew little nickel-plated revolver. McCaffrey took a pull from the bottle and turned back to face me. His eyes fell on the gun as I pulled the hammer back. His mouth opened and he began to say something, but I didn't care to hear it.

Bang.

The bullet hit him in the face. He dropped the bottle and hit the floor with a thud. I sat there for a minute or two, just watching the amber whiskey pour into the carpet and mix with the puddle of blood.

I tried to steady my breathing. With a shaking hand, I pulled my pack of Lucky Strikes from my breast pocket. I put the last one between my lips, lit it, and took a drag. I crumpled up the empty pack and tossed it to the side of the room.

I struggled to stand up. On my way to the phone, I grabbed McCaffrey's half empty bottle of whiskey. "He won't miss it," I thought as I spit out a tooth he'd knocked loose. I dialed Flannigan's number and took a pull from the bottle as the phone rang. It must have rung five or six times. "Come on, pick up." The old bastard always took forever to answer his phone.

''ello?!'� came a raspy voice.

'Flannigan, it's Murdoc. I need your help again. McCaffrey was waiting for me at my safe house.'�

'Yer coddin' me, that fucker was always thick as a ditch. Can ye make it back to me office?'�

'Not this time. If you thought I was a mess before, just you wait,'� I took another pull from the bottle.

'How do I get there?'�

I gave him the directions and hung up the phone. He was at least ten minutes away. I downed two more Vicodin and then, bleeding and shaking from a nicotine buzz, I laid down on the bed. I was in rough shape, but I'd finished McCaffrey and that meant I wouldn't have to work again for a few months. It was time for a vacation, and Christ, did I need one.

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