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Prologue Ireland November
1980 Heavy rain pelted the
windows of the i gcróilí an bháis
pub with unrelenting fury. The glass
shook in the wooden panes that barely kept the glass in its place. Rotting and neglected, the window frames
were just like the rest of the little Celtic pub, very old and very much
forgotten, hidden away in the shadows of a dark alleyway on a cobblestone
street that time itself seemed to have passed by. The air was thick and
hot, wood crackled with renewed life in the ancient stone fireplace that
lined the entire west wall of the pub as the barkeeper fed the flame by
throwing another log on. When the wood
hit the flames it sparked and hissed, smoke wafted out from the neglected
flue that was only opened half way.
The barkeeper, used to the environment in which he worked, was
unaffected by the heavy pungent smoke that filled the small room with the
strong smell of burning timber. It was past two o’clock
in the morning and on the low murmurings of the few patrons that remained,
the door swung open, a fierce gust of wind blew inside the smoky pub carrying
the door with it and out of the hands of the man that had opened it. It slammed against the wall, startling the
occupants out of their conversations. Several sets of eyes lifted to the
doorway inspecting the new visitor that stood in the threshold with the rain
beating against his back. A shiver of unease ran down their spines as they
recognized the man that stood soaking wet in the threshold. Quickly they averted their gazes and resumed
the softly spoken conversations they were having before the newcomer’s
arrival. Harsh brown eyes scanned
the pub, scrutinizing the customers one by one as he grunted with
satisfaction from the fear he read in their gazes before they looked
away. He skimmed the faces that sat
around the tables and the bar drinking their troubles away. After determining
that they were all local regulars he closed the door and made his way over to
the back table hidden in the shadows of the pub. Pulling off his hat he
shrugged out of his drenched rain coat, shaking the rain off of the garment
with a scowl on his face. He hated Ireland, hated the rain that never seemed
to stop and he hated wearing hats and stupid uncomfortable raincoats. But most of all he hated this God forsaken
bloody pub. At least the stupid Mick’s
had enough sense to name it aptly; i gcróilí an bháis
Gaelic for ‘in the throes of death’.
He could never decide if it was named such by the rank booze they
served or the dirtiness of the establishment. Not that it mattered partaking
in either for too long would most likely kill you. He was pretty sure – and bloody thankful -
that if it weren’t for the barkeeper saving the good stuff for them that he
and his brothers would already be dead, because in his mind there could not
be a more despicable pub in all of Ireland than this one. But that of course was the appeal of the
place. No sane person in their right
mind would linger here except the locals, the same locals who knew what the
pub really was; the rendezvous place for the members of The Order. They watched over it in respect to the
members of The Order. They threw out any strangers that came by and they kept
the secrets of The Order as if they were their own, and in a way they were. This town and the people
that lived here generation after generation was where it all began. And
though the Order had strongholds in every country home base was here. In the back of his mind, he knew that one
day this town would be where it all ended. Fitting, he snickered as
he reached the table and threw his coat and hat on the coat rack next to
it. It would be appropriate to see
The Order and all its righteous loyalists brought down in this piss ass
excuse of a town, two peas in a pod if you asked him. And when that happened
he would finally be free of this bloody country and all its ignorant
populace, not to mention the crappy weather. The barkeeper walked
over and silently put a pint of ale down in front of him. He nodded at him,
his eyes shining bright with all the respect he had for his patron, then he
walked away. The man eyeballed the
barkeeper’s back thinking how nice it would be to see the look on the man’s
face when he realized just how misplaced that respect was, a shame really,
that he wouldn’t be here to see it. He took a drink of his
ale – the only good thing this country has ever produced - and pondered his
previous thoughts, wondering why he had grown such an aversion to foul
weather. Being a Londoner he was accustomed to inclement weather but the
difference was that in London he was at home, where he belonged. Here in
Ireland he was nothing but an outsider - an outsider with a secret. One, that after tonight he would no longer
have to bear. The past eight months
had been harder than he thought it would have been. In fact, he deserved a bloody Oscar for his
staunch performance of a man who really cared for the ‘cause’. He still could not believe that he’d gotten
away with it. Either he really was
that good or the men he had fooled were that blind. The door opened again
and another angry gust of wind blew in with the man that opened it, blowing
his coat and hat off the rack and to the floor. He didn’t pick it up, after
tonight it was going to get burned anyway so what did he care. Closing the door, the
new arrival walked in much the same way he had; removing his coat and hat,
shaking off the offending rain and then carelessly throwing it on the rack
next to their table. He sat down
across from him then nodded his head in greeting as he accepted the pint the
barkeeper brought over for him. They watched the
barkeeper as he walked away and then he sat forward, his voice but a whisper.
“Is it all set?” He passed the tickets
under the table to the greedy hands that awaited it. “Everything has been set
into motion. The plane leaves at ten.” The man maliciously
grinned as he practically ripped the tickets out of his hand. He smirked back at him. His brother was the
one man that hated this country and its natives more than he did. He didn’t
blame him either he would have felt the same if he was in his brother’s
shoes. “Have you told her yet?”
he asked. His brother shook his
sandy blonde head, his loose curls moving around a face that was set in a
hard and malevolent manner. “No and I don’t plan on it either.” “Do you think that’s
wise? If she or the children cause a scene…” “There will be no scene.
She’ll go because I’ll tell her to go, even if I have to gag and bind them
all.” The angry reply spoke of
the unleashed violence that coiled inside the man. The empty eyes that looked
back were a window into a soul that was by nature heartless and cruel. Nothing unusual there, the man sitting across
from him was as unstable as he was himself. That was probably why they had
gotten along so well. Well, he just
hoped that he kept it in check. Tonight was important. Their futures depended
upon everything tonight and as the door to the pub opened once more and four
men entered laughing with each other as they did every damn day, their quiet
conversation stopped. Their mannerisms turned
jovial and friendly, their masks in place as they greeted their ‘brothers’,
he smiled. The smile that formed on
his face was not forced or fake. For the first time in many years the smile
that was plastered there for all to see was honest…real. Because he knew that nothing would be the
same after tonight for any of them. ******************* 1985 Buffalo,
New York I know who they are. They tried to hide their disloyalty and they succeeded for far too
long, but not any longer. I know each
and every one of them that betrayed me…betrayed the Order. They are responsible for putting my brothers and their wives in prison.
They are the ones that are responsible for leaving two young boys parentless
and alone. They are the ones that even
now plan my death. I had been so blind to what was right in front of my face and now I’m
paying the price. My friends and their families are paying the price and this
is unacceptable. The rage and resentment that I feel toward these men is unlike anything
I ever felt before. The coldness that
has seeped into my body is unrelenting and without mercy. My hands, even now while I hold this pen,
shake with the bloodlust that drives them to kill and the shame that I feel
for not putting the pieces together soon enough. If I had then perhaps my
dear friends would be at their homes and not rotting away in dank prison
cells, if they weren’t already dead that is. I can remember the exact moment when I knew something was not
right. Five years ago, in a place that
should have meant safety and security, I sat down with my brothers at a table
that we had sat at a thousand times before, in a pub that I had been in more
times that I could count, and with two men who we thought were our allies,
our…brothers. I spit out that word now
with loathing and hatred toward these vile men. They do not know the meaning of that word
and never did. They were men not of
honor but of greed and selfishness, men who have a sickness in their hearts
and black empty souls, men that I had at one time entrusted my life
with. Perhaps none of us are at fault for not seeing it sooner, after all
they had always been more cynical and harder than the rest of us, their eyes
always held a frisson of disgust in them but that night… something was
different. The eyes that stared back
at me and at my brothers had cut me to the core with open hostility and
malevolence. I’m ashamed to admit that
at the time I pushed my concerns away.
We had just completed a difficult mission that had ended successfully,
we were in high spirits and I was looking forward to seeing my family. I didn’t want to think of anything else but
the good in life. And they, they had
joked with the rest of us, drank ale like any other night, and plotted the
next mission with us just like always.
Still a part of me knew something was not right and the following day
when one of my brothers came to me crazed and upset like an insane madman, I
knew my suspicions were correct. After that, the four of us stuck together. We did our duties at the
same time as we searched for answers and sought explanations. For five long years we did everything we could to find them and destroy
them and when we did we were…reckless.
We had become so obsessed with seeing them dead and restoring the
Order to what it use to be that we became careless.
We let our emotions control us – something completely unheard of for men such
as us - but emotions were what drove us. Now, my two dear friends are gone, locked up in prison, and my other
trusted companion has disappeared. I do not know where he went but I
understand why. God, how I understand for if it were me, I would have left
too. I hold faith that one day he will succeed in his endeavor and then seek
me out. In my heart I know one day we will rejoice as brothers should, all of
us, together once again. I tell you this my son because while I am hopeful that the latter will
occur I fear that I will not be around to see it. They know that I am on to them. It’s only a matter of time before they come
for me. I must leave you and I must
leave my beloved behind, for I could not stand it to see either one of you
suffer because of me. “Liam, come down now,
your dinner’s getting cold!” “I’ll be right down
beloved.” Angelus, I end this letter with points of advice that I stress with
dire importance. TRUST NO ONE! Seek a man known as Ripper for he holds the missing pieces of the
puzzle that I have created for you. And most importantly…find your brothers, for they are your only allies.
With them you will restore the Order back to its glory. I trust in this and I trust in you. Your loving father… |