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Raven's Return

by Roy French; co-published with Black Rose Publishing

313 pages; quality trade paperback (softcover); catalogue #00-0176; ISBN 1-4120-1541-3; US$28.50, C$32.95, EUR23.50, £16.50

In a sequel to his award-winning A Sense of Honour, Roy French returns with another tale of the Raven, once the most feared of all paramilitary enforcers in Ireland.

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about the book      about the author      Prologue      catalogue info

About the Book In a sequel to his award-winning A Sense of Honour, Roy French returns with another tale of the Raven, once the most feared of all paramilitary enforcers in Ireland. Daniel Riordan is trying desperately hard to put his past behind him, but when his friends are killed in a house fire and the police believe it was accidental, Riordan must return to the arcane skills of his past, to the being that was the Raven, in order to uncover the truth. The path, however, leads back to his former life, re-opening old, painful wounds and places his own life in jeopardy. He finds help from an unexpected source. John Waters, a commando from the elite Special Air Service, is tracking a notorious terrorist who has been contracted by the very people for whom Riordan is searching. His quest is also very personal, totally unsanctioned, and in coming to Riordan's aid together they manage to lay old ghosts to rest. Once again, French takes us on a wild ride from the dark mountains of Ireland, to the forests of British Columbia and on to the calm, blue waters of Cuba, the plot twisting and turning all the way.

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About the Author Roy French was born in Ballymena, Northern Ireland, and grew up through the worst of the 'Troubles'. He is no stranger to violence. Today he makes his home in Toronto, Canada. Roy has won numerous awards including runner-up for the Arthur Ellis Award for his first novel A Sense of Honor and has co-written two screenplays which are about to go into production. Also by Roy French: The Black Rose Raven's Fury Raven's Honor

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Prologue

Ten days. David Spence picked up the urn containing his wife's ashes from the bottom of the boat, pried off the lid, and hurled it in a giant arc into the lake. The fine powder scattered on the wind like a miniature vapour trail from a jet, following the urn all the way to the surface. On impact, it looked like the dark, glassy surface had erupted, sending concentric rings into infinity.

Ten days ago he had been living a normal life: a wife, a mortgage, a young daughter, two cars, working hard and looking towards the future, filled with hope and expectations. And then it all went to hell, a descent into a maelstrom of violence, like someone had put a match to the picture of his life. His wife and daughter were gone, snuffed out in a terrorist explosion, and eventually his adopted father, who had come to help him punish the men responsible for the explosion, was taken as well.

Ten days. Spence picked up the tiny urn containing his young daughter's ashes, eyes brimming with tears at the image of her, the tiny smiling face always puckered for a kiss and a hug. The top of the urn fell away, fire racing through his fingers as a nail tore on the metal rim. For the first time, since coming to the lake, he felt the urge to join them, to step into the merciful oblivion of the dark waters.

Over the last couple of days, with the investigators and the insurance adjusters and the well-meaning friends with empty platitudes, the sense of loss was all consuming, like a severe burn. In the depths of sorrow, numbed by grief and alcohol, and filled with self-loathing at what he had been driven to do to uncover the truth about his family's demise, he had loaded a single round into his gun and pressed the barrel against his head.

Finger tightening on the trigger. The urns in front of him beside a well-thumbed photograph. Tears, gallons of tears. And through it all he heard Mary's voice, scolding him gently in that way she had. "Be good to the living," the voice had said. "Be good to the living." The pressure on the trigger eased, the gun put away until the next time, and eventually he threw away the bullet in a fit of disgust, realizing it was time to get on with life, to lay the ashes to rest and disappear to start a new life. There was no other way.

Eyes raised towards the setting sun, a golden mantle softly draped around his shoulders, he lifted the urn to his lips. One last kiss, he said quietly, blinking back the tears. His lips touched the cold metal side of the urn.

The thirty-five grain bullet erupted from the sniper's rifle with a muzzle velocity of 2400 feet per second and covered the five hundred yards in a heartbeat.

On impact, twenty-four hundred pounds per square inch of force was transferred to Spence's chest. The bullet tore through the blood-bag on top of the ceramic body plate armour he wore, causing a bloody red mist to explode from his chest. The bullet continued through the ceramic armour, which slowed it by a fraction, and spent the rest of its energy on the half-inch thick, steel plate, which was behind the armour. The force of the contact caused a tiny charge on his back to explode behind another blood-bag, a much larger eruption this time as exit wounds always were much larger than entry wounds.

Spence stood for a moment, the breath completely knocked out of his body, then smiled and pitched over the side of the boat. On a jagged piece of the boat's aluminum shell, he had already placed a small, bloody piece of skin and a few hairs - another tragic boating accident.

The weight of the steel plate took him straight to the bottom of the lake, which was only about ten feet deep. He shrugged his way out of the tracksuit top and the armour and the steel plate, and then looked around for the anchor to which he had attached a tiny red light. Tied to the anchor rope was a miniature aqualung, which had sufficient air to get him to the shore. Pushing in the mouthpiece, he took a deep breath to replenish his air and untied the anchor to allow the boat to drift freely. He then swam towards the side of the lake, where he would learn if the subterfuge had worked.

He climbed out on to the bank a few feet from where he expected to land, taking care not to make too much noise. He had stashed a dry set of clothes and a towel in the branches of a tree. He stripped and dried himself quickly; the plan called for speed.

In the faint twilight he could see dark streaks on the towel and he examined himself quickly to find the source. The blood was from a wound on his chest. The impact of the bullet had driven the tiny, chained emblem he always wore into his chest. The area was still numb from the blow, but the wound was only superficial.

Raising the tiny emblem to his lips, he kissed it for good luck. It was an old, brass, military cap badge depicting a winged dagger, the emblem of the Special Air Service Regiment. His adopted father had served with them during the war and had given it to him as a keepsake.

The mournful wail of a Loon echoed across the dark waters, and the incessant thrum of crickets filled the night air. Brushing off a few hungry mosquitoes, he quickly changed into a black sweatsuit, and ran to where he had left the motorcycle that he had stolen earlier in the day from a local holiday resort.

The motorcycle purred into life at the first kick, and he raced around the lake to where the shot had originated. If he guessed right, the sniper would be in no hurry to get away. For him it had been a nice leisurely kill.

Darkness fell quickly. He accelerated up the hill overlooking the lake, saw a dark-coloured truck parked in the trees and slowed a little as he approached for a closer look. On seeing the rental company sticker in the truck's window, confirming his suspicions, he drove on for about two hundred yards, pulled over, and turned off his engine. Throwing the bike down on the ground, he removed the crash helmet and ran quietly back to the truck.

A few minutes later he heard twigs cracking underfoot as the sniper made his way back up the hill to the vehicle. He knelt down and watched under the truck the man cross the road carrying a metal attaché case. Spence looked around him and picked up a hefty piece of wood as the man fiddled with the keys to the truck. The keys fell to the ground with a clink, followed by a muffled curse, and he noted the gruff English accent when the man said, "bollocks!"

As the man scrambled about on the ground looking for his keys, Spence stepped up behind him and brought the piece of wood crashing down on his head. The man grunted and fell over, unconscious. Spence tossed him over the side of the truck, none too gently, then picked up the keys and started the engine.

Keeping his eye on the odometer, he drove along the road for several miles, turned down an isolated laneway, and followed it to a deserted cabin. Pulling up outside, he ran quickly to the porch, smashed one of the front glass panels and opened the door.

Going back to the truck, he dragged the unconscious sniper by the feet out on to the ground. The man's head slammed into the hard-packed earth with a dull thud. Too bad, he thought. He dragged the man into the house and laid him on the floor under one of the large log beams criss-crossing the ceiling. That done, he examined the metal attaché case that he'd brought in from outside. Inside were the component parts of the sniper's rifle. Spence patiently assembled the rifle, admiring the quality of the pieces which appeared to be hand-made.

It was a converted Lee-Enfield Mark5, a favourite with snipers, as it could hit a target easily at distances between 500 and 1000 yards. It was mounted with a Browning sniper-scope. A magazine, packed with shiny, brass 7.62- millimetre shells, was jammed in an indentation in the heavy sponge interior of the case. He set the rifle down on the floor and stood up.

He searched the cabin for a few minutes before finding a length of rope to bind the man's hands behind his back. When they were securely fastened, he looped the rope around the man's hands again and tossed it over one of the beams. Then he settled down to wait.

After about thirty minutes the man stirred, a low moan announcing his recovery. Spence went into the small kitchen at the back of the cabin, filled a plastic basin with cold water and then returned to the living room where he tossed it over the prostrate figure.

The man blinked several times and shook the water out of his hair, looking around in bewilderment. His face was muddy from being dragged across the dirt. When his eyes alit on Spence, the blood drained from his face.

"You, you..." he spluttered. "But I saw..."

"You saw what I wanted you to see," replied Spence.

"Smoke and mirrors. It was a hell of a shot though; my ribs are aching from the impact. Still, no pain no gain." Spence raised his tee-shirt to expose the large, red, fist-sized mark on his chest, and touched it gingerly with the tips of his fingers before continuing. "I have a few questions to ask, as you can imagine, and I would like you to answer them as truthfully as possible. Who hired you?"

"No comment," came the reply.

"Ah, I see. Name, birth date, rank and serial number, is it?" snorted Spence. "The standard four. I'm afraid the rules of the Geneva Convention have gone out the window, as you are about to find out. You're not in the army now."

"If you kill me you'll never find out who set you up," said the man defiantly.

"Who said anything about killing you?" asked Spence, feigning surprise. "I'm going to show you a little trick that the Shah's forces used at the Bab Alziz prison in Teheran. It's called the 'Savaki meat hook' and I'm told several people went insane from the pain."

Setting the rifle on the ground beside him, Spence heaved on the rope, forcing the man to stand up as his arms were jerked up behind him. When the man was upright, Spence pulled on the rope some more, just enough to have the man standing on his toes. He could see the veins cording on the man's neck as he fought against the pain.

Spence tied the rope to one of the upright beams, wrapping it tightly around a heavy, brass coat hook which had been nailed, none too elegantly, to the beam. Standing in front of the man, who was now bent in two, Spence grasped a handful of hair and twisted the man's face up to meet his own. The sniper grimaced and cried out.

"Hurts, doesn't it?" Spence asked. "Now you know why it's called the meat hook. Hanging like a side of beef for a few hours, with both shoulders about to be dislocated could certainly drive you insane, and for you, my friend, this is only the start. You have no idea what is in store if you decide not to tell me what I want to know. Now I'll ask you again, who set me up?"

"Fuck off," came the reply. Spence shook his head sadly, astonished that the man would remain so defiant. Walking behind him, Spence kicked the sniper hard behind the knee, causing it to shoot forward, which immediately transferred more of the man's weight to his shoulders. A sharp piercing wail filled the room, the sudden movement threatening to dislocate the sniper's shoulder. Spence repeated the process on the other leg.

Another wail pierced the night. The man cried, "Enough, enough. For God's sake, enough. I'll tell you what you want to know." Spence smiled - not even five minutes had passed.

Spence said, "I have a few questions which I would like you to answer. Please answer them as fully as possible. I know the answer to some of them so if I catch you lying you will get more of the same."

Spence and the man talked back and forth for a few minutes about methods of contact and operation zones, until he was satisfied that all his questions were answered fully and truthfully. He needed to make sure the contact went only in one direction. When the interrogation ended Spence picked up the rifle.

The man's eyes opened wide in horror. "Please mate, I was just doing a job. Please. Give me a break and I'll see you all right. I've got quite a bit put away with some of the jobs I've done over the last while. There's a book in the case, hidden under the sponge, with places and money drops and equipment lockers. Name your price. Anything."

Spence dismantled the rifle, much to the relief of the sniper, and put the pieces back into the carry case. "It's a lovely gun," he offered.

"Yes, it is," the man eagerly replied. "I have one just like it in each of the countries where I work. That way I don't have to mess around with getting my hands on new equipment."

"Did you spend any time in the North of Ireland?" Spence asked in a casual, off-handed manner.

"Yes. I did three tours there with the paras. Fucking awful place, it was. I was there on bloody Sunday, when the thirteen people were shot in the riot."

Spence asked, "Did you ever hear of someone called the Raven?"

The man actually smiled. "I think he was a myth put about by the proddies when they wanted to claim responsibility for some killing or other. There were lots of whispers about him but nothing concrete, so I don't think he ever really existed, and after a while it just became local folklore. One shot in each eye was supposed to be his trademark, if I remember correctly."

"I am the Raven," said Spence, enjoying the shocked look on the man's face. Taking a silenced .22-millimetre pistol out of his back waistband, he held it loosely by his side. "I did what I did for a cause, for an ideal that turned out to be corrupt and rotten, but you and people like you are the scum of the earth. Paid killers, worshipping the almighty dollar.

"David Elder, the man who hired you, was responsible for the deaths of my wife and daughter, and for the lives of many others. He forced me back into a life I despise, when all I wanted was peace..." Spence took a deep breath, his mind thinking ahead to his next steps.

The sniper's nostrils flared, and he spat on the floor. "So why don't you just shoot me and get it over with. Or maybe you've gone soft."

Spence realised he was being baited, and in the space of a heartbeat, saw the truth in the sniper's words. He lowered his pistol. "There's been enough killing," Spence said, slipping the gun back into his waistband.

Picking up the attaché case, Spence released the rope, allowing the sniper to collapse to the floor like a sack of potatoes. "We better not meet again," Spence said firmly, closing the door behind him.

He had taken barely four steps when the side window of the cabin erupted and the sniper slammed into him, hands grasping for his throat. Both men fell to the ground, Spence's lungs gasping for oxygen. He swung an ineffectual punch at the man's head, but the sniper's grip was like an iron band, closing off the supply of precious oxygen. The sniper snarled, a feral expression on his face as he slammed a knee up into Spence's groin. Spence retched, the fight going out of him. A red mist appeared in front of his eyes.

Slipping a hand around his back, he grasped the tiny pistol, jammed the barrel up under the man's ribcage and pulled the trigger four times in rapid succession. Instantly the powerful grip lost its purchase, and Spence rolled away and climbed to his feet. The sniper coughed, a bloody phlegm on his lips, blood seeping through his fingers in the darkness like oil.

"For fuck's sake," Spence rasped, his throat aching. "Why wouldn't you let me go. Why?" He raised the pistol and shot the man twice in the head. There were no options left for him now. He dragged the sniper back into the cottage and laid him on the middle of the room. Blood trickled like tears from the man's shattered eyes.

Spence laid the attaché case on the passenger seat and put on a heavy pair of gloves. Behind the cabin, a tiny storage shed held a large gasoline can for the emergency generator. Unscrewing the top of the can, he carried it back to the room and laid it on its side. Gasoline spewed over the dry timbers of the cabin floor, the heavy fumes making his eyes water.

The gasoline ignited with a loud bang, a sheet of bluish-orange flame running like a wave across the floor to engulf the room completely.

Spence closed the door, climbed into the truck, and drove away.

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Catalogue Information

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