Blood Money (chapters three and four.) (standard:Suspense, 4034 words) [2/18] show all parts
Author: Hulsey	Added: Sep 15 2011	Views/Reads: 2626/1749	Part vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
Continued.

3 

BALLYMENA COUNTY ANTRIM NORTHERN IRELAND 

The Range rover accelerated along the mud-rutted road, scattering the
flock of sheep and angering the old shepherd, who waved his fist at the 
driver. Terry Keenan ignored the protests and expertly manoeuvred his 
vehicle over the cattle grid. He sang along to the haunting lyrics of 
Madame Butterfly, his love of classical music seemingly inappropriate 
for the big man. 

Keenan was back in his beloved homeland and he smiled at the rolling
hills and the green meadows, his admiration for the countryside 
unwavering. Wearing his sleeveless jacket, the numerous tattoos on his 
arms proudly displayed his loyalty. On his bulging forearm, a snake was 
coiled around a bloody dagger, the words, OUR DAY WILL COME etched 
clearly in red. 

Keenan had such a friendly face, his gap-toothed smile, turned up nose
and his floppy brown hair contradicting his violent past. After 
shooting down in cold blood two RUC officers in 1995, he was sentenced 
to life imprisonment. Suspected of being involved in major bombing 
campaigns in Britain, Keenan was deemed a high security risk. 

Along with hundreds of other Irish terrorists, Keenan was later released
from prison, courtesy of the Good Friday agreement. The thirty-five 
year old former IRA assassin had sampled freedom now for almost six 
years, the infamous Maze prison no longer his home. He was thought to 
be behind the £26 million pounds Belfast bank robbery and was 
constantly under surveillance. Rumours were rife that the hard man had 
joined the Real IRA. 

Braking suddenly, Keenan stared ahead at the emaciated, pitiful creature
that blocked the road. The red Irish setter whimpered at the approach 
of the driver, too exhausted to bark at the stranger. Kennan stooped 
down and stroked the unfortunate hound, grimacing at its protruding 
ribs and filthy coat. “Who did this to you boy?” He straightened up and 
looked around him. Picking up the dog, he carried it along the uneven 
muddy path towards the farmhouse, the pouring rain cooling his hot 
body. 

Reaching the farmhouse, Keenan put down the dog, who now cowered behind
him. He rapped loudly on the door and was greeted by a toothless, bald 
man. 

“What do you want, stranger? Don't you know you're on private property?”


Keenan pointed to the dog. “Does this creature belong to you?” 

The man ran the sleeve of his grubby cardigan across his runny nose.
“The fucker's no good to me. He's yours if you want him.” 

Keenan removed his 9mm Browning from his waistband and pressed it
against the man's forehead. “You're a fucking animal! Get on your 
knees, cunt!” 

The farmer eyed up the tattoos on the stranger's arms and wet himself.
“T...T...The dog went missing, he did. I looked everywhere for him.” 

Keenan prized the barrel of his weapon between the man's yellow teeth.
“Be Jesus, I must be getting fucking soft in my old age. Maybe it's 
because we now live in peaceful times, so this is what I'm going to do. 
You are going to take...what's his name?” 

“Beano,” gasped the man, after the barrel was released. 

“Beano, eh? Well you're going to take old Beano in, feed him and nurse
him back to health. If I see any more wounds or signs of cruelty on him 
when I return, then I'm going to skin you then bury you alive, do you 
hear?” 

The farmer nodded rapidly. 

“I'll return a week from today and check on him... Oh, and don't try to


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