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Reilly’s Bullet

Reilly’s Bullet

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Reilly’s Bullet

Comprimento:
276 página
4 horas
Lançado em:
May 25, 2018
ISBN:
9780463413340
Formato:
Livro

Descrição

The tale of a Dublin musician who, through forensic experimentation, develops a new feature to avoid police, detectives, and military from identifying the identity and location of a firearm, when used. Having demonstrated its capability in an assassination, he puts it up for auction to governments while on a concert tour.

Lançado em:
May 25, 2018
ISBN:
9780463413340
Formato:
Livro

Sobre o autor

Travelled the World, living and working.

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Amostra do Livro

Reilly’s Bullet - Mack Owen

About the Author

Travelled the world, living and working.

Mack Owen

Reilly’s Bullet

***

Copyright © Mack Owen (2018)

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher.

Any person who commits any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

Ordering Information:

Quantity sales: special discounts are available on quantity purchases by corporations, associations, and others. For details, contact the publisher at the address below.

Publisher’s cataloguing in publishing data

Owen Mack.

Reilly’s Bullet

ISBN 978-1-64182-268-8 (Paperback)

ISBN 978-1-64182-267-1 (Hardback)

ISBN 978-1-64182-266-4 (E-Book)

The main category of the book — Fiction/ Thriller / Suspense

www.austinmacauley.com

First Published (2018)

Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd™

40 Wall Street, 28th Floor

New York, NY 10005

USA

mail-usa@austinmacauley.com

+1 (646) 5125767

***

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***

***

***

Weapon Development

The Dean of Physics at Trinity College, Dublin, Dr Miles Mc Fadden, wandered in to his Cryogenic Laboratory in his designer Hush Puppies and Kilkenny Tweeds and took Reilly by surprise just as he was removing samples and shapes from the super cooler.

The eminent professor advised Reilly to give up trying to earn brownie points by working over the Christmas holidays. He went on to explain that he expected Reilly’s exam results would be pathetic and that once the results were officially released, he would never walk the hallowed halls of the esteemed college again. He added that if Reilly wished to make a future career at sub-zero temperatures, he should find a willing employer who would allow him to sell ice-cream for the pittance he was worth or alternately move north, far north.

Reilly, not in the mood for his mentor´s criticism, cynicism, lack of congeniality and expertise, suggested that he quickly fuck off back to his cloisters and allow Reilly some time to sort out a simple physics problem in his own way and in his own time.

His experiment was relatively simple. Lead, chromium and antimony had been alloyed and moulded into some of the finest bullets made and used since the Cold War, carrying a BHN of 21 or higher.

Very few realized that the same could be done with water. Reilly had learnt far more than his lecturers, tutors and betters could ever understand. It was common knowledge that the effect of freezing various items by placing them in liquid nitrogen was theatrical, possibly even entertaining. A flower once frozen would become as frangible as glass and would smash when dropped. A banana, on the other hand, would become so hard that it could hammer a nail into a block of wood. Reilly took this concept further.

The process, tedious rather than technically complex, involved no more than using a saline solution of the correct density, originally derived from heavy water, a lot of patience together with a copious supply of nitrogen gas and skilled hand casting. This resulted in a bullet with a BHN greater than 22.

The heavy water was relatively easy to procure. It was available from the lake waters in north County Wicklow, a short fifteen miles bus trip south of Dublin city, easy handled and like Holy Water, totally benign. Reilly knew the area and the problem of radon gas which was found beneath and in the foundations of various local houses across areas of the county. Radon is a natural product of the ground, seeps from various soils and granite formations and can gather in cellars and rooms of properties in affected areas. Its major effect, apart from being a major cause of lung cancer, is to reduce the value of property.

Apart from the Irish Government, local county council politicians, real estate agents and property developers, who all kept the information to themselves, this was not common knowledge in Ireland and the Authorities and their cronies did their best to ensure that it stayed that way.

Reilly, a mature student, hadn’t spent three years failing a half-assed physics degree in TCD without learning something. In those three years, apart from enjoying learning a fair smattering of nuclear physics and taking advantage of the cheap beer in the Buttery, he had also become adept in the skills of playing pool, spades and poker, choosing winning racehorses and greyhounds, carousing with loose women and getting laid.

His college years had also helped to develop an enquiring mind.

The development of an armour piercing water bullet came simply. The mechanics of assembling the charge involved nothing more than modifying a Winchester .300 round for a Heckler and Koch MP5K and using frozen, modified heavy water rather than the usual lead based bullet.

Reilly went further. By changing the density of the solutions, Reilly formed a bullet within a bullet, the inner bullet being inherently heavier. As the ice bullet struck its target and began to decelerate, the inner bullet maintained its velocity. On a good hit, the effect was not unlike a dum-dum, clean in but with devastating effect on exit. The half-life of the Wicklow waters’ radioactivity was such that the level was back to normal background levels within minutes and could not be detected by a Geiger counter.

***

Forensic Testing

The Lord Mayor of Dublin makes his traditional tour of Dublin in early February each year. By horse drawn coach, surrounded with horse cavalcade from the Mansion House on Dawson Street, the Mayor paraded twice around Stephen’s Green, past the Government Buildings on Merrion Street, past Trinity College before entering into the wide approach of Dame St and on toward Dublin Castle where he is honoured by the Arch-Bishop of Dublin. In 2004, there was to be a change of plans. None more so than those of Lord Mayor Dunne.

Snipers have been much maligned in the history of war. Snipers and their methods were originally seen as ungentlemanly by British officers, but were effectively used by the Boers against the British troops in Africa. The British failed to learn how effective the technique was until large numbers of their officers, identified by the snipers through their penchant for wearing jodhpurs, were killed in the trenches during the beginning of the Great War. Only then did the penny drop and they adopted the tactic themselves.

The term sniper originally derived from a mild mannered water bird known by the Norse as a Snipa. The use of the word sniper evolved when young soldiers of the Raj would shoot this particular bird in the marshes of India in the eighteenth century.

On that afternoon in February, Reilly was unaware of and cared less about the history of the Raj sniping, nor did he expect the Lord Mayor of Dublin to be wearing jodhpurs as he went on to attempt to influence the history of ballistics.

Reilly accessed and settled on the roof of Christ Church Cathedral on a surprisingly sunny afternoon. With the River Liffey to his left and the full view of Dame Street in front, he was able to enjoy his ham sandwich, the good weather and the thought that luck comes to those who chance their ideas.

The unloaded MP5K at his side, Reilly began removing the sole round from the thermos as the cavalcade appeared up Dame St.

One cartridge into the clip, a quick slip, turn and click of the silencer to the muzzle…one fast scan through the Schmidt and Bender scope…a quick adjustment for wind and height…one shot to the Mayor’s forehead…a seemingly silent retort, a click of the bolt and the job was done.

Reilly quickly removed the stock from the gun, put the weapon back in his bodhran case and pocketed the used shell. Through the loft and down the stairs, he disappeared back down into the mire of the Temple Bar streets.

The Autopsy

The Mayor of Dublin was dead on arrival despite the efforts of the paramedics, emergency crews, mounted police, people based beside Dublin Castle and the media hounds, all of whom tried to piece his skull back together.

Given that, on that day, Bertie Aherne, the Taoiseach of Ireland was holding the presidency of Europe and that security for visiting prime ministers, presidents and dignitaries was supposedly absolute, the Minister in Charge, too late, ordered an immediate search of the area. Apart from the local hookers, drunks, junkies, tourists and illegal immigrants, nothing untoward was discovered or recovered. The Mayor’s corpse was sent for immediate autopsy and little or nothing was found. Nothing being the operative word. Despite an entry wound compatible with a .300 rifle and an exit wound the size of Hill 16, the forensic team had no bullet, no trace of a bullet and nothing at all to work on.

The Aftermath

Reilly returned to his loft, conveniently located over a bar and lap-dancing club near Cowes Lane. He put a couple of the best Galtee back-bacon rashers on the pan, added a softly fried egg, loaded the whole lot on top of a Brennan’s Bundy roll, sprinkled on some Galtee grated cheese and ate it over the sink.

Grabbing another bodhran case, Reilly wandered back into the maze of Temple Bar to Finnegan’s Bar where a seisiun of traditional Irish music was due to start in the early evening. Having ordered a pint of stout, Reilly wandered down to the end table and joined the other musicians, buskers and hope-to best, warming up, tuning up and supping up. He saluted the three he knew, nodded to the others, took his bodhran from its case and began a steady rhythm. One by one, the banjos, fiddles, guitars and pipes fell into line and the session began. Reilly was back in his element.

A mere 500 yards away, the area around Dame Street was flooded with blue flashing lights, halogen lights, uniformed Gardai, plain-clothes detectives, forensic staff and special branch men. The probing, prodding and questioning of all and sundry resulted in little. Unfortunately, only 50% of all and sundry spoke English. The remainder had seen nothing, heard nothing and said nothing.

Given the gravity of the situation, the Taoiseach addressed the Irish nation before the RTE Nine O’ Clock News. With absolutely nothing to go on, the Taoiseach was able to attribute the assassination to Republican/Loyalist/Fundamental Islamic mavericks, adding that the refusal of planning permission for a new synagogue in Raheny might have incensed some of the Jewish Orthodox community. He assured the public that given the gravity of the situation, the perpetrators would be found and punished, lest another public servant was injured or killed.

Meanwhile, the session in Finnegan’s Bar went well. All the musicians were on form. A coach load of American tourists had been brought to the venue from Jury’s Hotel in nearby Ballsbridge, and given that the Yanks had brought full wallets, the proprietor, Mrs Finnegan, provided free beer and Perri crisps for the band. Reilly was happy with the outcome of the day. At midnight, he packed away the bodhran and left the pub. Stopping only in Abrakebabra for chilli on lamb, Reilly headed back to the loft, opened a can of Special Brew, lit a joint and tucked into his doner kebab.

The detectives from Store Street Garda Station and the C.I.D. experts from the Castle knew that the first 24 hours after an apparent murder were the most important and that to know the victim was to know the killer.

The Mayor appeared to be clean. He had no serious political enemies, no serious debts, no account with the bookie Paddy Power, no known marital rifts, didn’t own a greyhound and wasn’t known to use drugs.

The fact that The Lord Mayor could have been used as a guinea pig in a ballistic experiment never occurred to them.

All stops were pulled out by the Security Forces, including the organist back in Christ Church Cathedral.

Door-to-door enquiries were initiated in the Dame Street and Temple Bar areas and police leather was worn down and time ticked away as the vendors closed up their carts and wished they had left.

The Morning After

Reilly woke, at six in the morning, with a smile only to hear a loud rap on the door.

Despite the rudeness of the uniformed Gardai making their enquiries that early in the morning, Reilly was relaxed and welcomed them into the loft and prepared a Euro Special breakfast consisting of three cappuccinos, a couple of Spanish omelettes, some Scharzwalder Schinken, Irish sausages, and a pan of French-fried bread, with Belgian waffles on the side. As luck would have it, and it did, the uniforms were regulars in Finnegans, and while on the piss, had witnessed Reilly’s performance the previous night. The guards ate their breakfast and well satisfied, left to beat on the doors of other innocent people.

The Headlines

After the Gardai had left, Reilly washed up, wandered downstairs, bought the Irish Times, the Irish Independent, The Examiner (De Paper) and headed down to Slattery´s early morning house for a couple of quick pints and a few slow reads.

His slow review of the papers revealed that the whole nation, including the Corkmen, was horrified and baffled. Reilly was amazed that a whole nation could be so interested in the assassination of a small-town politician who had gained power by ingratiating himself with foreign nationals, being corrupt in land dealing and immigration and being able to buy votes for himself and his cronies.

Bored of the media reports, Reilly turned to and finished both the Simplex and Crosaire crosswords in the Irish Times, had another couple of pints and headed back to the loft.

Foreign Coverage

The assassination of the Mayor of Dublin caused few ripples in the international press.

The three-line report in USA Today was picked up by few security analysts in Washington.

The Vatican News inaccurately reported that a reformed and retired secondary school teacher had been mown down in Dublin.

The headlines in both the Irish Mirror and Irish Sun told how David Beckham could possibly be dropped off England’s soccer team for their next friendly game against Sweden after denying claims of his infidelity from Posh. Sky News gave the story extensive coverage for twenty-four hours, BBC World Service reported the killing and it was mentioned on CNN.

The Intelligence Community

The report of a non-existent bullet eventually grabbed the attention of every secret intelligence service agency from Belfast to Beijing. Given that most of the authorities had tried the concept of invisible ballistics before and had failed, the report was discounted by all the military and security experts on CNN, Fox and Sky. The intelligence services worldwide watched TV, accepted the views of a group of self-ingratiating retirees and a few military wannabees, on TV, and discounted the concept.

Reilly’s Phone Calls

A loner, Reilly’s mobile phone was famous for seldom receiving calls. When Sally phoned, it turned out to be the first of two calls.

Sally worked in the lap-dancing club, Gussets, located just under his loft. They had shared their joints on many occasions. This was usually when Sally had had a quiet night, too many alcopops, was ten days after her period, horny as a stag, and couldn’t afford a taxi home.

On this night, Sally was distraught. As Reilly understood it, one of her regular clients had been murdered and she was currently having a private wake in Donohoes Bar on Merrion Row. Reilly promised that he’d be with her within twenty minutes.

The wake in Donohoes was in full swing as he entered. Reilly had a quick word with a couple of the musicians in the session, who directed him to his demented redhead.

Over a couple of half pints of stout and half a pack of Major cigarettes, Reilly calmed her down and got half the story. As it turned out, Sally had been providing private lap dancing sessions in the Mansion House, only around the corner on Dawson Street, Monday, Wednesday and Thursday evenings to the late Lord Mayor of Dublin. The killing of, as Sally put it, that bastard now put her out of pocket by $1000 a week.

Reilly squeezed her in with the musicians, borrowed a bodhran from one of the other regulars, let loose and over a four hour session calmed her down with music, Guinness and Powers Whiskey.

The second call was more ominous. Reilly’s bookie was not a happy puppy and was calling in Reilly’s knee caps. Reilly was more unhappy with a greyhound puppy called Droopy’s Revenge, a gifted and guaranteed bitch who managed to do more tumbles on the last corner of the big race in Shelbourne Park than Nadia Komanech had done in all her combined Olympic winning gold medal titles.

Reilly promised payment by 2.00 A.M., and agreed to meet a pair of two by fours outside Lillies’s Bordello. A quick run to Yan’s Internet Cafe, a quick log-on to Paddy Power’s web site, a bet on an outside certainty running at 13/1 in the first race of the Sydney Classic and Reilly had reloaded his credit card.

It took Reilly two-and-a-half ATM’s to collect the cash to cover Droopy’s losses. A quick call to Sally and the four met outside the Bordello. The pair on the door of Lillie’s accepted the payment on Droopy’s Revenge on behalf of the Management, gave the pair four one-for-two vouchers and permitted entry. Entry into Lillie’s was only for the elite of Dublin. Reilly wandered in non-plussed. He already knew most of the drug tsars from Ballyfermot and Finglas, the guys from the anti-terrorist squad and the visiting rock-stars. He gave them a nod.

Reilly settled Sally in a quiet corner, ordered a couple of Cuba Libres and rolled two large joints. Having taken a couple of sips of the Cuba Libra and a couple of tokes, he settled Sally down to give her the hard facts of life. Reilly explained to Sally that, through a source in the Sunday World, he had learnt that the next, yet to be elected, Mayor of Dublin was a Presbyterian, married to a paraplegic and that Sally could expect four nights a week in future in the Mansion House. There was a promise of double rates on Sunday after the last morning service in Christ Church Cathedral.

Reilly brought a happy Sally back to his loft. Sally slept soundly while Reilly made plans. The plan was to make a late morning phone call after Sally had left.

The Following Morning

Reilly woke up with a hard-on nestled between the cheeks of Sally’s arse and given that she figured she owed him one, they had a wild session of dirty sex. Afterwards, Sally scrambled the eggs as Reilly burnt the bacon and sausages. After eating well, Reilly put Sally in a taxi with a promise to meet her after her early shift in Gussets.

Having showered, Reilly phoned a number in Doolin, County Clare. The phone was answered by the curate’s housekeeper who put him straight through to the priest. Fr. Donohoe was not surprised to hear from Reilly, even though they hadn’t spoken in over a couple of years. At that time, the holy father had promised to stick the sharp end of a set of uilleann pipes up Reilly’s rear end, if he ever caught him smoking dope while judging a girls’ under-15 ceili dancing competition in the Feis Ceoil in Ennis again.

Pleasantries exchanged, Reilly got to the point. Fr. Donohoe confirmed that he had organized a group of traditional Irish musicians to travel East through March and early April. The troupe of twelve was filled but Donohoe agreed to bring him along if Reilly could come up with the airfare. Reilly arranged to meet with the Reverend Father in a bar in Ballyvaughan the following evening.

Over a lunchtime pint, Reilly pondered the problem of not only raising the airfare but, more immediately, raising the bus-fare to Ballyvaughan the following day.

The options were limited. As Reilly would be travelling in a few days, for a few days, he could sell his stash of best Hawaiian grass. Unfortunately, the depleted stash wouldn’t yield a lot. The idea was discarded. Busking on Dublin’s Grafton Street was always a good earner but not a great idea in February. There were no fixed horses or greyhounds running that he’d been told about. Reilly knew that he’d have to put the touch on Sally.

Decision made, he ordered another pint of stout, completed the Telegraph crossword, headed back to the loft and slept.

Sally was waiting for him when he arrived in O’ Neill’s just after eight o’clock. Though off-duty, she was still dressed for work, looking sexy as hell, pissed off and impatient. As he entered, Cunningham, the young fellow behind the bar passed Reilly his pint of Guinness and a packet of KP salted peanuts and winked at him. Cunningham knew that Reilly would need all the energy he could get.

Even before Reilly sat down, Sally told him to drink up and take her back to the loft.

Sally had had a problem with the teatime shift in Gussets. In the early evening, the place was always full of suits from the local banks, nearby insurance companies and Civil Service offices, all trying to avoid the rush hour traffic and get a hard on before heading back to their wives in the suburbs of Castleknock, Blackrock and Greystones. Sally would leave work frustrated and horny, with few tips and a bad attitude.

Reilly and Sally headed back to his loft, had a couple of quick tokes, a Tayto crisp sandwich, oral sex, anal sex and consensual sex, not particularly in that order. In the afterglow, Reilly put the touch on Sally for a loan of one-thousand euros, promising to return it in forty-eight hours. He explained that he needed it only to prove good faith to a priest in Co. Clare. Suggesting that going to confession and communion might be a better way of showing faith to the clergy; Sally came up with ten fifties and the rest in twenties from her bag, turned around and fell asleep.

Reilly rolled another joint and considered the irony. Over a millennium before an army of executioners had wandered through lands over Europe killing those that they perceived as their enemies. They celebrated each kill with a drug driven orgy that could last for days. The use of hashish by the killers gave them the colloquial title of Hassassins. The name with little change had lasted into the twenty-first century and was easily embraced by himself.

***

The Trip to Clare

The following afternoon Reilly walked down Dame Street and over O’Connell’s Bridge to the Busarus. He took the 2.10 bus to Galway and slept as they headed west. In Oranmore, he was dropped off at the Oran Centre and had time for a cup of coffee before taking the connecting bus on to Ballyvaughan.

He wandered in to Hynes’ Hotel just a few minutes before the Holy Father. He greeted the locals and ordered a pint of Murphy’s stout. Given the time since and the nature of their last meeting, Fr. Donohoe, when he arrived, greeted Reilly in a more than amicable way, accepted his offer of a bottle of Bulmer’s cider and settled into the wing-chair that Reilly had sat himself in front of prior to Donohoe’s arrival. Having had experience of both the Christian Brothers and the Jesuit Priests, Reilly knew that nothing pleased the religious more than punctuality and a seat with power.

Having taken a draft of the cider, Donohoe called over the waitress and ordered the grilled sirloin, baked potatoes, onion and mushrooms on the Dioceses’ expense funds.

The meal was served up quickly and Reilly retired to the bar, ordered another pint of stout, paid his tab and waited at the bar chatting with a couple of

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