Page 60 of Hang on St. Christopher

We began walking through the caravan site. I had the feeling that something bad was going to happen—a feeling that I attributed either to ESP or to paranoia, depending on my mood. It was also geographically dependent. If I had been in Scotland, then it would have been safe to assume that nothing bad was going to happen. If I was in Northern Ireland...

I drew my Glock, and Crabbie, thinking along the same lines, drew his revolver. Better safe than sorry. We were both in our civvies, though, which meant no body armor.

“There’s lot nine, lot eleven,” I said, counting off the caravans.

Lot number 13 was partway into the forest, and lot 15 was presumably even deeper into the edge of the wood.

“I think there’s someone there,” Crabbie whispered.

“Where?”

“In front of the caravan, just there!”

He was right. A tall man in black was standing outside the two-person caravan in lot 15, looking suspicious.

“I’ll go on point; you stay behind me, okay?”

“No. I’ll go on point, Sean. I’m wearing a dark coat, and you’ve got those white sneakers on.”

“You’re not trying to be a hero, are you, mate?”

“No, are you? Just get behind me, Sean. Come on, be sensible for once in your life,” he insisted with a hint of frustration.

“Be careful, Crabbie.”

We walked around the nearest caravan, and when Crabbie was twenty-five feet away from lot 15, next to an oak tree, he called me over.

“One man going in and out of the door—tall fella,” he whispered.

“Just one?”

“There could be others inside.”

“If O’Roarke has sent up a crash team, it could be three or four of them.”

“Aye, you’re right about that. So how do you want us proceed here, Sean?”

“Well, we’re the good guys, so we’re going to have to give them a chance to surrender, aren’t we?”

“Yes, we are. I think the big, tall guy has some kind of automatic weapon strapped on him.”

“Shit. All right. Careful, buddy, okay?”

“You too, Sean.”

I stepped out into the rain and approached the caravan carrying the Glock in front of me in both hands. I was nervous. I looked into the woods on the left and right but didn’t see any movement.

When I was fifteen feet away from Locke’s caravan, I yelled, “Carrickfergus RUC! Put your hands in the air! Put your hands where I can see them!”

The man didn’t hesitate for a second. He raised his AK-47, and before I could quite figure out what was happening, he began shooting those big, terrifying 7.62×39mm slugs at us.

I hit the deck (in this case mud, muck, and nettles) and screamed at Crabbie to get down.

The shooting stopped after a five-second burst, and I crawled behind the caravan in lot 13. Crabbie was crouching there beside me with his gun pointed at the caravan’s edge.

“Are you hit?” Crabbie asked.

“No. You?”

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