end of the corridor. The beamed ceiling was low. I crouched to present a smaller target as I started along the hall.
The voices got louder. There was a burst of laughter. Cigarette smoke lingered in the doorway.
'On a job well done.' I heard educated Belfast. Glasses clinked. 'Shall we go and sort these shites out now, or let the lads play about for a while?'
I strode into the room, weapon up.
There were three of them sitting in old, floral-patterned armchairs. The Yes Man was in the middle. The two smoking either side of him were older, in their fifties, faces hard as stone.
They weren't fazed to see me. They kept hold of their glasses. A bottle of whisky stood at the Yes Man's feet.
'Playtime's over. Give me the keys for the boy.'
The Yes Man's eyes flicked between his companions. He was out of his depth now.
The one on the right held out his hands. 'Sure, sure. Take him and fuck off. Tell you what, I'm going to stand up and reach into my trouser pocket. The right pocket. I have the keys.'
I nodded.
'Stone! This is ridiculous . . .' The Yes Man was recovering fast.
The guy on the right heaved himself out of his chair. Very slowly, he moved his hand to his trouser pocket; his left was still wrapped round his whisky glass. 'Stay calm, son.'
The Yes Man was feeling feisty. 'Stop this nonsense, Stone. What's this boy to you?'
His companion rounded on him. 'Shut the fuck up!' He held up a set of keys and turned to me. 'Let's keep everything nice and calm now.'
There was a burst of automatic fire outside. The next thing I knew, a whisky glass was flying through the air. All three sprang into action. I had to assume they were going for weapons. I fired a quick double-tap into the one with the keys. A pistol clattered to the floor from his other hand.
I stood my ground, swivelled slightly right. Both eyes open, I fixed centre mass on the second target, who charged at me, head right down like he was making a rugby tackle, as the Yes Man disappeared through one of the doors behind him.
I double-tapped downwards, into his back, and he collapsed on the floor.
A cloud of cordite rose to join the cigarette smoke. It was like being back in the Jock's bar.
I scrabbled round the two bodies and found the ring of keys.
Another burst came from outside.
I charged back down the corridor. 'Dom, I'm coming out! Dom, don't shoot! Dom!'
There was no reply.
I got to the end, gulping for breath. 'Dom, I'm coming out, do you hear me?'
Nothing.
Fuck this. Weapon in the shoulder, I moved into the doorway. Over to the right, against the wall, three bodies lay in a heap. One must have taken a chance on Dom not opening up.
Dom was caught in the Seat's lights. He was frantically kicking and pulling at the lock on the second container. I ran across the yard, past Mr Green, who lay bound and gagged on the greasy concrete. He was moving like a slug, trying to get away.
'Dom! I've got the keys! Dom, calm down!'
He'd tried to blow the lock apart. There were strike marks in the steel all round it. Rust had been blasted away to expose shiny metal. He was lucky a round hadn't ricocheted into his head, or gone straight through and hit Finbar. 'Stop, mate – I've got the key.' I pushed him aside. 'Cover me, mate. I don't know who else is out there.'
I took a deep breath and started trying the keys. The third worked.
I pulled back on the handle. The locking bar creaked and the door swung open. The light from the Seat flooded in.
Dom rushed past me. 'Finbar! Finbar!'
He was just where Mr Green had said, lying on his side, on a large dog cushion. There was a bucket in the corner, surrounded by oily engine parts and wing mirrors. The smell of shit was overpowering.
'Finbar!' He turned back towards me, eyes wild. 'Nick, he's not . . .'
I went over and rolled him on to his back. 'Feel for a pulse . . .'
I lifted an eyelid. The eye was glazed and dull. I looked for an entry or exit wound. There was no blood.
'Finbar!'
He groaned. He tried to say something. A syringe and the rest of his paraphernalia were scattered over the floor.
'Dom, it's OK. The fuckers have kept him smacked up. He's going to be OK.'