Free Patriots & Tyrants by Ian Graham

International Airport, the Approach Lighting System flashing over head to guide landing pilots onto the proper runways. Declan looked carefully at the Revenge, inspecting it for any signs that O'Rourke was still aboard. Seeing no sign of anyone, he turned and walked south towards the derelict warehouse where O'Rourke stored his cargo.
    Located on a one hundred yard long side street among the breweries, energy distribution facilities and labor union offices, the warehouse was a tattered reminder of the kind of people he was dealing with. A rusted and half trampled chain link fence prevented anyone from entering the property. Outside, there was no sign the building was even inhabited. The rear yard was full of burned out cars with weeds growing around and throughout them. For a moment, Declan looked, fascinated by how the once paved parking lot and the automobiles had so easily and so permanently been overtaken by nature. Things like that had never ceased to amaze him. Ireland, his native home, was full of centuries old reminders that the earth ultimately reclaimed that which belonged to it.
    Refocusing his mind, he walked the perimeter of the fence keeping to the shadows and looking for a way in. In the far corner of the baseball diamond shaped lot he found a section of fence butted against a metal out building and secured with a rotted two-by-four. Despite the normally deserted nature of the docks at this time of the evening, he looked up and down the street for any passersby that might call the police if they saw a darkly clad someone tampering with a fence. The few radio reports he'd managed to overhear throughout the afternoon indicated the Boston Police Department was very interested in finding the remaining men who'd fled the scene of a South Boston gunfight and he had no interest in attracting their attention, at least not yet. According to the reports, two men had been apprehended at the scene and a third was confirmed dead. While he couldn't be sure, he suspected the two men apprehended had been McLeish and the second lookout at the car. He was sure that Sean Reid had made it out of the area and that he would probably be encountering him inside the warehouse. It was a meeting he was looking forward to.
    Seeing no one about, he tore the board loose and lifted the fence enough to slide under. In the shadows of the outbuilding he loosened the backpack he was carrying and placed it on the ground. Like he'd been taught in Afghanistan, by the Russian Special Forces team known as
Vympel,
the backpack was an insurance policy that he'd kept stored in a train terminal locker for an emergency situation. Inside was everything he would need to survive for a full four days in either a natural or an urban setting. Opening it up, he withdrew a Clock 19 and a sound suppressor along with three extra magazines. While he was sure there would be resistance once he entered the warehouse, Declan was counting on O'Rourke's arrogance to give him the edge he needed. It was a gamble, but he felt like he knew the man well enough to know that he'd assume his enemies had run and wouldn't be brazen enough to come after him on his own turf. Declan smiled knowing the captain would be wrong.
    Securing the suppressor to the end of the pistol and placing the extra magazines in a holder on his belt, he reached back into the bag and removed an eight inch tactical knife and a sheath. Securing the specially designed sheath around his right wrist, underneath the sleeve of his coat, he placed the knife inside it and moved away from the outbuilding.
    The exterior of the warehouse was made of brick and its age was evident in the amount of discoloration from the harsh seaside air. Looking up, Declan counted a total of six stories as he moved into the shadows created by the building. Keeping his back to the wall, he arrived at a door with a broken out window. He leaned in and slowly peered through the window into the darkness beyond the doorway and waited for his