Free Sons of an Ancient Glory by BJ Hoff

bronze-bearded face, flushed with obvious anger.
    The man sat, his back rigidly straight, one large hand holding the gun perfectly level, the other gripping the arm of the wheelchair. Feeling himself seared by the look of incredulous fury in the big man’s gaze, Tierney had to force himself to stare back.
    He knew who the giant was, of course. Although his appearance was unexpected, their surroundings unlikely, he recognized Morgan Fitzgerald at once.
    Before him was the hero of his boyhood imagination, the subject of countless stories his father had related over the years about the old friend of his childhood: stories of boyhood pranks and young men’s daredevil antics and, later, wondrous tales of the roving rebel-poet who had assumed almost legendary proportions in Tierney’s mind.
    The man’s presence, even confined to a wheelchair, was compelling. He had the bearing of a monarch, an ancient chieftain, a warrior prince. The strength that emanated from him seemed to fill the small, mean cell with a humming energy.
    For as long as Tierney could remember, he had idolized this man, had yearned for the day he would finally meet him face-to-face, this giant who seemed to embody so many of his own grand hopes and ideals. But even though he had been aware of the injury that had paralyzed the man, seeing the grim evidence in front of his own eyes struck him like a blow.
    It occurred to him that the dread wheelchair was but another kind of cell, a prison from which there could be no release. For a moment, an inexplicable wave of bitter disappointment washed over Tierney: disappointment and outrage that a man like Morgan Fitzgerald should be forced to suffer such an atrocity.
    The dark images passed, leaving him shaken and somewhat stunned at the realization that he was actually standing in a Dublin prison cell, in the presence of Fitzgerald himself. Humiliation was an exceedingly rare, almost alien feeling to Tierney. But at this instant, he felt himself to be humiliated. That his first encounter with the man who had inspired him since his childhood should be a crude scrambling in the middle of a dank, filthy cell made him feel small and insignificant and altogether foolish.
    The hard green gaze went over him, raking him thoroughly in one sweep. “If you are quite finished with maiming your warders, perhaps you would be good enough to confirm what I already suspect: that you are Tierney Burke, son of Michael.”
    The voice was a surprise. Deep and rich, its distinctly Irish cadence held a touch of quiet refinement. Yet, Tierney sensed an underlying power that, if unleashed, could shake the very walls of the prison. Growing more miserable by the moment, he forced himself to meet the big man’s eyes with far more confidence than he felt. “I am, sir. I am Tierney Burke.”
    The great copper head gave one brusque nod. For a second or two, Tierney could have sworn he saw a glint of amusement in that steady green gaze, and the thought made him bristle with anger.
    But when Morgan Fitzgerald spoke, his tone was dry, his words clipped. “Aye, somehow I thought as much.”

    For a moment, Morgan was seized with the unnerving sensation that he had been catapulted back in time twenty years. The slender, lean-faced youth standing, legs spread, in the middle of the cell, looked so much like his father that Morgan almost voiced his old friend’s name…
    Michael
…
    The same proud, unyielding jaw, evident despite a growth of black beard. The thick dark hair. The familiar glint of confidence in the eye. The well-set wide shoulders. The roguish good looks, marred only by an angry white scar that slashed over his left eye. Morgan thought he could have picked the lad out of a crowd of thousands.
    Suddenly caught up in a fierce yearning for the friend of his youth, it was all he could do not to throw open his arms and embrace the boy. Instead, he darted a cursory glance at the slavering guard,