Read Online The Trinity by David LaBounty - Free Book Online Page B

displeasure from the man’s voice, more disgust from the man’s face when inquiring about the neighborhood. He was looking for hate and found only irritation.
    He has now harvested hate, and it is traveling in the car with him, driving around Dundee, waiting for the streets to be empty and waiting for the right opportunity.
    “Which of you two have gone hunting before?” Crowley asks. He parks the car right in front of a closed Pakistani restaurant. “Kebob House” is written on a handmade sign propped in the storefront window.
    Rodgers pipes up and claims to be a marksman, killing rabbits and squirrels on his family property with one shot since he was eight. Not to mention deer and ducks and geese and wild turkeys.
    Crowley smiles. “Good,” he says. “Then you will be the first participant in our first military exercise.” And he reaches towards the back seat and hands Rodgers the gun. “This has rubber bullets,” Crowley lies. “We’re going to do a bit of target practice and let the good people of Dundee know we’re here. I want you to crack the window and watch the sidewalk on the opposite side of the street. I don’t want any part of the gun visible, and I will select your target.”
    They sit in the car on the quiet street for nearly an hour. The windows start to fog and the cigarette smoke becomes suspended and odorous in the cold air.
    Crowley spots a solitary man coming towards them from the opposite side of the street. He is a dark skinned, bearded and thin man, wearing a turban and what appears to be traditional Pakistani garb—baggy trousers, a long and loose long-sleeved shirt underneath a wool overcoat.
    “Okay, Lee, aim for the head,” Crowley commands. “Let’s shake him up a bit.”
    Laughing, the drunk but steady Rodgers aims and fires. He is shocked by the loudness of the gun echoing inside the car, ringing his ears.
    He is more shocked by the fallen man, his head bleeding profusely from the shot that went right through his left temple. Hinckley and Rodgers become very sober as they see the blood cover the sidewalk, spilling into the gutter, reflecting the streetlamp light directly overhead.
    Crowley drives away, forgetting to leave the note he so desperately wanted to leave, ruining an otherwise perfect situation.
    “What the fuck?” says Rodgers. “I thought you said the bullets were rubber!”
    “I must have made a mistake.” The priest glances in the rearview mirror, looks down side streets. He won’t relax until he is out of Dundee, back on the A92 heading north. “I didn’t mean to make you a murderer.”
    Rodgers starts to panic; Hinckley is quiet because of his shock. Crowley makes his point clear. “Silence and devotion to each other is of the utmost importance. If any of us talk, Rodgers will go straight to jail, and I think they have the death penalty in this country.” He pauses after this comment for the desired effect, knowing that there is no death penalty in Britain.
    “Look, there is no evidence. We will never be suspected. No one will ever think this was done by someone from the base. This is a defining moment in Scottish history. If I had just left that stupid note… The rest of Scotland would see what we are trying to do and they would rally behind us with popular support, never suspecting that we’re from across the ocean. We have absolutely no way of getting caught.” He pauses again as the car leaves Dundee and passes through the village of Broughty Ferry. Crowley looks in his rearview mirror and over his shoulder for signs of police pursuit, but the Ferry is stark this Christmas night, the buildings whizzing past in a blur as they speed along the highway, and the only sign of life are lamps lit inside the front windows of the elegant homes.
    Crowley manages to reassure them some more, but Hinckley really doesn’t need reassuring. He is sort of smirking, seeing the humor in the situation, glad that he is part of this accomplishment, having never